There are questions we are told not to ask because we we will not like the answer.
"Do these jeans make me look fat?" is one of the more cliche examples. "What do you think of my job performance so far?" is another better left alone. And, of course, there is the classic:
"Where does my hot dog come from?"
Well, we're asking. Why? Because we're Jews and we don't know any better. Jews grow up with faith in our hot dogs. All-beef tubes of wonderment from such solid sources as Hebrew National and Nathan's. Tasty, Jewish dogs held to the standards of kashrut that even we ourselves cannot live up to. Why should we be concerned?
But then we move out into the great wide goyishe world and discover the porky, mystery wieners everyone else associates with. Bizarre cylinders composed of pigeon lips, rat feathers and unicorn anuses collected from sewers across the galaxy then packaged and sold. Here's all you need to know: Hebrew National "answer to a higher authority." Ballpark Franks "plump when you cook them."
So though Oscar Mayer is a vaguely Jewish sounding name (kinda. Sorta. To someone who doesn't really know what they're talking about, we suppose), we can pretty much guarantee that no Jew would ever associate themselves with a sausage of such questionable pedigree. Let alone drive around the country in a giant truck made to look like one.
Actually, that reminds us of something else you're never supposed to ask about: religion. Guess we'll just never learn.