Apologies for my inevitable rambling account

Apologies for my inevitable rambling account of my best friend Frank, but there's so much to say that it's going to be difficult to put it in any sort of order whatsoever. Frank is

, well, frankly-speaking, a hot dog. Before he came along, I was nothing but a German cabbage fermenting in a vat of lactic acid bacteria. No one really liked me, but Frank made me

Waynar. Our cover was that he choked on a grape, but Frank and I knew the gristly truth. Still, we were in a bit of a pickle since the Weinermobile was the only place that we could

ketchup with our friend, Bob Evans, who (contrary to popular belief) did not live down on the farm. He lived with us in our Weinermobile. So Frank, Bob, & I drove off together,

just like in Thelma and Louise, except it was Frank, Bob and myself.

..but instead of speeding through cowboy country and ultimately careening into a canyon, Frank, Bob, and I took a turn north into Canada and encountered a wily Canuck.

"Yukon gold! Nuggets as big as your fists! Yeehaw!" he said. We immediately took a hard right and canoed to Nova Scotia. Cold as a witches teet it was, but we had nowhere else to

Settle. All this equipment was weighing us down as we passed through the mountain range. Wolves howl in the distance, their glorious speech inspiring me to trek onward.

As we approached the summit, the aurora shone brilliantly above us, reminding us all of just how tiny and pathetic we are in the vastness of space and time. We were truly humbled.