Hot Dog Vendor

He turns up selling hot dogs wherever and whenever the story happens to land — ancient Rome, the far future, the bottom of the ocean, it makes no difference. Mustached, aproned, endlessly cheerful, he hawks his cart with the same patter no matter the century, utterly untroubled by how he got there.

The joke is pure premise: a background gag that keeps recurring until its very persistence becomes the punchline. Maurice LaMarche gives him a chipper, unbothered vendor's cadence that never once acknowledges the absurdity of his own ubiquity, which is exactly what makes each reappearance funnier than the last.