Kali ma! Kali ma! Kali ma, Boston Creme!

So yo, you ever notice at Dunkin' Donuts, they always have a certain donut every day that has been designated as the 'Manager's Special'?



Well, they do. Anyway, I was standing in line for my regular cream and sugar with a chocolate chip muffin, ($2.86) and it occurred to me that they must have some kind of ceremony or ritual each morning to determine which donut gets to be the Manager's Special that day. Is a secret ballot amongst the store employees involved? No, that couldn't be it - it's the MANAGER'S Special, not the Employee's Special. Hmm. Yes, that must be it. Much more along the lines of a strong-armed, creme-filled power play from The Man, I'd think.

So this is what I envision - early in the morning, way before any of us are in line for our regular cream and sugar with a chocolate chip muffin, ($2.86) the ceremony begins. A large red curtain is pulled over the front windows of the store, and all doors and windows are locked. The lights are dimmed, and vanilla-scented candles are lit and placed along the floor, forming a long, narrow path from the manager's office in the back (really just the storeroom with a desk in it) to the donut rack at the front. All employees are in uniform and lined up at the edges of the path, hands entwined, and chanting. For a full hour they chant - rhythmically, seductively, without end. No one really knows what they're chanting, but at the same time, nobody cares. After all, they're all already on the clock, but what's more, The Decision is near.

The ovens have just been turned off and the air smells incredible; thick with the aroma of baked, sugary dough and freshly ground and brewed coffee that is, for my money, a thousand times better than Starbucks. If you think otherwise, you're wrong. Anyway, when the hour has passed, the door to the office (storeroom) creaks open, and out walks the MC of this ceremony. The Manager has come.

The Manager strides out along the vanilla candle path, crown upon their head, golden scepter held high, a knowing look upon their face. The Decision has been made. The Manager continues along the path until they reach The Rack, where the scepter is lifted high, held momentarily, and then lowered to point out The Decision. Is it Vanilla Marble Frosted? Jelly? Christmas Sprinkle?

"I DUB THEE...."

Boston Creme. It's Boston Creme. The Decision has been made.

The employees ooh and aaah in satisfaction, and quickly bustle about to ready the store for the day's customers, who are obviously standing outside and really starting to get pissed by now. Open the damn door already! The doors are thrown wide, a pigeon is released, and the Wohomanak Valley Junior Marching Band launches into a rousing rendition of 'Sugar' by The Archies. Huzzah!

This is what happens when I have to stand outside coffee shops too long. The Manager's Special is probably whatever they had the most leftovers of from the day before. Open the damn door already!

I'm just wild about Harry.

I'm not gay, but if I had to fuck a man, it would be Harry Taylor.

Cruisin' for a bruisin'.

I, for one, am happier than a fat kid with cake that Tom Cruise used to get his ass kicked by his dad. Oh yeah. Nothing makes me smile wider and longer than the thought of a teenage Tommy Boy getting repeatedly punched in the face by a drunken, abusive asshole for no reason whatsoever. The only thing I feel bad about in this whole situation is that there are no pictures anywhere that document the abuse. None that I'll ever see, anyway. Are there family films somewhere? On Hi-8, perhaps?

I giggle with glee whenever I wake up bright and early on a spring morning with the thought of Tom Cruise getting locked in his room all weekend for bringing home a B on his report card. Whee! Do you think he even got fed during those weekends? I hope not. I hope he had to dig through his pockets for forgotten pieces of gum for sustenance, having to wash them down later with handfuls of blue water from the toilet.

Tom Cruise could easily buy his father and a hundred more just like him nowadays, but I really couldn't care less. You know why? Because long ago, in a neighborhood just like yours, Tom used to walk the streets with his head down, his collar up, and with eyes full of tears wishing he was dead for being born to a father like his. Sometimes when I imagine this scenario, I envision a big, mean dog running up behind him and biting him in the ass.















Tra-la-la!