Understanding Homer

Are you mad! You did what!? You willingly put that...that THING... into your mouth and swallowed! What are you? Some kind of self-destructive, sicko-pervert, twisted, glazed, custard-filled, fried fruit fritter freak? Step away from the bar. That's right, the maple bar.

Let's step back...oops, pardon me, Officer, sir...and take a closer look at the crime scene. A glass case, covered with fingerprints. A box that dispenses wax paper squares. A smiling counter clerk with one hand on a yet to be unfolded box and the other hand on a yet to be unfolded white paper bag. So what's it gonna be? One or two (or three) in a pristine white bag? Or a dozen...make that a baker's dozen...in the box. If you buy the bag, you are admitting your guilt when you walk out the door. "Yeah, I bought three but I ate one before I got back to the car, so technically I ate two. And no one saw me, so one."

If you buy the box...sure it's a better deal, do the math...but the value is in the volume. They are not for you, they're for the gals in the office, the work crew, your kids, their teachers...the Others. And here's the beauty part, the box only holds twelve, so that baker's so called dozenth donut, went into an innocent, little white bag. You can eat it before you get back to the car and if no one saw you, who's to call it a crime? Back at the office of course, you can come clean. That is to say, you can wipe the sugar off your chin, and grab "just one".

But wait! What kind of pig eats an entire donut? No one, except that pale, skinny guy in the "I [lightning bolt] Jolt" T-shirt. He eats two, in four bites, and doesn't bother to wipe the sugar off his chin because he's saving that for his lunch. So you cut them into halves or maybe even quarters. And you put a little stack of crispy white napkins next to the box. Sure, they're little now, but if you unfold them, and stack two together, they're the Chinet of stealth snackers world over. Your grandma could fit a whole basket of dinner rolls into a paper napkin strategically folded, and still have room for the foil wrapped butter pats.

Where you put the box requires some strategic planning. Should you put it in the break room, on your desk, under your desk? Heavens (and by that we mean Hell) no. You walk around the office offering them to people. Starting, of course, with the thin ones, the vegans, the gays. They won't take even so much as a quarter. They just ate...a hyoooge Breakfast Salad, consisting of a tablespoon of plain acidophilus yogurt, an organic peach slice, 5 wild Maine blueberries, and nine flaxseed and wheat germ granola buds. "If I ate that I think I'd have to hurl"...which is sad, because it is also true. (Do they really think we don't know?)

So you move on to the next tier: Guys who work out and single women. He's crunching the numbers, "How many crunches would I have to do to work off two quarters of the plain cake?" She's trying to remember the last time she had sex, and thinking, "Oh no! I can't even remember the last time I had sex! What if the last time I had sex was the last time I will EVER have sex, and I missed it! I'll just take a little piece of each."

The last group, which includes you, has no qualms about eating deep-fried white flour and sugar-coated heart attack bombs. These seasoned donut-eaters know to layer three napkins, and they take two more for their face and hands, because through experience they have learned how to use coffee to make moistened towelettes. They are silently annoyed that you cut them up, but they know why you did. Still, they take advantage of the system and take one quarter of each kind, knowing full well that by 4 o'clock the remaining stray rejects will become victims of drive-by chocolate coconut poppers, so dried out that no one will even bother to use the cut side to gather up the loose droppings of sugar, frosting and sprinkles littering the bottom of the box.

It's a sad end to a glorious journey from vat of boiling oil to permanent exile in the lily white ass of a post-menopausal, divorcee with no recollection of having had sex...ever. The good news is, while there are still donuts in the world, who's complaining? Not me, Officer.

On the other hand, if you're young, lean, single, fit and healthy, go to "Heaven"! Kidding. Just say NO. It's white flour, mixed with white sugar, and fried in hot fat. How much more evidence do you need to convict this brutal criminal element waddling free in our society. Did it occur to you that cops hang out in donut shops because donuts are a crime in progress? Yeah, I thought as much. And if you remain unconvinced, and still want to eat one harmless little donut, try this mental aversion technique: Imagine whirring the donut in a blender, and drinking it. Yes, you may go and hurl now.