The Octodog
Consider this scenario:
The year is 2403. Archeologists from Beloit College, the world's most pretigious institution of higher learning, are doing a dig in eastern Massachusetts.
After several days of fruitless excavation, an ancient apartment is uncovered. Jackpot! The contents are largely intact, and the team goes to work collecting and classifying the artifacts.
Amid a handful of National Lampoon's Vacation DVDs and radically unfashionable capri pants, the archeologists come up with something totally new, and completely unidentifiable.
It's made of heavy plastic.
It's shaped like an octopus.
And it serves no clear function whatsoever.
"It's got to be some sort of a religious symbol," says David Englekani, one of the younger students. "I mean, it serves no clear practical function, and it's clearly not a toy." Several of the post-docs roll their eyes.
"OK," says Dr. Wye, the team leader. "Probably not, since the number of 21st century octopus cults we know about ranges between zero and zero. How about you, Xtina? Any thoughts?"
Xtina pauses for a moment, smoking a Friendly's brand diet heroin stick while she gathers her thoughts. "Hmm. Okay. How about this: Is it possible that 21st century humans would put a pork sausage into the top of the device, and then squeeze it through the bottom half to create a sausage that looked exactly like an octopus?"
Everyone is stunned by this idea. The theory is, of course, immediately rejected, because it's crazy.
But like many other totally crazy things, it's also true.
The Octodog Frankfurter Converter is a baffling piece of technology. It's made from good, sturdy plastic; you could certainly stop a burglar with it. It's colorful; the base and top come in bright yellow and/or bright red plastic varieties.
And it's the first and only kitchen utensil specially designed for the rapid production of hotdogs cut specially to resemble little pork octopi.
Perhaps most surprisingly: it's not Japanese. That would make too much sense. Japan's culture has a longstanding affection for octopi; there's a definite "naughty octopus" theme running through Japanese erotic art, and they're often what's for dinner. That, and Japanese gadgets are just completely off the hook.
The frankfurter converter's promotional material recommends using pork (or, more accurately, "not all-beef") hotdogs, and demonstrating the gadget's awesome power for a group of small children.
The unavailability of small children meant that our Octodog machine was demonstrated for the next best thing: a group of intoxicated Harvard students.
All eyes were riveted on it. There's no doubt: Bring it to a barbecue, and people get fascinated in a hurry.
This may because the device is clearly an alien technology. All the operator needs to do is insert a hotdog into the top of the converter, pin it down by reinserting the plastic googly eyes, squish the dog through the converter's bottom, and then release the eyes.
Whammo. Instant Octodog! They're boilable, microwavable, and — if you're careful — even eminently grillable. And they taste good; the more you slice a hotdog before grilling it, the crispier and more thoroughly smokey it becomes. The Octodog process is a recipe for a beautiful grilled 'dog.
Granted, there is something disconcerting about having little tentacles poking out of your hotdog bun, but it certainly adds to the spectacle.
It's undeniable, then: the frankfurter converter is a lot of fun. Arguably not quite $17 worth of fun, but that depends on how many barbecues, small children and college students you have populating your typical summer.
What's more interesting, however, is what the Octodog says about modern American civilization. More than polar mitts, more than diet chocolate, more than SUVs, the frankfurter converter says that we've made it. We're so far ahead of everybody else that our economy has a niche that supports the production of specialized plastic octopus sculptures that make our hotdogs more funner.
Ladies and gentlemen: We're riding the crest of human history. The Octodog is our totem of triumph. Long may it undulate.
— James Norton (jrnorton@flakmag.com)
