Fifteen hot dogs into the competition, and

Fifteen hot dogs into the competition, and it suddenly occurred to me that

a massive explosion of regurgitated hot dog chunks was eminent if the guy next to me

stuffed many hot dogs and some Chinese firecrackers down his throat.

That was the last we saw of that infernal character. Or so we thought, until one day, heartburnt, he arrived back to

Somerville with a pocketful of dust and a blister the size of a quarter. We were sitting on our front stoop when he came

with a six pack of Guinness and a pipe full of cherry vanilla tobacco and began telling us about his life as a

lobster fisherman off the coast of Maine. Never saw "Moby Dick" but

that guy has swallowed a ton of seamen. A regular whale, known to get harpooned a few times hanging out at

But Sir Mixalot said it best when he said, "I like big butts." So I put on my naval atire and went trawling for bitches.

You have to understand, in the Navy you don't get to see a lot of big butts on a day to day basis, I typically see

a lot of people who don't understand what I mean. As long as I know what I am talking about that is all that matters.

So what if I'm spouting off the recipe for Irish rum canapes in Klingon? It's the thought that matters. No one, not even you, can

win the annual bake-off this year. You better come up with something better than your mom's peanut butter tofu Grape Nut brownies. But enough chatting, I have to

feed my llama. She's spoiled and fat and smells awful but my grandma gave her to me for my 14th birthday and I have to admit I have a soft spot the stinky animal. You should really

hear her sing in the middle of the night. She comes up with melodies that make you cry in happiness and scream in fear of

macrame and other forms of string and knotted rope art. Her 70s flashback voice is enough to make a person drink Reunite on ice. Iced wine: the 70s were sheer, unadulterated hell.

But at least the fashions were memorable. At least, that's what she told herself as she eyed the '70s fashion flashback twenty years later. She should have been born in the '80s.

At least she would have felt original. All of the hearkening back welled up a kind of anachronistic bile that seemed wrong, but oh-so-right when spewed onto tie-die-bell bottoms.

But she had her afro. No one can downplay or backslide her afro. Sure it was mostly wig and spray on hair, but when the headlights hit, it looked like Las Vegas on a head.

So head held high she hit the sidewalk, pounding the street to her usual haunt. She knew deep in her heart that this town loved a cross dressing Tito Jackson lookalike hooker.