Sheeesh. This is the SECOND post I’ve seen in this forum today that argues “Hey, it’s not important, why argue about it?”
Um…why are we here, anyway?
In the final analysis, NONE of this is important.
I’m going to go and take off my shoes, climb a tree, and learn how to play the flute.
On the other hand, if we stop arguing about hot dogs, the next thing ya know, we’ll stop arguing about scary movies, solar energy, the Holy Trinity, the Big Bang Theory, and how to properly grill a ribeye steak. And then the time will be ripe for the CHINESE COMMUNISTS TO WALK RIGHT IN AND TAKE OVER.
And let’s keep things in perspective. This is the hot dog we’re talking about. Nothing less than ground-up Americana in a convenient edible casing. Righteous, God-fearing citizens of the mighty U., S., and A. would sooner marry off their daughters to (choke) Communists than soil their hot dogs with the thick, smothering red…oh, red, I say RED my brothers and sisters, of ketchup, or catsup, or whatever the dark forces of creeping atheist socialism are calling it this year. This is no less than a battle for the American way of life, and I’ll thank you all to treat it with the proper gravity.
Funny, I replied to this before, but it seems to have gotten lost…
Ukulele Ike, I’ve lived approximately 80% of my life thus far in Cleveland. I went to kindergarten a half block away from the West Side Market, and I’ve always rooted for the Cleveland teams, even when the Tribe sucked and the Browns didn’t exist. I think I’m a real Clevelander. While I agree with you that Stadium Mustard must assuredly be a direct gift from God, most Clevelanders are not so cultured as to know any better, and every hot dog I ever ate in Cleveland, whether from a vendor or a home, had ketchup as a default. If I can only have one topping on a dog, it’ll be mustard (provided it’s a good mustard, and not that cheap yellow stuff), but I’m just a “little of everything” kind of guy.
That’s bizarre…I grew up south of the city, just off Route 77 and north of Brecksville, and spent my childhood and teen years bopping around the West Side, the East Side, and downtown, and hardly EVER saw ketchup on a hot dog.
Almost always served New York style: brown mustard and sauerkraut.
I think the difference between Ukulele Ike’s and Chronos’ experiences with Cleveland hot dogs can be explained by the passage of time. Ukulele Ike, did you say any cars on the streets of Cleveland, or was it still horses and carriages? And Chronos, did you ever, when you were a child, have to walk across the room to change channels on the television?
Well, I did (and still do, when visiting Mom) have to cross the room to change channels, but that’s just because while I was growing up, we always had a cheap TV (Black and white, until I was about 8!), and on our current TV, the remote got stolen, and we can’t get any of the universals to work. I think that the time thing might explain it, though… Just how long ago were you in the Land of Cleves, Uke (unless you’d rather not date yourself).
From 1960 until the end of summer, 1978. So my main Cleveland hot-dog eating years (once I developed a palate, of course) would be the mid-seventies.
We had a B&W tube until I was about eight, too. I remember when the Plain Dealer’s TV Guide listed the color broadcasts with little stars next to them.
Anyone who feels like reminiscing about Ghoulardi, Mister Jingaling, and/or Captain Penny is cheerfully invited to click on my nonexistent e-mail address, below.
Well, I just checked in with Mrs. O, and it hasn’t been absolutely verified that either Big Jim or Marty eat ketchup on their hot dogs. A quick check of the childhood files in Mrs. O’s memory index reveals that the two most frequently used condiments on their Saugi’s were celery salt and mustard (probably yellow).
So, Lux Fiat, it looks like my father-in-law and my stepfather-in-law have both made the ultimate sacrifice in keeping the salty red tomato puree off their frankfurters.
As regards your statements about creeping atheist socialism, yes, some do call it ketchup. Others call it catsup.
I call it nasty. Spicy mustard and horseradish for me, please!
OK, you two, what are these mysterious allusions? Inquiring minds want to know!
P.S. Thank you, Ukulele Ike, for comparing me to Aphrodite. I always knew I was a paragon of beauty, but it’s nice to have it confirmed by an impartial observer.
Sorry about that, Gorgeous, it’s the Firesign Theater.
The shoes/tree/flute is a reference to a line from Mudhead, pal of the immortal teen icon, Porgie Tirebiter (he’s a Girl Delighter!). The sitting room/waiting room line is adapted from The Adventures of Nick Danger, Third Eye.
You’ll have to ask RTFirefly about his, though. I ain’t that good; I couldn’t even say why the Porridge Bird lays his egg in the air.
Remember Fudd’s First Law: If you push something hard enough, it WILL fall over.
