Hot Dogs Can Kill Ya!

Now I'm not one to tell people what do eat and what not to eat (pineapple is evil, it is the fruit of the devil and should be banished from existence!), but hot dogs are a dangerous food. No, I'm not talking about what's in them or how they're made, I'm talking about that to some people. . .hot dogs can bring out the worst.

Take, for example Alfreda Van Bladel of Florida. She decided that she was going to dazzle her husband by showing off her culinary skills with some fantastic frankfurters. Or maybe she was just going to chop them up in some Spaghettios, I don't know f0r sure. But regardless of what exactly she was doing with the hot links, they must have been delicious because her husband, Anton snatched one of the franks from the plate.

Alfreda, obviously concerned that 1) her husband might become ill from eating undercooked processed meat or 2) the food wasn't quite ready and Anton would ruin his tasting palette for the main event, she decided to stop him from eating the dog the best way she knew how and so she stabbed him! Alfreda stabbed Anton in the shoulder with the knife in the conservatory. . .I mean the kitchen.

Not to be outdone by his wife in this battle of cookery, Anton saw his wife's knife and raised her a gun! I guess he really wanted those hot dogs. Fortunately, the police were making their usual rounds at the Van Bladel home and stopped this lover's quarrel before anyone was seriously hurt and before anyone poisoned themselves with too much sodium nitrite and MSG.

Crazy story, you say? Yes. But not uncommon. I've actually been stabbed over food before, too (I mean, who hasn't?). My dad was preparing a delicious dinner called Nasi Goreng. Me being the carnivore that I am decided to pick out some of the pork in the bowl. A neighbor of ours (who will remain anonymous to protect him, but whose name rhymes with Ceff Jampbell) told me to stop. I didn't care, Ceff and I were buddies, or so I thought.

Ceff teasingly threatened me with a fork and said he'd stab me if I didn't stop. I decided to sneak one more piece to show him who was boss (after all, I was 13 and he was 30-something). Well, he thrust the fork down to scare me, but I, unfortunately flinched upward and the fork ended up in my arm. Ouch. We both sat there and stared at the utensil sticking out of my arm and then decided it would be best to pull it out (leaving it in would make the metal detector scene at the airport awkward, we felt). I had four small puncture wounds in my arm to prove my tale for months afterwards.

Sigh. Childhood memories.