Monday, April 25, 2011

The Schneids vs. Oki Dog.

On a recent production trip in Los Angeles, good buddy The Schneids and I wanted to stuff our jowls with some world class dogs. We decided to give a place called The Stand a try, after an afternoon trip to Amoeba Records.

There were a few problems with this plan. First, The Stand was a good 45 minutes away from Hollywood. Why is that a problem you ask? Well, The Schneids was driving, and if you've ever sat passenger in a car driven by The Schneids, you know just how excruciating that experience can be. The man slows down for green lights, and never tops 40 miles an hour. He can't park to save his life, and he is slightly directionally challenged. I have very little patience for terrible drivers, and while The Schneids is one of my ace number one pals, that vein on my forehead was doing one armed push-ups.

So after hitting every light in Los Angeles proper, we found ourselves in a strange corporate office park not too far from Beverly Hills. This didn't seem right. We parked the car in an underground ramp and proceeded to take 3 sets of escalators up to an open area with a huge fountain. A security guard looked at us a bit bewildered. We were basically in a office building lobby on a Sunday looking for a hotdog. "We're closed today guys, sorry."

I looked at The Schneids. His lower lip was trembling under his beard. His eyes were filling with blood-red rage. His ears emitted thin wisps of shit-hot steam. His fists clenched in that "Smash! Destroy!" sort of way. This was bad.

Quick, we need a back-up plan STAT! The Schneids went from hungry for hotdogs to having a full on appetite for destruction.

I remembered that buddy Geoff recommended Oki Dog, the legendary punk hangout. It was way back towards Hollywood on Fairfax. Could I stand another 45 minutes in the car with The Schneids behind the wheel? There was no time to think.



Introducing Oki Dog. Bar none the most disgusting restaurant I've ever eaten at. Not only were there geriatric Aryan Brotherhood guys playing arcade games, but the building itself was seemingly held together by chicken wire and cockroach carcasses. There were more washed out prison tats then napkins in this joint.



The Schneids was one step away from having a nervous breakdown upon arrival. We had to walk a block to the cash machine which only ignited his fury.



The menu board. Complete with boogers, smeared blood, sun-dried chili cheese, and anaerobic flagellated protozoan parasites.

I'll have one Oki Dog please!



Here's The Schneids wondering what he could craft into a shank if the shit got ugly. Still shaking with rage.



I ordered the Oki Dog and the lady boy working behind the counter was nice enough to give us a huge basket of fries. The guts of the Oki Dog are infamous:

1 tortilla.
2 hot dogs.
Copious piles of pastrami.
Chili.
Cheese.



Like a baby with a bottle, The Schneids quelled his blood lust for a bite of this harbinger of bowel havoc. His thoughts? "It's good." 'Nuff said.



Behold, the innards of the most intestinally compromising food stuffs known to man. It took me 4 days to sweat the salts out of my body after eating this petri dish of nitrates and fly shit.

The Schneids had to jump on a plane immediately after we ate. I said a little prayer for the passengers of that fateful flight. There is no vacuum toilet sturdy enough for that type of industrial level gastrointestinal emission. Godspeed.

All in all, the actual Oki Dog was pretty damn good. That said, I wouldn't step foot into this restaurant after dark, with a girl, or without packing some serious weapons grade giardia meds.