We’ve tried to explain this rationally — simply and in a straightforward manner. We’ve explained the reasons why and pointed you to some very good sources for more information. But let’s make it even more basic.

Please look at the formula above.

Simply because a beef is labeled “Grass-Fed” does NOT make it good, or “green” or whatever the fuck you tree-hugging hippies call it. And just because a beef is grain-finished does not make it bad. What you really probably don’t want to eat is beef from feed lots, for a variety of reasons we won’t get into right now.

Now these yahoos at Let’s Be Frank, while well-intentioned, did you all a grave disservice when they stamped their damn hot dog cart with “100 % Grass-Fed.” What they did was reinforce in the tiny little minds of passersby that YES! GRASS=GOOD. ME LIKE HOT DOG. YUM. MMM. Then they get distracted and start to think about bacon.

OK. So we all know now, because the hot dog vendor has done the research, that there is grass-fed cattle that is feeding amid the fucking stumps of fucking rain forests.

And we also know that grain-fed does not necessarily equal bad. Grass-fed beef become synonymous with the fact that it was not raised in feed-lots. The opposite is not true.

As we said, the folks at Let’s Be Frank discovered this when they met the fine people of Five-Dot Ranch, sixth-generation ranchers out of Lassen County, Calif who hold themselves to higher standard than just being able to slap a 100-percent grass-fed label on their beef. Because the cattle are grain-finished, the beef cannot be labeled 100% grass-fed, but because Let’s Be Frank wisely decided that Five-Dot was the most sustainable and environmentally friendly source it could use, it will have to take it’s stupid little sign down.

You’d never have guessed it from the kitchen pedigree at the Rusty Knot — owned by a consortium including Bloomfield and Batali with a menu originally created by Jaoquin Baca (who has also haunted the grills at Momofuku, Wilfie & Nell and The Brooklyn Star) — but its premier menu item is so simple even the Zaro’s in the bowels of Grand Central terminal can’t fuck it up. Yes, we refer, of course, to the lowly (or exalted, depending on your point of view) pretzel dog.

Senior Platty Pants once referred to it as the ultimate drunk food.

It has been a stalwart of the Knot’s menu since it opened. Sure, the sublime bacon and liver sandwich has come and gone (unceremoniously ripped from the menu when Baco left) and come (to cheers all around) and gone again (with the new Mexican menu by recent arrival Sue Torres). But through it all the pretzel dog has never wavered.

As NBC New York rightly points out, it remains the lone holdover from the old menu to stave off the “disappointment-fueled riots that would likely ensue.”

A waitress at the dive paid tribute to the dog, telling a customer, “I’d quit if they took off,” but the she added wryly, “I don’t want to deal with that.”

The one thing is off the menu though is the vaunted dog and Busch draft special. For just a 5-spot any Joe could walk in off the street, get himself  a so-salty-it-hurts dog with mustard and a cool Busch  draft to quench his thirst. “The Special” is no longer listed on the menu, however, if you ask for it, they still give it to you.

Rudy’s has always been there for you. Remember when you were sick and Rudy’s stayed up all night next to your bed to make sure you were okay. No, wait, that was your mom. But remember when you really, really needed an entire pitcher of beer and a plate of free hot dogs with little crunchy things inside them. Rudy’s was there.

And now Rudy’s needs your help. It seems some bureaucrat at the DOB (which has likely been hassling Rudy’s since 1933) has it in for the pig. An order closed Rudy’s backyard, and now, the place may close due to lost business. Thank god somebody is doing something to help. Sign the damn petition. Save the pig; save the world.

Peta has been replaced as the most pusillanimous, ineffectual stunt activist group (especially after that elephant video): May we introduce you to a group calling itself the Cancer Project. Its target? Hot dogs.

CP filed a lawsuit in New Jersey against hot dog manufacturers Oscar Mayer, Sara Lee, Nathan’s Famous, Hebrew National and Sabrett. The only explanation must be that these people are emotionally stunted and this is a desperate plea fro attention. They obviously hate their fathers.

As evidence the CP cite the ingloriously fuck-you-studied study from the American Institute for Cancer Research that concluded regular consumption of processed meat can increase the risk of certain forms of cancer. They are asking for warning labels to s to be place don hot dogs like those that are affixed to boxes of cigarettes. They should all be force fed until they explode, along with the Påté Police.

Depending on whom you ask July is either National Hot Dog Month (per the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council) or this Thursday, July 23 is National Hot Dog Day (per The Village Pourhouse in New York City’s East Village). Now we are not about to cast dispersions on either truly great and respected organization, but we are going to tell you that the Pourhouse is hosting a Pig in a Blanket eating contest on that day. The entrance fee is $10 dollars and the challenge is to eat as many mini-hot dogs swaddled in delicious and flaky puff pastry as possible in 10 minutes.

Books for children should be educational. And what better to teach children about than the joys of eating hotdogs? In “The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog” by Mo Willems an irrascible pigeon … well the title pretty much says it all. The discriminating little pigeon wisely points out “Well, they are a taste sensation.” Couldn’t have put it better ourselves.

The best part of this book is the smile it brings to your face when you see some nasty little disease-carrying winged rodent pecking at a dried-up tube steak in the gutter on 14th Street as we did today. Trying to gather children around to watch proved troubling for the parents though.

Apparently the hot dog business is recession-proof. This according to a story in today’s Wall Street Journal that tells of folks across the porky plains either hanging ‘em up to become hot dog vendors or using it as a back-up plan after getting laid off, Madoffed, or otherwise financially screwed by the economy. So the half-pork-half-beef-lining of this market shitstorm? Vending cart sales are up. Way up. One vending-cart sales guy in Florida reported moving 150 percent more carts this year over last year.

This has even spurred the founding of the first, as far as the Butcher knows, institution of higher hot dog education:

Hot Dog University will cover everything from the right way to squirt mustard (in a swirling motion with a quick flick of the wrist) to how to heat up buns (steam them over the dogs for two minutes before serving).

Angry Orthodox Jews in Brooklyn were demanded an eye for a non-kosher frank this weekend. The New York Post has some truly amazing video footage of the enraged patrons hurling vulgarities and fists at the counterman, who then retaliates with an electric knife. He didn’t get very far, because it was plugged into the wall, but he does fend off the irate skull-capped attackers with a few game swipes. Next time he’ll get a cordless. The mob got ugly when they discovered that the hot dogs they were scarfing down on challah at Cheskel’s Shawarma King in Borough Park were not kosher, like the shop ordinarily serves. An employee had run across the street to pick up packs of the non-kosher chicken dogs earlier, and didn’t go to the further store with kosher franks. According to the Post report: “They were yelling at the guy behind the counter,” one witness told The Post. “They started spitting and throwing things at him. They were shaking the counter and trying to jump over to search the fridge.” Answering to a higher power apparently only applies to tube steaks.

Is the king in trouble? Apparently the Papaya King located on 14th Street is on the block. The Harlem location has already closed. The dogs represent the perfect union of a Greek man — Gus Poulo, who brought the tropical juices that make Papaya what it is to NYC — and a German woman — Gus’s wife who taught him to love frankfurters. Gus opened his 86th Street storefront, which is not for sale yet, in 1932. The store was the first of its kind, but was followed closely by Gray’s. The 14th Street location is up for sale, brokered by Branded Concept Development, and comes complete with kitchen and all, so pay $250 grand to Papaya King (which will get you a newly negotiated 10-year lease with the landlord), move in and start grilling.

And this sad news comes on the heels of the big downer that the inventor of red onion sauce recently died. Alan S. Geisler, who created the sauce for Gus Poulo, long ago relocated to Florida, where they probably don’t know a damn thing about red onion sauce, and died there among the mosquitoes and swamp rats. Keep in mind Geisler wasn’t any mere tinkerer messing around with an onion and som vinegar and a tomato. No, dude was a trained food technologist with a degree from MIT who set out to create the perfect condiment. He and Gus are likely both rolling in their red-onion-sauce slathered hot dog shaped coffins.

Oh the Adirondacks. The fresh air, the camping, the ponies in Saratoga, the minimall-themepark-attractions, the giant Santa-cum-Paul Bunyan sculture flaking paint like crazy, and, of course, the meat. You have no idea how beautiful it is. We snapped this little advertisement for meat sauce fixin’s for you hot dog (nothing like meat condiments for your all-beef gas-station dog) at a Stewart’s in Glen’s Falls, N.Y. It was actually affixed to the handle of the pump, so you can’t miss it. Nice ad placement. In case you were wondering, there are ten Stewarts in the Glen’s Falls vicinity (including South Glen’s Falls and Queensbury).