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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