See, it's like the Colosseum:
Slaves, captured enemies, hapless desperadoes—all the refuse from society's unswept corners—they caper and are destroyed for our amusement.
From the far reaches of the globe they are brought. From the hinterlands and newly conquered territories they are hauled. (Pictured here, from left to right: The Hot Dog, The Polish Sausage, The Italian Sausage, The Bratwurst. Not shown: El Chorizo.)
Once here, they are made to run for us. To compete. To battle in the supposedly idealized realm of athleticism. So it was with the gladiators of old.
And how we cheer! (Well, maybe not we, but someone cheers.) Just knowing that this ambulatory foodstuff will run itself ragged for our dubious benefit, and then fling itself onto the fire—winner and loser alike!—adds another layer of festivity to the already-cloying atmosphere.
The artificial rivalry diverts them, prevents them from turning to us, we who applaud their lives spent in death's shadow. Their rage fanned and stoked, they create their own chains.
This is the big-time for these wieners. This is the nearest they will ever get to freedom. This too-brief sprint is the closest they will get to flight. We validate them for only as long as it takes them to round the bases. And then we allow them their crippled imitation of freedom for only as long as it takes to wolf them down. (Again, not we we, but, you know.)
Run, you sausages! You franks! You variously constituted, extruded meat objects! Dance!