My fondest childhood memories are of camping trips, marbles, yo-yo season, and mumbledipeg with Cub Scout knifes. Best of all, however, were Little Oscar and his amazing Wienermobile. I can recall the advertising ditty “Little Oscar is coming your way…”. I would embed it here if I had the technical savvy.

Of course, the symbolism of the enormous frankfurter did not escape our nine-year-old male perception. Indeed, the reason we so enjoyed Little Oscar’s visits was that they gave occasion for much boyish ribald banter and double entendre.  When Little Oscar joined with the crowd, some wag would always ask him if the inch-long wiener whistle were the size of his wiener.

Little Oscar, although our size, did not share our mentality.   Perhaps too many years of the same question from a succession of juvenile comedians had exhausted his equanimity.  In any event, the last time I spoke to Little Oscar he said, ‘Fuck you, kid!’  sotto voce, smiled broadly, and continued working the crowd in the parking lot behind Mr. Kentner’s grocery store.   

I wasn’t surprised or offended by Little Oscar’s riposte.  I was honored by the brief human contact with such celebrity.  After this conversation, I always imagined Little Oscar off duty in skivvies and singlet in some motel, his wee legs dangling from a too large armchair in front of a black and white console television.  He’d be nursing a long-necked bottle of Eastside Beer in his tiny fist and rooting for the L.A. Rams. He was a regular guy. 

I’m certain that the current denizen of the Wienermobile, a well-scrubbed Martha Stewart clone in chef costume with a pleated skirt, doesn’t say ‘fuck you’ or drink beer. She probably roots for Tampa Bay.