No Foot Longs, They Make Me Nervous

This is more of a random food-related observation, rather than a recipe or anything, but ya’know. So anyway, Tuesday night my buddy Craig (the names have been changed to protect the innocent; or guilty, as it were) called and invited me to a Mets game. I know I used to write about sports but this isn’t going to be one of those times. I’m also not going to talk about how the Mets are getting a new stadium even though their current stadium is only 44 years old! Nor am I going to talk about the fact that there are virtually zero concession stands at the stadium that accept debit or credit cards…yeah, yeah I know it’s my fault for not getting cash before the game, but to paraphrase Richard Pryor, “it’s 2008, boy, get yo’ shit together!”
Anyway, Craig and I had a few beers and then I went in search of a concession stand that would take my debit card. So finally I found one, and made a rather curious decision to buy hot dogs for Craig and me. Not only that, but I made the further curious decision to buy foot long hot dogs. I returned to our seats handed one to Craig along with several packets of ketchup and mustard (we then had an utterly useless conversation about how I like pickles but not relish) and settled into my seat. It was only after about two minutes of eating our hot dogs, in somewhat cramped quarters, virtually elbow-to-elbow; that I noticed Craig was about finished with his hot dog and I had probably only a few bites left myself. That’s when it hit me: no man wants to savor a foot long tube of sausage while seated next to another man.