The Gas Station Donut

Friday, on my way home from a hospital visit, I stopped by a gas station.  When I went inside to pay (cash), I noted that there was a donut in the display case.  A young lady behind the counter didn't flinch when I asked, "How much is that donut?"

She peered through the filthy, finger-spotted glass toward the treat.  "Oh," she said, "is that what it is?"

"Isn't that a donut?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," she answered.  "What were you planning on doing with it?"

"Well," I said, "I was considering it for lunch."

"Really?!!"  She seemed impressed, as if she were talking to a fellow in the circus who would soon be biting the head off a live bat or eating the gizzard out of a chicken.  "You would really eat that?"

"How long has it been in there?" I asked.

"As long as I've worked here," said.  "And isn't that mold?"

"Green food coloring," I said.  "Now you've got me intrigued.  I want it more than ever.  A donut like that . . . I can't pass it up.   It's a challenge.  How much is it?"

She studied the concoction in the case and eventually said, "I can't charge you for that in good conscience.  It might kill you."

"Even better," I said.  "Lay it on me!"

She pulled on the donut and it came out in strands, various-sized tidbits that she packed together like Play-Dough and delicately placed on a napkin.  "That is so gross," she said.  "You sure you want to eat it?"

I thought about it.  Really, I did.  "I'm not sure," I said, obtaining my first glimpse of the donut in full sunlight.  "Maybe I'd better pass."

"And I wanted to see you eat it!"  She called out to another young lady who was stocking the shelves.  "Guy here was gonna eat this!"

A crowd had gathered.  My reputation was on the line.  People were staring at me as if they had paid good money--perhaps a month's wages--to see a guy bite into a fourteen-month-old doughnut and live to tell about it. 

And no doubt . . . you're wondering, too . . .

(TO BE CONTINUED . . . )