Mustardy Hotdogs.

I guess people have probably got the wrong idea about the sort of food I eat on a daily basis since I put up that weird greasy carnitarian delight the Diagnosis : Chronic Cardiac Disease, or whatever the hell I called it, today I’m going to do nothing to dispell this mistaken idea.

With… Hotdogs.

Mustardy Hotdogs.

Would you like some sausage with your sauce?  Well, yes, three sausages, actually.

Please don’t tell my girlfriend, she doesn’t have time to deal with things like: hospital visits; waiting around during futile last gasp surgeries, and of course funerals. But who has time for funerals, after all?

Maybe I should update my will with a clause along the lines of: If my death is clearly caused by the consumption of a certain foodstuff or beverage, this food or beverage must be served at my wake.

Actually, I won’t update my will, I don’t have one to change, but if you all remember I requested this, can you please arrange for it to happen?

I mean, it’s inevitable, just look at me.