I have a Weiner.
He weighs about nine pounds, and is about two and half feet long.
Not bad, as Weiners go.
His name is Jeep, and I love him, although I am one of the few who do. My children say that if Jeep were human, he would be an extremely grumpy old gay man. He is toffee brindle color, and he fits snuggly under my shirt, where he is snuggled this very moment, and always is when I’m writing. I believe he may well be my muse. That could explain some things.
I have been known to go up to unsuspecting admirers of the wee Jeepy and say things like “Would you like to stroke my Weiner?”
I like to commiserate with my single female friends by assuring them: “Who needs a man, when you have a Weiner?”
And I am absolutely certain, no matter how manly the man, that I can say: “My Weiner is bigger than yours”, without exaggerating.
But the Weens is anti-social. He growls at children, he bares his tiny teeth at other dogs, he goes savage-rabid-zombie-warrior if anyone dare approach the car while he is waiting for me in the grocery store parking lot.
“Zees people! Zey vill not be leavink me alone! Zey are alvays sinkink zat I am zee ‘cutesy-pie’! I vill kill zem! I vill gnaw off zere ankle bonez!”
Jeebus, or Jeebs, or Weens, or You-Little-Fucking-Asshole as I have been known to call him when he chews up the sofa…
(Three. Three sofas have met their maker at the razor sharp canines of my Jeepy. Luckily, my Love still loves me, even with the fluffy white stuffing of his leather sofa drifting by our feet when we returned home on the one night we didn’t put the Weiner in his Weiner Box. It was an uncomfortable moment, our entire relationship balanced on the saliva smears of chesterfield carnage, but we can laugh about it now. At least, I think that’s laughter I hear from my Love, but it may be the sound of diabolical plotting of a late night weeny roast some night when I go to bed early. It was an ugly sofa anyway!)
… my Weiner never fails to adore me. Jeeb’s favorite Good Morning routine is to lie, fully extended, across my face. I don’t know why, perhaps he was removed from his littermates too early, perhaps he wants to suffocate me, perhaps it is just a manifestation of weiner love, but I have never been able to just lie there to see what he would do if I didn’t push him away. I’m afraid I would not live to tell the tale, as his breath is enough to melt the skin off my face.
In honor of all things Weiner, today I am inviting you, gentle readers, to enter a contest. My daughter took a picture of Jeep this weekend which cracks me up every time I look at it:
This is pure Weiner magic. This photo captures the very essence of Weinerdom. His face just says it all!
So, come up with a caption to go with the picture. That’s my beautiful daughter Hannah (aka Hanno Banano) in the background. She brought her dog, Charlie, to visit, which is a definite no-no in the World of Weiner…
“Zat Chhharlie is sniffink mine heineken! Zis must be stoppink! No vun sniffs zee heineken of zee Weenerschnitzel, vissout zee permission of zee Weenerschnitzel!”
What will you win, besides the undying affection of the Weens? (Yeah, forget that, he probably won’t like you, because you aren’t me, and I am his world). Whoever’s caption is the best, as determined by our Impartial Panel of Judges (aka, my spawn) , will win a free copy of my book, That Thing That Happened, which I hope, hope, hope will be published by the end of this month. I will send you a copy, in the mail, or through email if you are Kindle-friendly, and I might even make a wee badge with your name on it that the Weiner can wear around his neck in honor of your brilliance.
“Vat??? Zee Wienerschnitzel only vears zee designer label turtlenecks. Do not be makink me make zee rude gestures in your general direction.”
Go ahead, gimme a Weiner caption, because I can’t stop chuckling every time I look at that photo!