Wiener Dog Quotes

She looked up, her face pink as a Christmas ham. “You ever try chasing down a car?” she gasped. “I’ll one-up you. I gave Scott my hot dog and asked if he’d go to Summer Solstice with me.” “What does the hot dog have to do with anything?” “I said he’d be a wiener if he didn’t go with me.” Vee wheezed laughter. “I’d have run harder had I known I’d get to see you call him a wiener.

And then I remember this morning and I wonder if it really happened or if I dreamed it. It was nice. And weird. And tender. I'm not used to tender. It's a fossil, that word. Conditions changed and it died out. Like the woolly mammoth. It just couldn't live in the same world as dick box. Ho dog. Or wiener cousins.

You've got to have, like, a lentil for a soul to hate wiener dogs.

I learned that when people see a dachshund, they have to yell, "A wiener dog!" Like "A rainbow!" "A Shriner!" "A shooting star!" "A clown!" "A nudist colony!

hot dog bun on the Dendritic Cell can only hold wieners. In contrast, the B Cell receptors are not as picky.

You’ve been robbed. Those times, where did they go? Once so alive but now hidden in a mass grave. And that’s where the future ones are headed. Remember that. All the days to come will vanish thus. What value or meaning can they contain? We are hoarders of dust.

The family dog, a three-year-old longhaired dachshund, ran in from the kitchen with his tail wagging. The dog was black and tan with a smudge over each eye that gave him a permanently surprised look. Josh had bought the dog after Kate’s second miscarriage, when they realized that they’d probably never have another child. The dog functioned as Abby’s substitute sibling. It was a stupid and insensitive gesture at a time when they were all looking for something to make up for the hurt, but that was forgotten now. Wiener was part of the family. The dog came up to Josh for a moment to be stroked before he bounded off to Abby.

Or, in this case, the Wiener and the Bun… Operator: 9-1-1 what is your emergency? Caller: Uhm, I have a question. Operator: Okay? Caller: Uhm, I tried to call my dad, my dog was mating with another dog and uh, his dick is stuck in her. Operator: Yes? Caller: Uhm, I don’t know what to do. Operator: Your dog? Caller: Yeah, he was mating with another dog. Operator: Well, that’s how it works. Caller: I know, but his dick is stuck in her and he’s trying to get it out! Operator: Well they, they, they lie like that for about 45 minutes after it happens. Caller: So, it stays like that? Operator: Yeah, the dogs stay like that for about 45 minutes after they mate. Caller: Oh, so his thing still needs to be attached in her? Operator: Yeah, that’s how it works.

People said that dogs tended to resemble their owners, and considering that my little wiener dog was a super cute brown girl with stubby legs, great fashion sense, and a tendency toward plumpness, I had to agree.

He was inaccessible to us for most of my childhood. I did not know how to reach him. He was the first man who loved me. Picked me up from school during lunch breaks before we had lunch in school. He would take me to a great mom-and-pop restaurant for wieners, hot dogs with ground meat, onions, and celery salt on top. He would put a quarter in the mechanical horsey machines and let me ride and smile from ear to ear and then drive me back to school. He loved me. That I know. But his love and his demons were fighting for space within, and sometimes the demons won.

With polite obstinacy he spurns vendors who offer “authentic relics” made of baked manure. “No gracias,” he says, waving a bony finger. Not lost but found in the silent majesty of this crypt of a civilization he spends his days in pursuit of phantoms, guided by a phantom map and at the behest of connections linked by the unrelenting velocity of phantom logic. But his joy is real. Amid dark stains of misery, smeared within a pastiche of solemnity, hilarity, and tedium, the newfound purpose adds a streak of gold to the collage of his life. And like all men he mistakes the fleeting nuance for the color of the underlying canvas.

Crisp leaves enshroud Milwaukee, never as beautiful in life as they are in death. All rejoice in the tomb of summer, frolicking in the burial ground of a time that is no more. This remorseless decomposition, land of nostalgia and déjà vu, idyllic for football and hunting and lakefront bonfires at night, it calls from a place beyond instinct, one primal or mystical and ineptly mapped by our concepts. If Nature speaks through her patterns, what are we to make of this delirious paean to necrophilia, this hypnotic Ode to Mortality?

Wiener dog underwent explosive decompression, scared a baby.

Using the castle to transition between lands was a visual trick Walt called a weenie. According to Disney historian Jim Korkis, during the development of Disneyland, Walt would come home late at night and usually enter his house through the kitchen, which was closer to the garage. He would walk into the kitchen and grab two uncooked hot dogs, or wieners, one for himself and one for his dog. Korkis said, "By wiggling the treat, Walt could get his dog to go from side to side, around in a circle, jump up and more. Both Walt and the dog loved the game and she was finally rewarded with the tasty and satisfying treat." "Each of the gateways into the lands offered weenies. The spinning carousel through the portal leading through Sleeping Beauty Castle called guests into Fantasyland. The stockade gates, the steam bellowing from the Mark Twain stern-wheeler, and the seeming infinite horizon beckoned guests to visit Frontierland. Over in Tomorrowland was the clock of the World and the TWA Moonliner ready for launch. Only Adventureland lacked a weenie. It was thought that if guests knew too much, it would not be much of an adventure.

I’m Rusty.” “No kidding?” She laughed. “That’s the name of my grandmother’s dog. He’s an adorable little, long-haired dachshund, a wiener dog. You both have the red hair. No offense. He’s an amazing dog.” “None taken. It’s actually the second time today I’ve been compared to a dog.

Looking at my buddies, my whole body feels good and warm, like I've got hot chocolate pumping through my veins.

The stars, are they not confetti? There is a direct relation between the number of them and the triviality of you. Squint your eyes. The constellation of a long slender hound appears, marking the heavens more objectively than dippers or crabs or bowmen. Trace it with your finger. The dog glares as if perturbed by your discovery. Heaven is not a Rorschach after all. Perhaps the ancients didn’t name him for a reason, or only spoke the name during ceremonies where his guidance was sought, his wrath placated. They looked to the stars and the stars looked back. What became of them? Survival was not among the blessings from this deity. His ferocity makes him more humanlike than one of love. Close your eyes and seize the earth. So solid. So flat and stationary. Your senses are liars and fools. “What about those other universes he was talking about?” you whisper, assuming the fetal position. It worked once. “Screw it. All politics is local. As long as they aren’t connected they don’t dilute the significance of this one.” The hound in the sky continues to scowl, as he did before you were born, before all men were born.

clambering over a fallen log with all the grace of a pregnant wiener dog.