Oct 30 2013

Selfish

My wife is so selfish.

She doesn’t take her phone with her when she gets out at 3am to go to the gym. Therefore I can’t text her to bring me donuts. I’m starving. My stomach is about to burst out of my middle like in that sci-fi movie with the aliens in it, the one where the alien bursts out of that guy’s middle (I don’t remember the name of the movie).

Anyway, I’m starving and need donuts.

“Maybe you could eat something else,” you might foolishly say. My old boss Tom Runge didn’t call me “Something Else Dan,” he called me “Donut Dan,” and with good reason: I used to eat three glazed donuts every morning washed down with a whole quart of whole milk. Get it? A. Whole. Quart. Not flipping 2% milk.

Now I’m lactose intolerant. I can’t even drink that hazy water they market as Skim Milk. I have to use Double Ultra Skim on my cereal–I can’t even drink the stuff or I’ll be in a fetal position clutching the aforementioned stomach that now requires donuts.

My dad couldn’t drink milk either. He beat stomach cancer like a boss, but one of the side effects was an inability to drink milk or eat real ice cream. The other side effect was having a tiny stomach–he could only eat like three bites and then he was all, “Whoa, I’m stuffed.”

Back to donuts.

“You could just get in the car and go get some,” a foolish person might say. No, I can’t–my selfish wife took my car. You know, the one I drive to work. Just because it has a heater and she is chronically cold (maybe if she ate more donuts and stopped going to the gym, both of these problems could be solved).

“You could take the Jeep,” another foolish person might say. Where do all these foolish people come from? If you are one of these people, please don’t tell me–I don’t want to know this about you. But no, I can’t take the Jeep–or to phrase it properly, Heather’s Jeep. I need both of my arms attached. Duh. One time I took Heather’s Jeep .25 mile away to McDonald’s while she was at a wedding shower. She was all,

“WHERE IS MY JEEP’S FOURTH WHEEL?”

And I was all,

“Honey, put down the knife. It’s a Jeep–they’re made to drive on only three wheels–they’re tough like that.”

The mud didn’t help either. I tried the ‘It’s A Jeep,’ excuse again, but she wasn’t buying it. And I had the dangdest time getting the mud out of the Jeep–not to mention the stuff on the outside of the Jeep.

Then the third foolish person shows up. Great, now we have enough for a caucus.

“Maybe you could drive the old Chrysler.”

No. That is the stupidest idea ever. I’m not going to drive a car that messy.

The Chrysler is littered with donut wrappers.

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Aug 25 2011

Ace Days: Military

I used to work for the late Tom Runge of Ace R/C.

Since Ace was a small company, you often got pulled off of your regular job to help do any number of things like driving people to the airport or unloading heavy boxes of catalogs. One day I was helping Tom and several older guys unload a semi. As we were doing it, I looked around and came to a realization.

“Am I the only one here who was never in the military?” I asked.

“I wasn’t in the military,” Tom said with a smile. “I was in the Air Force.”

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Apr 6 2009

Donuts

My friend Kay has written an article regarding donuts; I take exception to her spelling ‘doughnuts,’ but she is the one with the journalism degree and I am the one who dropped out of art school.

Her site is kayhoflander.com, but here is a direct link to the article.

Personally, I love donuts. It’s not a question who I would kill to get a donut; a more accurate measure is who I wouldn’t kill to get a donut.

Back when I used to work at Ace, I would have three fresh glazed donuts and a quart of whole milk for breakfast every morning. It was because of this that my boss Tom Runge called me Donut Dan, an appellation I took as a compliment.

I don’t love all donuts, of course. As anyone in the KC area knows, you are in one of two camps: Lamar’s or Krispy Kreme. As I have already stated, I love donuts, therefore I am a Lamar’s man. Krispy Kreme doesn’t make donuts, they make liquid-sugar-encased-grease-rings.

I don’t mean to make the disingenuous statement that I in any way dislike grease or sugar; I love ’em.

But come on, man; show a little restraint.

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