Weiner bits that swim in the stomach mush. A Roald Pogue allegory.

In the Safe-Way, Roald Pogue saw a little kid wearing a "Cocky the Gamecock" shirt, the mascot livery of the University of South Carolina.

"Go cocks!" said Roald Pogue, giving the little kid a smile and a thumbs-up.  And for a brief moment there was wonderment in the kid's eyes, wonderment at being accepted by the cooler, older set.

Outside the store, Roald had his hotted dog and his iced drink, hands full, shuffle-stepping along taking a bite or a sip here and there.

Something caught his eye.

There was a short hair in his Fanta iced drink.

At the intersection of Front Street and Seaboard.

The varsity football set came along.  A Tacoma and a glowing green ricer hatchback.  Natural enemies of course, of the Chess Club and the Debate Team.  These guys were tough, but not quite ROTC tough, but maybe with some of that physical sensibility, but these jocks, without the mental discipline.

"Bust dick and rip sh*t!" They chanted.  Stupids.

At the sight, Roald Pogue felt his gorge rise, and leaped over the ditch into the bushes.  From there, he watched, sweat beginning to pour down his face.  He watched the snot green ricer expelling filth from a giant chrome exhaust tip that was easily as big as the entire engine that fed it.  The eaten part of his hot dog swam uneasily in his stomach, doing a kind of flip-flop deep-down inside him.

"I so wish you would.  Go on now.  Why don't you just go on now?"