Hot Dog Down a Bulgarian Street Way

If hot dogs scare you already with all the truth and folklore on how they are made and what they are made of, look no further, Mr. Hot Dog is here to convince you otherwise. Though his name is not posted anywhere (anywhere that I could read), a simple glance into his big, colorless eyes and you can tell, beyond all doubt, that he or she or it is the true authority on all things that go into a skinny, elongated bun. Plovdiv is a city of ancient Roman ruins, large monuments to a bygone communist age and more than a handful of multi-turetted mosques. But all of that is expected in Eastern Europe. What wasn’t expected was a good ol’ fashion hot dog stand, complete with NY style graffiti on it, which comes pre-tagged on the tent, for authenticity purposes (aka mad props). I tried to imagine big ass burly Bulgarians, scarfing down dogs, finishing em off with the traditional suck each finger of condiments, talking about the ball game. Funny image and completely out of place and awkward. Back to Mr. Hot Dog, as I stared in awe at him a bit longer, the awkward image I had composed in my head dissipated, and I noticed something even more awkward and disturbing. While I knew nothing about what went on in a Bulgarian school, or if sex education even existed, I did know how much Western culture is idolized here. I also know that Bulgarian ketchup is a lot spicier than it’s western cousin. Hm. Mr. Hot Dog, why are you so jovial? Are you really promoting eating hot dogs, or experimentation, telling us all, to be happy, smear some ketchup in your nether regions. Maybe that’s why he was drawn with hands, for those who are slow to get it. Or maybe he’s filling the ketchup bottle? Wow. Thinking WAY to much about this.