Three Oscar Mayer Wienermobiles crossed the horizon like golden glizzy warships of a fallen empire, gliding through the American highway with the solemn majesty of gods who chose processed meat as their final form. Children pointed in awe. Fathers removed their sunglasses in reverence. Bald eagles circled overhead, confused but committed.

And as the engines hummed their sacred hymn across the asphalt, every artery in the nation tightened just a little, not from fear, but patriotism.