REVIEW: Jack of Hearts' Man's Best Friend

Obsession is a funny thing, isn't it? Often we lie to ourselves, telling ourselves that everything we obsess over is merely important. We stress that our obsessions are justified because they fit into our lives in ways we cannot change or do not want to change. We are who we are, we say. And what we are is obsessive, and any obsession is dangerous. However, obsession is in the very fabric of our culture. We thrive off of image, and do whatever we can to portray ourselves as something we are not, although it is often something we would like to be. And we obsess over that image, pointing to this or that as things we need to change within ourselves to become that over which we obsess. And yet we always fall short. We are humans living in a chaotic and unpredictable world. The only thing we are truly ever owed is death. It is certain. Everything else is just a distraction, even the idea that we know we are distracted is a distraction, because as you are reading this now you are trying to put together this thought in your head and apply it to your own life, conveniently letting yourself forget for any amount of time - small or large - that your death is imminent and will come one day whether it is expected or not. Yes, even hot dogs, to some degree, are distraction from the universe's unknowns. And hot dogs are my obsession, apparently.

I had tried to go to Jack of Hearts to order a Man's Best Friend, their specialty wiener which is made of a grilled sausage link dressed with pulled pork, jalapenos, and, if you wish, coleslaw, but they were out of sausage links so I was refused the order. It happens. Things run out. Time is the obvious example of what happens when things run out. There is nothing you can do but accept it, and any degree of fighting it is, again, simply a distraction from your doom. The young lady, likely liberal and focused only on their agenda to end the white race, apologized politely, and offered "I know you are obsessed with those things." It hit me like a comet colliding with Earth, killing everything I had on my surface, which is to say the image I was projecting, or my essence. Suddenly I felt very exposed. My obsessions hung in the air before us both, awkwardly lingering in the room reminding us both of our many shortcomings. Flustered and naked (emotionally) I quickly ordered something else, saving my review for another date, provided I was so lucky to have that many days left in my life.



All the while, though, I brooded. Days passed, weeks, months. What was I to do? Return to the place to see my own nightmare? My insecurities and secrets floating and bouncing off the walls of the establishment, hissing my name to a crowd of unsuspecting spectators who want nothing more than to enjoy their own food and forget about death for just thirty minutes, if that? I could not help but feel that the presence of my obsession would haunt the place forever, and perhaps I would never be able to return. This, of course, brought upon a new, horrific consequence that I was too stupid to realize before I found myself surrounded by it - my fear of seeing my secrets, my image, my obsessions present in Jack of Hearts had become my new obsession. Fear was distracting me from fear. Layers upon layers of fear had built up and I was in too deep to pull myself out of it. But I couldn't just sit and let myself become engulfed in this. I had to at least put up a fight. I had an image to protect after all.

I placed a phone order back to Jack of Hearts, inquiring again if they had the necessary wieners for the delicacy I so desperately needed to consume. With a stroke of luck, they did. I headed to my car and turned on the engine, sitting in my driveway, crying and revving my engine - hoping, irrationally, for it to be enough carbon projected into the atmosphere to push the world over its threshold and wipe us all out once and for all and for good. Minutes went by, and my eyes had seemingly run out of tears - don't fret about me, this happens often. I could do nothing but laugh at myself, really. I had given into the gobbledygook that fear mongers like Al Gore have been pushing for years. Carbon isn't even a real thing. People will tell you that you can legitimately measure something invisible in the air with some sort of electronic thingamajig, but we all know, thankfully, that any research conducted by the government of the United States under a Democratic president is phony and likely a hoax. Sorry, I, like most rational people, only trust realists like Mike Pence, from whom I have heard many a great rebuttal regarding the "truth" of the "changing climate" after nights staying up all night cuddling and stroking each other eyebrows. He tells me Al Gore would never kiss me like he does, and I believe it. Gore would never make me feel like a real man, and he only seeks to use me and abuse me. He's out for pleasures of the flesh, not for the fullness of the heart. Usually Pence then puts a couple hundred dollar bills in my briefs and tells me he loves that we can be so open with each other, and that we can trust one another.

Al Gore eats a hot dog.

I arrived at Jack of Hearts after about ten minutes of driving from my house. There was a little traffic due to it being lunch hour, but that gave me a little extra time to catch up with Limbaugh and the boys. Boy does he know how to dish it out! Jack of Hearts is a nice little spot in the Maury County side of Spring Hill, which is not a place I typically go to seeing as how that's where all the poors live and it would absolutely obliterate my image of being a well to do and business savvy white success story, but today was different because it was in my noble pursuit of a wiener. The inside of the place is welcoming with signs on the wall of different old businesses and beer brands, as well as a supply of a few beer taps of both locally and internationally recognized brands - side note, I only drink the international ones because it's harder to trust the "little guy" when it comes to food when you can rest easily in the hands of an ethical and trustworthy corporation. The place is their second location, as they outgrew their previous one in the Williamson County side of town. It is an artful step up and I commend them for their non held back approach toward expansion and unquenchable capitalist appetite for more. Their meager beginnings date back to 2010, when their first location opened under the careful eye of a man known to most as just Todd. Over the years their reputation for BBQ perfection spread far and wide, eventually find its way to me and this site, the Hot Dog Blog, making it unavoidable to me and our staff. And to see it in person was truly a beautiful experience. I approached the counter, again worrying about a repeat of my last experience, hoping desperately that my obsessions would remain within me, and not be exposed for the world to see on a massive scale. I was charged around ten dollars for the wiener, and I tipped very little as I always do as a reminder to the staff that you can always do better and that anyone, literally anyone (except minorities, immigrants, and women obviously), can get whatever they want if they work hard enough. I thanked the staff warmly and returned home to consume. Thankfully, my fears were not realized on this day.

Living in Williamson County has its advantages!

Once home I opened the box and stacked the ingredients together (the jalapenos and coleslaw are packed separately, but equally, so that you can add however much you would like. Just like in America). The Man's Best Friend is no small dog. You cannot eat it normally unless you have an unusually large mouth, similar to Deep Throat's who would not shut up and let Nixon take care of the hippy problem. I jest. I used a fork and knife to make for a cleaner and easier eating experience. My first bite was almost like a religious experience. Yes, I was brought back to the exoneration of Ronald Reagan during the Iran-Contra crisis with the sheer joy I felt. It was like learning a new language, or perhaps like being exposed to Trickle Down Economics for the first time. Or perhaps like calling INS on my neighbors, although they ended up being here legitimately and were more than likely thankful that I was keeping such an eye out on my neighborhood because I have nothing better to do and I am a lonely, sad, pathetic, greedy, and hateful man. As I made my way through the rest of the Man's Best Friend, I was in heaven. Jesus came to me in a vision, holding a Man's Best Friend, and placing the wiener in my mouth, saying "bite it, come on now, bite it," and I followed my Master's command.

A REAL MAN eating a hot dog

I was, in a word, obsessed. We return where we began. Obsession. I realize now what I didn't before. Obsession is what life is all about. Obsession lies around every corner, lurking in the shadows of our minds because without it we would all be hopeless. If we could not distract ourselves from our deaths, or the great darkness that lingers over all of us when we understand that we are far from who we want to be as people, then we would have to confront all those things that make our lives so horrible. And that would be difficult and would require talking to a bunch of wimpy psychiatrists or something effeminate like that. What a sad state of affairs that would be! But for now, my image is restored. The me that everyone sees is precisely who I want it to be. And that is a guy with a massive, open love for wieners. The Man's Best Friend is pretty good.