The Journal of Joe The Peacock. Yay.

6.16.2006:

3:39 PM

GAH! I am so PISSED OFF right now... JESUS!

I cannot believe the injustice I've just suffered! I have a mind to write my Congressman over this infraction of social and moral law!

What, you ask, could drive me to such a livid state?

How about the fact that I have been denied my one and only craving for the afternoon - a footlong CORNDOG?!?

A few of my office rent-mates and I got it in our heads that, during "lunch" (which is pretty much whenever we feel like leaving), we should go to the Brick Store Pub to watch some awesome World Cup action. So, as I passed through the Decatur Square (only a few blocks north of where my new office is), I took note that this was the weekend of the "Decatur Beach Party" festival - a weekend full of bands, food, sand on the streets (seriously, they truck in about 30 dumptrucks full of sand and dump it all over the roads) and other such merriment.

This was pretty cool in and of itself. But what REALLY got my attention was a booth that was being set up at the corner advertising foot-long corndogs for the low, low price of 4 bucks each. The sign explained that each of these were foot long sausages, hand-dipped in homemade cornmeal batter and then fried right there on the spot.

How the HELL could anyone resist that?

Well, I had to. Because I had a World Cup date for the next hour and a half.

So, as I walked back to the office, full on roast beef and pasta salad, I couldn't help but stare and salivate at the corn dog sign. It has been YEARS since I've had a corndog, and even longer since I've had something like a foot-long sausage dipped in hand-made cornmeal and fried right on the spot (actually, I don't think I've EVER had anything like that).

I sat down to do a little work (which, thus far, has consisted of discussing World Cup and my latest story on MI), and the desire - no, NECESSITY - of corndog fever simply boiled too hot. Somewhere around 3:30, I simply couldn't sit idle any longer.

I had to have a corndog.

So, I rounded up my buddy Scott and made my way back up to the corndog booth. We were on a mission - CORNDOG OR BUST.

Well, we came up bust. Apparently, they don't start corndoggin' until 4:30, because the festival itself starts at five.

"We have some lemonade though," the nice old lady said, as if some freshly squeezed sour citrus over ice would take my mind off the goodness of CORNDOG HEAVEN.

I nearly flew into hysterics, right there in the sandy streets of Decatur. I want a corndog, dammit! And waiting an hour and a half for one simply WILL NOT DO!

I'm nearly tempted to drive to Krystal and get cornpups - this is the level of my desperation for cornbread-coated sausage! GAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

EDIT: Corndog Quest 2006 UPDATE:

I went back about 5:30, well after the time they said they'd have corndogs.

And they did. They had corndogs. Hot, fresh sausages dipped in delicious, homemade cornmeal batter, fried to a golden brown and sitting not 20 feet in front of me... but I couldn't get one.

Why?

BECAUSE THE BEACH PARTY HAD BEGUN... AND IT COST $5.00 TO GET IN.

Now, I was a desperate, corndog-needing man, but there's no WAY you're going to get me to pay $5.00 just to have the privledge of being able to buy a corndog. Nope, no way.

I asked the zomboid at the gate if he could just let me in to get the corndog.

"No."

I asked if he could go get one for me.

"No."

I shouted to the corndog people and asked if they could bring one over to the gate so that I could pay for it right there. The zomboid stopped me mid-shout and said:

"I'm sorry, you can't do that."

I asked, "Are you a cop? You know... When you're not manning the little plastic waist-high gate around a public street barring people from corndogs?"

He said "No."

I said, very loudly and deeply, "Hey, Corndog lady! Bring me a corndog!"

He said "HEY OFFICER!" to the officer near us.

I said "Fuck this."

He said "..." as I walked back to my truck, defeated and corndogless.

Fucking corndog.

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The Journal of Joe The Peacock. Yay.

6.16.2006:

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