Your Solipsistic Thought For The Day: Boston Cream Doughnuts
While I consider myself intellectually superior to Facebook’s daily digital expectoration, I’m drawn to the vanity and solace of sending my own whimsical declarations across the Ether. Please look the other way, or at least turn your head and cough, as I celebrate our shared mortality with yet another inane observation.
I swear by the gods I’d run over baby bunnies with a steamroller to score a fresh Boston Cream. My local Vons serves ’em up warm in the A.M., choked with yellow, gooey custard and topped with sweet, messy chocolate frosting. Each doughnut gushes with hundreds of empty calories, infected by nearly an ounce of processed sugar, 7 grams of trans fats, and 340 mg of sodium, imprisoned in gluten stripped from whole grain flour.
The first orgiastic bites of this postindustrial abomination force yolk-colored mousse through the chocolate skin like an erupting cyst whose brown and yellow swirl conjure images of fallout from a seagull’s bombing run.
With each swallow, caustic ingredients conspire to shorten my unremarkable life span. Arteries harden, while blood sugar and pressure climb the roller coaster, to spike tension and tax the kidneys, transforming my colon into a high pressure escape valve. Biochemical blast off gives way to its opposite reaction, hurtling me on a physiological nose dive powered by malnutrition where I crash from the sugar blues.
This is ridiculous. I’m killing myself and I know it. I believe I’m going to quit…after tomorrow morning.