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 . . . )
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 . . . )
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