I was on my lunch break and trying to get a quick street dog (or four, Lol), before heading back to work to look at some more actuarial tables. I hate actuarial tables, and today was actuarial tables day at my firm, so I figured I’d reward myself with a good street dog… Or four! (Lol)
Pretty naughty to eat that many hot dogs, I know…
As I was chewing midway through my second dog a man hurried over to me. He was out of breath. I kind of looked around awkwardly because I figured he just ran up to the wrong guy but then he said, “Please! I need your help!”
I had just taken a pretty massive bite of hot dog so I struggled to say, “Um sure, what do you need?” As I said that I accidentally spit some relish out that landed on his shirt. We both saw that I had done this and a quiet moment passed, but the guy just looked at me and I guess decided not to say anything about it? I mean, I felt bad but I just went with it.
He said, “Are you going to eat those other two hot dogs?” And as he said that I saw him brush off the relish with his hand, which was embarrassing but I played it cool and answered his question,
“Yes,” I said.
Well, he really seemed to like that answer because he grabbed my arm and told me to come with him. I told him that I didn’t have a lot of time because I had to get back to the actuarial tables, since today was actuarial table day and even though everyone hated actuarial tables it is actually a pretty important part of the insurance industry so I didn’t really have time, but the man didn’t seem to listen and he dragged me into the New York Times building.
As he was dragging me, I kept trying to take a few more bites of hot dog because I really was excited about eating them. I did a pretty good job getting the mustard to ketchup to relish ratio right on my second and fourth dogs, which was exciting. I had accidentally added too much ketchup on the first one because, I guess, I was kind of cocky, and then I did good on the second one, but then I got too cocky again on the third because of how well the second one went, and then the fourth one went well too. I figured if I ate the dogs in bad-good-bad-good order I could teach myself a lesson about not being cocky anymore.
Anyway, the man dragged me into this glass conference room in the New York Times Building and said “This man…” then he looked at me, I assume to find out my name, so I said, “Dander…”
And the man along with everyone else in the conference room looked at me really weird for a split second just like everyone has ever looked at me when I tell them my name, which isn’t a family name but just a name that my dad thought would be funny to give me. I don’t really mind my name but people always pause for a second to kind of pity me when they first here it, I guess because it reminds them of dandruff.
So anyway, the man says that the search is over and that he has finally found his Deputy Hot Dog Correspondent. But to be honest with you, based on how the guy was talking to me it seems like he just forgot to look for a hot dog correspondent and then rushed outside and picked the first guy he saw eating hot dogs and that guy was me, on a break from actuarial table day.
But since I’ve been trying to go with the flow more ever since I accidentally tripped over a pigeon at the park and then rolled into a ditch where I laid for 4 hours because my voice wasn’t loud enough to signal for help, I decided this was ok.
The really surprising thing is that right after everyone was applauding me for being the new Deputy Hot Dog Correspondent, and I wasn’t sure how to react since I was on the spot, so I just took a big bite out of hot dog number three and raised it in the air kind of like a trophy, and right after everyone in the conference room started clapping and laughing and cheering because, I don’t know, I guess they found it funny that I took a big bite of hot dog, but right after that, the man who found me had a heart attack and he passed away right there.
Before they called an ambulance for the man, one guy who was at the head of the table ran to me and said “Dandruff, you are now our only hope! You are the Head Hot Dog Correspondent for the New York Times! Go! Get to work! The world depends on you!” He pushed me out the door so hard that the fourth hot dog, one of the perfect ones, slipped out of my hand and fell on the floor and then I slipped on the hot dog and on my way to the ground I was really sad that I wasn’t going to get to eat that hot dog, especially since it was one with the right ratios and it was my last hot dog. Then I hit the ground hard and started rolling and luckily there are no ditches in the New York Times building, but there was a copy machine and I accidentally got wedged between the machine and the wall for a few hours because I guess no one knew I was the new Hot Dog Correspondent.
Anyway that was yesterday so I ate ten hot dogs today and wrote an article, and I guess they were happy with it? I don’t know. They seemed to think it was important work. But I’m just glad I don’t have to look at actuarial tables anymore but I hope my old coworkers aren’t mad that I never came back from lunch.
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