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Stan had never eaten a talking hot dog before, and he was finding the experience a little unnerving. Although he lived alone, he looked around the kitchen to see if someone was doing ventriloquism.
She said her name was Irma and that she was from a small farm in western Connecticut.
Stan, feeling famished, took another bite. He must have missed her mouth because Irma continued.
“Being a hot dog is no picnic, I tell you,” she tilted her bitten end toward Stan for emphasis. “And you just wouldn’t believe the experience of being processed.”
Stan started to reply to Irma but checked himself. He added more catsup, causing Irma to giggle and writhe.
“I’m very ticklish. Are you?” she teased. Stan took a larger bite.
“I am kosher, you know,” she resumed, despite there remaining so little of her. “How about you, what’s your story? I feel like I hardly know you.”
Stan vacillated between giving Irma an answer and finishing his meal. He decided on the latter.
After chewing and swallowing, Stan sat for a moment; reflecting on his peculiar experience. The silence in his home now felt more acute than ever.
He fixed himself another hot dog. After a couple of bites, Stan asked its name but received no reply. He squirted catsup generously on it, but still nothing.
Stan finally decided on the name Ernie. Like Stan, Ernie was more the quiet type.
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