"You gonna eat that?" the guy next to me

"You gonna eat that?" the guy next to me said, gesticulating with a well-manicured hand at my half-eaten fish and chips. He looked a lot like a cross between Richard Gere and

a bird of paradise. Handsome, but with a giant nose and longish spiky hair. I was nonplussed. "Yeah" I said. "I think I will." But he must have misunderstood because he grabbed

my neighbor's teenage son. It was an honest mistake. Completely understandable. I remained nonplussed. I was the nonplussiest client ever. "Just set him over there." & pointed to

his stomach and said, "Pretzel dog." What's odd about that is that I was just eating a pretzel dog at the mall--with mustard. Trying to navigate this near diplomatic fiasco I

decided on a whim to join Julian Assange in the Ecuadorean embassy in London. What Julian Assange doesn't know about pretzel dogs ain't worth knowing. In asylum together we'd lick

the remaining salt from our fingertips after consuming a mighty fine pretzel dog or twelve. Julian Assange had shown me the beauty of pretzel dogs, the divine splendor of their

greasiness as they slid down the chow chute. "Salty fried dough stuffed with a big sausage, sounds delightful," Assange said with a twisted sense of delight. His salt-and-pepper

shakers had starred in a viral anonymously uploaded porn video. Assange disposed of them but the NSA traced the pepper shaker to the greasy spoon where he now lived out his glutto

When Assange awoke, he was on the living room floor, laying in his own vomit. He tried to get up, unsuccessfully; he noticed his ankles tied together with hemp. Then he passed out.