Preamble by Joseph P. Sprinklehead
Editor’s note: We decided to run the following piece despite the boss man’s apparent issues with the journalistic integrity of the reporter.
I was about to tear into my fourth Killerdog, (chili, cheese, kraut, onion, pickle, ketchup and mustard) at Yesterdog last Saturday when the woman began her high-pitched lament. “Let me out I’m stuck in your pocket,” she pleaded in her cockney accent. “Let me out I’m stuck in your pocket,” she repeated. “Let me out I’m stuck in your pocket,” she wailed again as I was retrieving my phone from the pouch of my hoodie. I glanced at the caller ID, licked a smear of chili off my fingers and answered before she could begin her fifth plaintive plea for liberation.
“Whaaat's up, my man?” I asked.
“Just returning your call,” Steve replied in a tone I found a bit condescending.
I took a big bite of Killerdog and asked him what was going on at Siciliano's.
“I didn’t understand a word you said.”