On hotdogs and inclusion

Letters from Iceland (Monday, May 15)

It’s a long, semi-hard roll, at least mine was, hollowed out, and then filled with some mysterious ketchup, mayonnaise, ranch-like dressing combination. The hotdog, part beef, pork, and lamb, is then inserted — and there’s no other way to describe it — the creamy liquid spewing out the sides in a slow, almost melodic ooze as the dog is thrust deeper and deeper into the bread.

(Icelandic porn must be kick-ass)

But I digress.

Between the bread and the ooze, the hotdog is the last thing you actually taste, coming on you both quickly and slowly, but by that point, you no longer care where the pork ends and the lamb begins because you can already feel your arteries constrict, a loss of oxygen to your brain, and imagine yourself, post-stroke.

Totally worth it, though, especially if you get the combo which comes with a beverage.


Went to the NATIONAL MUSEUM OF ICELAND today and saw corpses and yarn and animal carcasses and lots of combs (Apparently ancient Icelandic soldiers were often buried with their horses and grooming tools. According to one of the placards, if the soldier was killed in battle, he got to spend eternity with God; if he died at home in bed, he spent it with the Devil) and learned about the Lutherans who came from Denmark in the 16th Century and beheaded the Catholic bishop, outlawed Catholicism throughout the country, and then and seized all Catholic church property.

Nice, huh?

And saw this.

Read that last sentence.

Ben Carson will be along shortly with a comment about the lack of Second Amendment freedoms in 12th Century Iceland.

One more thing: Everything in Reykjavik, it appears, is both in Icelandic and English, including the menu items and museum signs. Every waiter, waitress, hotel clerk, even those from Spain here at the hotel, know both languages, and the country doesn’t seem to be unraveling in some cultural vapidity. The place is vibrant and hums along nicely in the accommodation. Surely, then, we, in America, can withstand the cultural onslaught and inconvenience of waiting through the .24 millisecond announcement for an automated operator to say “Press 2 for Spanish” to speak to someone in Visa Customer Service without worrying about the loss of our hegemony and identity and passing “English Only” laws.

Short of that, we really should see about getting one of those hotdog franchises.