- My brother’s donut
‘What state You from?’ asked the farmer whilst standing in the pouring rain.
‘I sir am from the great state of Disorder.’
‘Ya seems not right in the head. Ya been traveling ’round the bend the past half hour.’
croaked the man of leather.
‘Hard telling which way I want to go. I don’t like change and a circle seemed the best route as any!’
Not far from a fool I had been told. Perhaps not but I knew the direction my disorder wanted to go…And, so I went.
- in Franklin the streets are so tough…you need a guard for the crossing guard
The next tales of disordered horror from my O.C.D. crypt however, are not fictitious and were performed by real people.
Last Thursday I found myself the fortunate recipient of Walmart’s exclusive, invite only, public bathroom. In other words, I had to go. Something about the shopping carts with used Kleenex stuck to the wobbling wheel. The smell of diaper used not fresh. The Norman Rockwell on crack figures of down and out baby Momma’s. The whole ambiance of what makes Appalled Mart tick. Something about it makes me have no go to the bathroom and gather myself!
The Thursday in question had me seated next to a woman and her bordering on teenage years male son. Once the child’s toothy embrace from Mother’s tit plucked loose, the young lad and his maternal wafer appeared to be ready for a sit-in Walmart style. Now I’m all for unisex bathrooms. Holding the hands of tots with bottom snot. But nothing pisses me off more than a twelve-year with a full beard baring it all in the stall next to me. For Christ’s sake, let the kid figure it out on his own.
- Super Wal-Mart now provides indoor seating for the lame
Anyway, while attempting to not listen to the Mother and child reunion, I hear these exact words:
“Oh, my God Tony, what the fuck is that on your jacket. You‘re not playing with that ‘stuff‘ again, are you?”
“It’s just sand Mom. I fell in the sand and it was raining!” cries Tony.
“Tony, what is that?”
“I was eatin’ a Ice Cream Sandwich, Ma. It melted. It’s not what you think! I told you I don‘t do that anymore”
Enough said! I bolted upright. Ran from my tiled imprisonment and told my partner I would be in the car.
Tale Two from the crypt of my O.C.D. nightmare:
Everyday, like clockwork, I follow a routine. You see when afflicted with obsessive compulsive behaviors it’s not about the clean, it’s about the routine!
Tuesday whilst in the middle of my daily acts: I stopped by the local Gandhi Mart for a large coffee two yanks on the light cream, one pull on the whole milk, stir and then add the five and a half packages of Equal. Simplicity at it’s best! Usually (which means always) I accompany this beverage with a homemade donut from Brother’s donuts across the street. I could go across the street and purchase the item from the actually person who has produced it but I don’t. I recommended that the owner of Gandhi Mart II Franklin, NH, get them brought in to increase his sales.
In all honesty, I do not like the looks of Brother’s Donuts and have never been in there. But I like the donuts. O.C.D. dilemma averted! Purchase favorite donut but from a different vendor.
Not anymore, however! You see, while in the middle of my coffee ritual, another customer bellied up to the counter. She greeted me with a nod. Smiled at me with her one tooth. Coughed into the public air space and pulled a tissue from a box by the donuts. Ms. Franklin NH 1919 then did the unthinkable. She reached into the clear cylinder box. A box designed specifically for people to choose their donut without pawing through them. With complete disregard for my health typhoid Tessie pulls out a sugar donut. She then proceeds to touch it to the tip of her nose and sniffs at it like a dog at a pile of dung! What does the valedictorian from Charles Manson Charm School do? She puts the donut back in the case. Second time around the ‘manners are for loosers’ breakfast pool! The Honker decides to pry the remains of last night’s dinner loose from her fang. With a quick flick of the index finger and thumb the piece of gnaw is lost to the air. At this point, obviously not having found the precious pastry she had so hoped to find. She takes the used tissue and places it neatly back in the box. The box that houses tissues in which to pluck a treat from the donut den. She spits and spats. Wipes excess sugar from the tip of her crooked nose with the sleeve of her Formula Four Knock Off Racing Jacket, turns on a dime and leaves…
And, people think I’m fucked up! Think again!