Necessity is the mother of invention, and I was in serious need of food. My problem, though, was that I had hot dog buns but no hot dogs, and hamburger but no hamburger buns. May god have mercy on my soul for what transpired in my kitchen today at lunch, for what I bred was neither encased hot dog, nor round hamburger, but instead a beast of a meal fit only for the likes of those willing enough to put their life on the line in pursuit of the perfect meal.
Today I made the hamburger dog. Instead of making round hamburger patties I carefully fashioned crude oblong patties, holding a hot dog bun beside them to make sure they were of an appropriate size. They were as thick as a normal hamburger, 1/2 inch of pure beefy goodness, but as long as the bun. My George Foreman steamed and sizzled as it struggled to cook the strange shaped patties. At once, I smelled the burning flesh and knew that it was done. The socket sparked as I unplugged the grill. I had prepared my bun in the manner of a typical hamburger: sliced tomato, sweet relish, ketchup, and mustard. Once I placed the finished patties on the buns, my creation was complete.
If you have not yet recoiled in shock and awe, then the completion of my tale should not disturb you further. After I had built these monsters (there was a pair of them because I was hungry, remember), I poured a glass of cold tea, sat down, lifted one of them, and took a bite. What followed thereafter is hazy in my mind. When I came to my senses my plate was empty, my stomach full, and my napkin messy. I can only assume that I devoured them both in a frenzy, leaving nothing but a few flecks of relish on the plate.
Thank you, dear reader, for stomaching this entry as heartily as I stomached the monsters I made for lunch. If you have the inclination, the fortitude, and the equipment, I highly recommend making the bastard child of barbecues; the hamburger dog.