Man, on Saturday I ate one of those hotdogs those Mexican women sell out of tinfoil pans on Skid Row in L.A.

A big, greasy-bubbled dog made outta who-knows-what, wrapped in greasier bacon, and covered with onions, chili peppers and mustard, ketchup and mayo (the latter two I NEVER like on dogs.) There was probably something else on there too that I cannot remember, and the roll was something heavenly that my NYC ass has never encountered.

I figured I was going to start retching and shitting myself right there on the street within seconds, but it didn't happen. It was really way better than sex or, hell, even a fistfight.

One Four-Star Heart Attack: $2.50