Summer 2024 was supposed to be my summer. I’d worked hard all year, and by June, I finally had enough money to buy an all-new wardrobe. I opened TikTok for inspiration and there it was: brat summer.
A quick scroll gave me all the information I needed. Finally, a trend that combined my folksy sense of humor and my Midwest heritage—all while flattering my extremely long torso. Bratwurst summer was my ticket to fun on a bun.
4 costume shops and $3,000 later, I was the incontestable queen of brat summer.
It wasn’t until after I burned all my regular summer clothes in a trashcan in my backyard that I realized my mistake. Turns out brat summer has nothing to do with bratwurst, or hotdogs, or even glizzies. You know what else I found out? Costume shops in LA have way stricter return policies than names like Enzo’s Costumes Gag Gifts and Rubber Entrails Emporium would suggest.
So now, like a 7-11 rotisserie dog, I am just trying to roll with it. It’s not going well.
At work, I tried to make it seem like I was in on the joke. You know, “I’m going ham on the phones today,” and, “I’m not sure where that report is—don’t grill me on it.” That type of thing. But my jokes fell flat. And I can’t even take off the removable Velcro buns apparatus (I paid extra for that) because it’s so goddamn cold in the office.
On the weekends, I tried to play it up as a fun bit I was doing. I thought it would help me stand out in the dating scene, at least, but all my talk of raw doggin got me kicked out of the bar.
I even squeezed a pair of those little Charli XCX sunglasses over the head hole, but nothing helped. I alienated everyone within a foot long radius, everywhere I went.
Only at the minor league baseball stadium did I start to feel comfortable enough to be my glistening self. But that didn’t last long either. Before the third inning, I got chased off by the officially licensed hotdog mascot for Nathan’s.
All this to say, I no longer wish to be an Oscar Meyer wiener. The universe has taken one too many bites of me. Send help.