There better be a stinkin' wiener in my chili dog today

A few weeks ago I wrote about a guy who retired and bought the fishing boat of his dreams, just as he found out he was facing kidney failure and also required heart surgery. I hinted Buddy would welcome a fishing buddy to help with the little things, like hooking up the trailer, launching the boat, helping him into the boat, baiting the line, landing the fish, etc...

I haven't volunteered my services yet, but a mutual acquaintance did.

Alas, the fishing trip almost ran aground on a chili dog scandal. Buddy's had a favourite greasy spoon joint up near Huntsville for decades.  No trip up north is complete without a quick stop to pick up a chili dog. Buddy orders other buddy to stop and grab them a couple of chili dogs to go.

They're heading on up the highway. As Buddy unwraps his much anticipated treat, a look of horror falls across his face.

There's.

No.

Stinkin'.

Wiener.

On.

My.

Stinkin'.

Dog!

And there wasn't. The would-be fishing buddy had erroneously ordered chili on a bun instead of chili dogs. That almost put the kibosh on the trip right there, but the cooler head prevailed. 

Next day they're heading back home. Buddy orders his assistant to stop at the chili joint again, glares at him, and in a voice brimming with menace, declares, "there better be a stinkin' wiener in my chili dog today."