I’m not the wiener peeler, I’m the wiener peeler’s son, And I’m only peeling wieners, ‘Til the wiener peeler comes. I apologize to pheasant pluckers’ sons everywhere for stealing their tongue-twister. But who can resist when my Internet fairy, Irene, drops this job ad on my desk? “Get out your resume,” she purrs. I pause in processing Moonlight Lady submissions, and take a boo. “Full-time Wiener Peeler,” says the ad. Wazzat? I ask. A red-hot stripper? “No. As in weenie. It’s got you written all over it, ” says Irene, and she flutters off. Well, I’m getting sick of grinding...