No sooner had we uncovered the bizarrest suicide food exemplar yet (a chicken prostitution ring) than we stumbled upon the Cowboy Hotdog archetype, a truly senseless new development.
This most artificial of all foodstuffs, renown the world over as tubular repositories of slaughterhouse sweepings, nitrites, and miscellany, repackaged and repurposed as icons of authenticity! (Although, why is Mustard—he of the Last Stand—riding a motorcycle, and not a horse? Is this a strained homage to the annual motorcycle rally at Sturgis, South Dakota, a scant 85 miles away from the Custer National Cemetery?)
They welcome you to the by-now-commonplace ritual of their sacrifice and death with dancing, wheelie popping, and, um, vague gesturing.
With the kindly hospitality that tamed the Old West, they invite you in. To sit. Relax. Open wide. Eat.
Addendum: Please do compare the Cowboy Hotdog Stratagem with the Fancy Wiener Phenomenon.
Addendum 2 (10/29/09): Look, if an idea makes sense, it just makes sense. (This is the Clifton, New Jersey, Hot Grill frankfurter.)