Hot dogs who wants hot dogs. Hot dogs cloaked in foil wrappers. Who wants. Hot dogs with mustard and relish and sauerkraut and ketchup all steamed and fissured and revealed in a languorous process of unwrapping. You want these hot dogs, America.
Cold beer right here. Overcompensate for the absence of individuation as you adopt the vocabulary of the crowd. The stinging stresses of hurled epithets, lubricated, emboldened. The counterclockwise twistings of caps from plastic containers. MGD and Coors Lite and Miller High Life. Cold beer.
Cotton candy. Spun around a cardboard horn. You kids want cotton candy. You want the astringent granularity of abraded tongues. Pink or blue?
Get your peanuts. Small and brown and sealed, salted. Peanuts to be extracted from their shells, their papery red sheaths inadequate, vestigial. A yesteryear snack food complicit in its own enshrinement as a ballpark icon. The slow ritual of discardment, the accumulation of shells a slowly growing pyre. The giving flesh of the nut, the residual belch hours after the ninth inning has passed and the lights have grown solid and vital on the parkway.
I got your chocolate malts. Get them before they melt before they return to a more and placid and unspoonable state. A wooden slab encased in paper comes with the malts, a device for penetrating the ungiving surface. You must wait until the malt becomes pliable, penetrable, the undifferentiated zone between liquid and solid. Yes, one flavor. One flavor of malt which is chocolate.
Anyone up here want some lemonade. It’s a hot day you want lemonade. Arthur Andersen. Fujitsu. Exxon/Mobil. Cold lemonade with fresh lemons. Fresh-squeezed lemonade.