If it’s true that you are what you eat, then you can call me Creamy McHardDonut.
“Heeeeey,” yells some witless frat boy from the peanut gallery. “That’s like the perfect porn star name.”
Shut up, asshat.
Yes, I walked over to Building 6 for a Krispy Kreme donut. I ain’t too proud! It wasn’t one of those plain ones that tastes like two bites of burnt sugar and sits in your stomach like a rock for three hours. This was one of the chocolate-covered cream-filled ones that tastes okay… but still sits in your stomach like a rock for three hours.
Cream isn’t supposed to be crispy anyway, and neither word is spelled with a K. I should have bought Krispy Kreme stock when I lived in Louisiana and they started to pop up all over the Deep South and spread like an addictive, artery-clogging disease all over the Lower 48.
Back then, I cared more about my fellow man and didn’t think it was right to profit from the masses’ unhealthy decision to eat donuts every morning. Now, I see that my fellow man is an idiot. You can’t help folks that can’t help themselves I guess.
Anyway, Krispy Kreme was just a fad and their shit has levelled off by now.