“Pardon me, sir,” Ignatius called. “Do you retail here?”The man’s watering eyes turned toward the large visitor.“What do you want?”“I would like to buy one of your hot dogs. They smell rather tasty. I was wondering if I could buy just one.”“Sure.”“May I select my own?” Ignatius asked, peering down over the top of the pot. In the boiling water the frankfurters swished and lashed like artificially colored and magnified paramecia. Ignatius filled his lungs with the pungent, sour aroma. “I shall pretend that I am in a smart restaurant and that this is the lobster pond.”“Here, take this fork,” the man said, handing Ignatius a bent and corroded semblance of a spear. “Try to keep your hands out of the water. It’s like acid. Look what it’s done to the fork.”“My,” Ignatius said to the old man after having taken his first bite. “These are rather strong. What are the ingredients in these?”“Rubber, cereal, tripe. Who knows? I wouldn’t touch one of them myself.”
(John Kennedy Toole - "A Confederacy of Dunces")
