The Doughnut Files

Notes from the weekend: Monk and I did indeed go record some more podcasts Friday night. We were at a professional sound studio – because that’s just how we roll, you know. Anything worth doing is worth overdoing. Afterwards we went into the booth, and the tech guy flipped a switch and it was like: oh, there’s my voice, talking. But, wait, I’m not talking. Oh, no - it’s the recording. I was really almost startled. It’s kind of wild to hear your own voice played back to you, crystal clear and super-high quality. One gets used to hearing it distorted by voicemails, speakerphones, etc. But I thought yes, that’s what my voice really sounds like. I’m guessing ya’ll won’t hear it like that. It’ll be compressed and sent through this crazy series of tubes that is tha intraweb. I do wish I sounded a little more like Kathleen Turner. But hey, I’m not too Jennifer Tilly.

Then we went to The Frontier Room and ate a lot of protein. Yum. We virtuously declined dessert. But then, as we drove back down 1^st Ave, we passed the yawning maw of Atkins hell: Krispy Kreme.

Now, I have a history with Krispy Kreme doughnuts. A certain boy loves to tease me by bringing Krispy Kremes to my parties. I have threatened him about this, but apparently it’s going to take some serious personal violence to persuade him to refrain. Not that Krispy Kreme doughnuts don’t go great with Veuve Clicquot champagne, because I happen to know that they do. But I’d like to try and make healthier choices. You know, like maybe heroin?

So I’ve gotten better at pretending they aren’t there. At our last party, I was able to stay away from that green and white box long enough for all the other guests to scarf them up. It only took about twenty minutes. Seems I’m not the only one with a wee Krispy Kreme addiction.

But Friday night, they had that Hot Doughnuts Now sign lit up, and what could I do? I was powerless. And I led Monk astray. Remember my remarks about how anything worth doing is worth overdoing? Yeah. That’s how we wound up naked in bed, with a dozen little frosted rings of heaven. We both knew we’d have to pay dearly at the gym, but to hell with it. I have sworn never to publish The Doughnut Pictures, but I must say, I’ll never look at those crème-filled ones quite the same way again.

However, that night of sugar debauchery is over, and I'm back on the wagon. So if you turn up at my door with doughnuts, I will consider that your way of saying, “Use your stun gun on my balls, please, Ma’am.”