Hotdogs and Buns Belong Together

So here's my second annual holiday story. I hope you enjoy. This one was inspired by Susan Elizabeth Phillips's Natural Born Charmer. Her novel started, "It wasn't every day a guy saw a headless beaver marching down the side of the road..."

Hotdogs and Buns Belong Together

By RW Richard

 

I knocked on the door, but nobody could hear me. Snow swirled outside, merriment and blaring music vibrated my best friend’s home. Polite yes, but I wasn’t going to freeze my bun off. Yes bun, not buns. I was dressed as a hotdog bun.

The door opened just as I was plunging the handle. “Come on in.” Even though Teresa was dressed as a garlic, her throaty voice gave her away. “And, let me guess.” Teresa held my muffs. The door blew shut.

I took in the living, dining room and beyond. I’ve never seen so many vegetables, fruit, meats, fish. I giant walleye was eyeing me. We weren’t a good match.

“I’m not going to tell you who I am. Got any spiked punch?”

“Holly baby. It’s you.”

“The punch.” We were best friends, so I dispensed with the nice-to-see-you and hugs, partially because she reeked like the giant garlic she was and partially because she had set me up with the worse blind date ever last Saturday. Stinko Teresa had taken this reality thing too far. Besides hugging her as a hotdog bun might give the other foods the wrong idea. Again, a bad match, although I had nothing against garlic and hotdog bun, if that were your thing.

Teresa took me to the punch bowl. Luckily, the drinks had straws. I was parched from the raw wind outside. Whatever the liquid was—if there were any fruit juice in the mix at all—burned on the way down. “Whoa.”

“Jamison’s Irish Whiskey, girl.” She leaned closer to my ear. “Listen, Holly. There’s somebody here who I think is a good fit for you.” A natural born skeptic, especially concerning what Teresa thought about men, I looked around.

“Yeah sure. Your idea of perfect was that podiatrist. You know he went under the table to kiss my feet.”

“He makes good money.”

“In a French restaurant? It’s just so wrong. It spoiled my escargot.”

“Well, never mind that. Your future is in the kitchen.”

“What’s he do?” Okay, I should have known better. Teresa has never had any success at putting anybody together.

“I don’t know. He just grunts. I’m not sure who he is.” But the tone of her voice gave her away. She knew.

“Maybe he crashed the party.” I was messing with her. Teresa evited everybody and cautioned them not to make it easy to tell who they were.

“He’s tall.”

“I’m such a sucker.” We danced to the kitchen, but Teresa was pulled away by a rutabaga.

I sauntered as best as a white bread bun could saunter, into the kitchen and inspected three guests. One was shorter than my five-nine and dressed as a rose bush. Was that allowed? She had to be female. The next was dressed as pumpkin. His legs were as thick as the old oak tree that snarled Teresa’s front lawn. That left the giant hotdog, whose head was rubbing the ceiling. Maybe he wasn’t tall but just dressed that way. Maybe he was a she. I checked out his or her feet. Plump doggie feet told no tale.

“You come here often, tall dark, and tasty?”

He flailed his arms to make a point. “You complete me.”

“Do I know you?” He was disguising his voice by dropping it down into a Lou Rawls bass.

“Frank Furter, at your service.” He bowed and nearly knocked me over with his head.

Then he attempted to rub his hotdog body into my partially opened bun. The nerve. I screamed. He chased me, arms out. “I’m not complete without you,” he bellowed over the Sade song, “No Ordinary Love”. I beat him into the dining room and slid a ham between us.

“Let me catch up.”

“You can’t cut the mustard, Frank.” I rounded the lovely rosewood table for the second time.

“I relish the moment we will be comlpete.” It was then, I recognized his voice. It was Tom, the truly—way to go Teresa—handsome Penn State quarterback of ten years ago. He was way out of my tall skinny freckled league.

He sneered. “I want you.” He lunged, but a carrot and a roast beef tackled him. Nonplussed he wrangled and twisted his way up. The chase was on again.

Maybe I should let him catch me.

“Slow down, Holly.” I hesitated and he was all over me or should I say he enveloped me?

“No. Absolutely no.”

“Maybe with relish?”

“If you were a kielbasa, call me, maybe.” We were both playing the crowd who nearly laughed their edible heads off.

“Oh, you really know how to cut a man down to size.” Now I pitied him. But at least he was a plump ballpark frank. Kind of heady, sexy, ramy. Need I paint a picture?

I used his self-pity to extricate myself and ran into the downstairs bedroom, much to the uproar—should I say anticipatory delight—of the fruits, vegetables, meats, one walleye and oh yes a stupid rose bush.

He waddled into the bedroom. I cowered in the walk-in closet getting my nerve up and senses back. I decided. I was really up for a make-out session if after he saw my face up-close after all these years, he’d still want to smooch.

“Jolly Holly, were forth art thou?”

I sneezed. You see, I might have been allergic to my bun.

The door creaked open and light streamed in. “Here you are my honey-bunny. I’ve always been too shy around you. I don’t know what got into me, tonight. Emboldened, perhaps.” He rubbed his hotdog into my opening bun. Oh gosh. Keep that up, mister.

“You could have your pick. Why not the rose bush?”

“Bushes are okay, but she has thorns.”

“How about Teresa?”

“Your girlfriend and I dated in college. It didn’t work out.” I knew that. Girls gossip, you know. I had gone to the west coast, UCLA, and missed all the fun here in Pennsylvania.

“How about…”

“How about you take that silly top off so I can kiss you before I explode?” Images of hotdog mess all over Teresa’s nice dresses would simply not do. I took off the top half of my bun, he took his top off, still ruggedly handsome. With a huge smile he planted a wet one on me.

We’ve been kissing ever since. We soon married and I had a beautiful baby girl. Teresa, my maid of honor, was right, not only were Tom and I a good fit, hotdogs and buns belong together.

Your extra credit today involves investing 5 minutes.You've already read my story, so perhaps just a peek at this classic will surprise you. I didn't know it existed. Charlie Chaplin - The Costume Ball, date ????