Chapter 5
We Have A Wiener
McCormick
“Look at that,” I murmur through a mouthful of brat. “God bless America.”
Stiles is on the opposite end of the couch. He’s wearing his ‘Relish the Moment’ shirt again—the one with the swole hot dog bench-pressing a pickle spear. I’m in my ‘Ask Me About My Wiener’ tee, and I will be fielding no questions tonight. I’m too emotional.
The announcer is already yelling like someone gave him three Red Bulls and a bologna sandwich.
“Welcome to the inaugural WIENIE 500—live from the Speedway! Six Oscar Mayer Wienermobiles, one track, one bun to rule them all!”
The camera pans across the starting lineup. I read the names off reverently: “New York Dog. Slaw Dog. Chili Dog. Chi Dog. Seattle Dog. And... Sonoran Dog.”
Stiles whistles. “Each one reppin’ a regional style. That’s sexy.”
“They’re doin’ the Lord’s work,” I nod. “Honestly, I shoulda been a driver.”
Stiles snorts. “You gotta have a college degree for that, Mac. They only hire recent grads. They call ‘em Hotdoggers. It’s, like, a real job.”
“Swear to God?”
“Swear. Full-time gig. You drive cross-country, hand out hot dog hats, talk to kids, run the social media. Even Paul Ryan did it in college.”
I blink. “Wait—Speaker of the House Paul Ryan?”
“Yup. Former hotdogger. Look it up.”
The engines—or whatever sound six giant sausages make—rev.
“And they’re OFF!”
The Chi Dog takes the early lead, dragging its neon relish decals into turn one. Seattle Dog’s backfiring tofu. Sonoran’s got a mini cactus on the roof that looks like it’s flipping the bird.
Stiles fist-pumps. “Look at Slaw Dog! Slaw Dog’s gunnin’ it!”
I scream into my hot-dog blanket. “LET’S GO, SLAW!”
The excitement is too real. I load up another dog with a selection from the condiment tray. We’ve got ‘em all. Wasabi mustard, honey and spicy brown, classic yellow, and then the savory stuff—chili, diced onion, relish, slaw, and kraut.
“Did you know,” Stiles says between bites, “these things are 27 feet long, 11 feet high, got a GPS that responds to voice commands, and a horn that plays the Oscar Mayer jingle in, like, jazz and mariachi?”
“You mean you could get one of these things to samba through traffic? That’s illegal. That’s dangerous.”
Stiles chuffs. “That’s America.”
“Fuck it. I’m gettin’ one installed in my truck.
On the screen, Kraut Lightning—no, sorry, the Chi Dog—starts losing steam. Slaw Dog’s closing in.
“OH MY MAYO!” the announcer cries. “The Slaw Dog is making its move! OVERTAKE IN TURN TWO!”
I lean forward, clutching my hot dog like I’ve got money on this race. “C’mon, baby. Overtake that deep-dish liar.”
“And the Slaw Dog WINS! BY HALF A BUN!”
We both erupt. Stiles throws his napkin into the air like it’s graduation day. “I told you size matters!”
The screen shows fans swarming the infield, cheering and crying as the Slaw Dog does a victory lap. A giant hot dog trophy is presented. A kid in a hot dog costume is sobbing into his father’s arms.
“There was a concert after,” Stiles says, scrolling on his phone. “Bret Michaels and All-American Rejects. Hot dog party. Condiment rain. The whole shebang.”
I blink. “So you're telling me... these six mobile meat tubes raced at the Indy 500 on Carb Day... and then celebrated with a power ballad and hot dog hats?”
“Don’t forget the mustard and slaw shower. “Also,” Stiles adds, “Oscar Mayer tried to rename the Wienermobile the Frankmobile.”
I stop chewing. “The what?”
“Yeah. To push their new all-beef recipe. People lost their minds. They changed it back after four months.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Justice.”
“And if you ever wanna see one in person,” Stiles says casually, “they got a tracking tool on their site. You can literally stalk a Wienermobile.”
I stare into the distance like I’m having a vision.
“We’re going next year,” I declare. “I don’t care if we gotta sleep in a Waffle House parking lot and sell blood plasma for gas money. We are going. I’ll be the bun.”
Stiles salutes with his beer. “I’ll be the mustard packet. But, like... slutty.”
We clink hot-dogs. On-screen, the Slaw Dog is still being showered with ketchup and glory. Somewhere in the distance, the Oscar Mayer jingle plays softly... in ragtime.
God, I love this country.
I’m half-dressed, chewing a cold leftover hot dog straight from the foil. Stiles is sitting at the table in his robe, typing aggressively on his laptop like he’s trying to hack into NORAD.
“We’re doin’ it,” he says without looking up. “I found the application.”
“For what?”
He looks up over his glasses. “To be Hotdoggers. Drivers of the Wienermobile. Our destiny.”
I blink. “I was joking.”
“I wasn’t,” he says. “You said it yourself, shoulda been a driver. No more regrets, Mac. Live your truth.”
I stare at him, mustard crusted to my cheek. “We’re not recent college grads.”
He shrugs. “Minor detail.”
“Dude. The job literally says they only hire recent grads. You gotta have a communications degree and a clean driving record.”
He grins. “I communicate constantly, and I haven’t technically crashed anything since 2019.”
“Your truck caught fire outside an Arby’s.”
“Spontaneous combustion. Still counts.”
He turns the laptop to face me. On the screen is the Oscar Mayer Hotdogger Application Portal, bright and shiny and full of potential. The qualifications are clear:
Bachelor’s degree required
Strong communication and public speaking skills
Willingness to travel full time for a year
Must love hot dogs
I point at the screen. “I have none of those things.”
“You love hot dogs.”
“Okay, one of those things.”
He scrolls down. “Former Hotdoggers have gone on to become politicians, CEOs, talk show hosts. The Wienermobile’s a pipeline to greatness, man.”
“I got kicked out of my apartment building for grilling shirtless in winter.”
“That’s just unconventional leadership.”
I sigh. “What would we even put in the cover letter?”
He cracks his knuckles. “I already started it.”
He clicks open a Word doc titled “Why I Am Destined to Drive the Meat Chariot.”
Dear Oscar Mayer Recruitment Team,
We are lifelong hot dog enthusiasts with a deep, borderline spiritual appreciation for the Wienermobile. Though we may be slightly outside the recent graduate window (give or take two decades), we bring with us a wealth of experience in life, love, and loading a bun under pressure.
One of us (Stiles) once ate fourteen chili dogs in under an hour, and the other (McCormick) once cried during a Wienermobile appearance at a county fair and then shook the Hotdogger’s hand and said “thank you for your service.” He also drove six hours round trip just to take a selfie with the Wienermobile in a Walmart parking lot.
We ran a hot-dog-themed Instagram meme account that reached 12,000 followers before it was flagged for “excessive enthusiasm.” So we understand the power of public engagement and are prepared to represent your brand with unmatched passion, flavor, and mustard-forward energy.
Also, we both own hot-dog attire. Multiple items. No additional wardrobe needed.
Respectfully yours,
E. McCormick & B. Stiles
Aspiring Hotdoggers / Agents of the Bun
I stare at it for a long moment. “That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever read.”
He grins. “Right?”
“…Add a P.S. about how we survived the Slaw Dog’s victory party.”
He types quickly.
P.S. We personally witnessed the Slaw Dog’s triumph at the Wienie 500 and did not cry. (We cried.)
“Submitted,” he says.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. If we get an interview, I’m renting a suit shaped like a corn dog.”
I lean back in my chair, sighing like a man at the end of a long journey made of nitrates.
“Well,” I say, “if they do call, we’re gonna need to learn how to parallel park a 27-foot wiener.”
Stiles raises his coffee mug. “To our glorious future, brother.”
I clink mine against his.
To buns, speed, and dreams that refuse to die.
I’m elbows-deep in a jar of pickled jalapenos, trying to figure out if they’ve expired or just developed an attitude, when my phone rings.
Unknown number. Chicago area code.
I answer like a man with nothing to lose. “McCormick, part-time content creator, full-time miracle.”
The voice on the other end is bubbly. Alarmingly bubbly.
“Hi! This is Erin from the Oscar Mayer Hotdogger Program. Is this McCormick... and Stiles?”
I freeze. “Who’s asking?”
Stiles looks up from the couch, where he’s teaching himself how to juggle condiment bottles. I mouth, IT’S THEM.
The voice continues, “We loved your cover letter. Like… loved it. Corporate printed it out and hung it in the Wienermobile garage. We’ve never had anyone describe themselves as agents of the bun before.”
Stiles drops a mustard bottle on his foot and yelps.
“We were wondering,” Erin says, “would you two be interested in flying to Indianapolis to be guest judges for the next Wienie 500?”
My soul leaves my body. I ascend. I see a vision of myself holding a golden hot dog trophy like it’s a newborn child.
“We accept,” I whisper hoarsely. “Dear God, we accept.”
Erin runs through the basics and says she’ll be in touch soon with the details. I hang up the phone like it’s a live grenade, turn slowly toward Stiles, and whisper: “They want us to judge the Wienie 500.”
Stiles drops the mustard bottle again. “What?”
“They read our application. Laughed. Cried. Corporate hung it up in the Wienermobile garage like it’s the Constitution.”
“No—what do you mean, judge?”
“As in, flown to Indianapolis. As in, they called us agents of the bun. As in, we’re going to be standing on the track in robes and possibly wigs, deciding the fate of six sentient hot dogs on wheels.”
Stiles screams like he just got chosen for The Hunger Games. “WE’RE GOING TO THE SHOW.”
“I gotta tell the guys,” I say, already fumbling for my phone.
I FaceTime the crew because this moment deserves faces and full expressions with real-time voice inflection, not emojis.
Rhett answers first, mid-bench press, shirtless and glistening. “This better be good, McCormick.”
Nash pops in, in the middle of shampooing. There’s a loofah on his head. “Why do you look like you just found religion?”
West joins from what looks like a tent. “I’m on break. If this isn’t about food, I’m hanging up.”
Brandt pops up next to him, dressed in full tactical gear. They’re playing Bootcamp Warriors this weekend.
Pharo and Jax answer at the same time. “Did you butt-dial us or is this real?”
And then Mandy shows up, silent at first, hoodie up, looking skeptical.
I clear my throat.
“Gentlemen. The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile program called. They want me and Stiles… to judge the next Wienie 500.”
Seven grown men erupt like Mentos in Diet Coke.
Nash: “NO WAY.”
Rhett: “I TOLD YOU THAT COVER LETTER WAS GONNA HIT.”
West: “You’re gonna die on live TV and I support it.”
Brandt: “I will personally design your judging robes. Crushed velvet. In mustard tones.”
Jax: “Wait, are there judges at this thing? Like, are you gonna hold up scorecards?”
Stiles (off-camera): “Oh, we’re not just holding scorecards. We’re delivering justice.”
Pharo: “Are you sure this isn’t one of those prank calls where someone pretends to be Oscar Mayer but it’s actually like... Jimmy Kimmel?”
“I heard the Oscar Mayer jingle in the background,” I say. “In barbershop quartet format. No one fakes that kind of commitment.”
Mandy finally speaks. “You better not mess this up. This is a sacred honor.”
“I know,” I say solemnly. “We’ve been called to serve.”
Someone adds Stiles to the chat. His dark-bearded face pops into a square on my screen. “We were born for this. It’s in our blood,” he says matter-of-factly.
West: “You two judging anything is a public safety risk. I cannot wait.”
Rhett: “I’m flying out. I wanna tailgate for this race and heckle at least one Wienermobile.”
Pharo: “You need theme music. You need to walk onto the track with theme music.”
Mandy: “You need to win.”
“We’re not racing,” I remind him.
“You still need to win.”
Stiles leans into frame, beaming. “This is bigger than us.”
“We’re not just men anymore,” I say. “We’re stewards of the bun.”
And somehow, for the first time in my whole messy, mustard-stained life… I feel like I’ve found my calling.