For 60 years, this proud, simple, Cro-Magnon wiener has presided over Chicago. For 60 years he has glowered flirtatiously at his Jane. And for 60 years, his clear message has rung out:Me super! Put me in mouth and eat!
As you may have noticed, there's something about superheroes that the suicidefoodists have trouble with. First there was that cape-wearing catfish mistaken for royalty, and now this. People, listen: superheroes do not wear crowns and they certainly do not wear Tarzan-style loin cloth things. (And he was even "inspired by the superheroes featured in the newly-created, popular comics of the '40's.")
Ahem.
For undead food—once killed, lingering still—Superdawg is a little full of himself. Doesn't he realize he's just an amalgam of animal parts, commingled like so many loose recyclables?
No matter. Having been stolen from his jungle home, he looms above Chicago. Biceps permanently flexed, he demands to be eaten.
Bonus picture: After a hard day of beckoning and posturing, Superdawg relaxes in civilization's plushest fer-nit-chur.(Thanks to Dr. Ari for the referral.)
Addendum: The powerful Power Dogs power dog is no slouch either.
3 comments:
Excuse ME! - that dawg isn't relaxing in a chaise-longue - he's on the analyst's couch - and who needs it more?
His name is not Superdawg. It's Morrie, and her name is Florrie.
Don't you have anything better to do with your time? Superdawg is a Chicago landmark, and no one is forcing you to eat there.
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