"I Hijacked the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile" by Sean McBride

"I Hijacked the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile!"

by Sean McBride

"Pipsqueak," I called him, my very own lucky leprechaun, which I had found only days earlier in my mailbox. A prize, for sending in two Lucky Charms UPC's and a dollar seventy-three, which I had shamelessly stolen from the nooks of my next-door neighbors' couch, where we watched Ben Hur all night just so we could throw Jujubees at him, some of them sticking to his nose and making him mess up his lines.

"Don't call me pipsqueak," he chirped. "Call me by my real name, Ernie."

I had already wished my first wish for a large crate of William Faulkner novels, which I have no use for because I was drunk when I wished for it, and I forget the second wish, but it was on something even stupider, probably, because my head fell off right before I wished it, and what with the hangover I still wasn't thinking straight. And there I was, walking along my way to the corner store, whistling a tune, a dangerous tune, of simplicity and of hot doggery. I wished I were an Oscar Meyer wiener, and then, all of a sudden, I was. I was the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile.

"Go! Go! Go!" I shouted to myself as I ran up to the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile, not knowing what exactly I planned to do with it once I got on board. Luckily, it was empty, that flipped-out vehicle of wienerness. "Consider yourself Weinermobile-jacked!" I informed the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile. "Now to have some real fun!"

I took that Oscar Meyer Weinermobile, and I made it fly. We flew through town, we went to the bowling alley, we scared some grocery shoppers and we made them drop their cabbages. "Death to the non-believers!" we shouted, the wienermobile and I. We were a team.

So we flew to Antarctica where everyone is an eskimo and they all live in crude igloos that are really nothing more than humongous hollowed-out Hostess Sno-Balls. Where we lived like the eskimoes and they fed us some of their homes and I let them sit on the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile while I did a loop-de-loop, and they all fell off into the sea and drowned and made little Ding Dong houses at the bottom of the ocean.

         But the Wienermobile almost fell out of its bun when we came upon Sonic Cat, fearsome foe of hot dogs everywhere, even big ones, and Sonic Cat on her sonic pogo stick started a-pogoing up a storm and almost got my hot dog cooked. "It's not a real flying hot dog," I tried to explain, "It's the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile!"

         But Sonic Cat was adamant. "Death to the Dogs! Hot or Chili or Flying or any combination thereof!" It looked hopeless for us. So we pulled out our secret weapon, which cats really, really hate . . . sauerkraut!!! To the rescue!!

         Sonic Cat took one whiff and her whiskers melted. "Aye, me whiskers!" she screeched. "Aye's better be gettin' me tail the heck outta this joint, matey!"

"Stop talking like a pirate, dumb cat!" my mom said, but I told her to stay out of it cause what if Puss in Boots came along and started Tooshay-ing everyone to death well then I guess we'd just have to

pull out the secret weapon again and if we ever ran out of that, then something even better--Grey Poupon.

         "On a hot dog? Preposterous!"

         "On a Wienermobile? Inconceivable!"

         "Down my pants? Don't mind if I do!" shouted Bert.

         Bert, I told you to stay out of this story.

         "Pardon me," I asked the nice flight attendant who was flying around, looking for Oscar Meyer Wienermobiles, kind of like we were, except she gave me this packet of brown mustard.

"Mustard this, lady!" we cheered and squirted brown mustard all over the plane until they finally stopped serving the fish which had really been what was making that awful stench the whole time, and I had had just about enough of it so I crashed the Wienermobile in the middle of New Jersey where it just goes to show that you never can tell because life is really just one big game of miniature golf, and when you're the windmill life gets pretty lame, but when you're the goofy seahorse obstacle that just spins around and does nothing then it's a groovy ride on out from there, baby. Like cotton candy in the washing machine.

Sean McBride has always dreamed of hijacking the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. Simply owning one would not be enough fun; it must be taken by force and paraded through the streets in what will be his final triumphant public appearance. If you dare to get in his way, prepare to be pelted by many wieners.

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