Donuts Justify Human Existence (An Ode to Sweets)

The way your mouth just waits pending the electroshock of flavor to shiver through the buds of your tongue. The instant gratification satiating your sweet tooth lusts, relieving your mind temporarily of all thoughts and doubts. Enjoying its deliciousness while the next marble glazed donut lies in queue. The funky colors of sprinkles: a pink pinker than a shy Swedish virgin; a purple more deep and rare than the Loch Ness.

The most mouth-watering donut holes are more savory, satisfying and tempting than most any female hole. They make eating jelly and cream ever more convenient and less sticky. They gauge mental stability, as anyone who likes donuts is likely sane. Those who don't belong in padded cells or caged.

The world's worst donut is cooler than engaging in war, and probably desirable enough to engage war for. I'd forge a Trojan horse to steal the recipe for the Holy Grail of Pastries; the sweetest, most angelic devil food donut. The kind God's chef would wear as a halo.

When I dream, I swim on a stream of the Virgin Mother's breast milk, canoeing on a wafer towards the realm of ultimate paradise, passing trees of Hershey branches with marshmallow leaves. The final destination being my sugar-coated, chocolate Atlantis, found and risen to the surface. An enchanted candy dream land. A floating cake surrounded by chocolate milk, with ravines where syrup does pass through and licorice frogs jump across them with the help of fresh floating pancakes.

And in this dream race doesn't matter. All Blacks are chocolate, all Whites are whipped cream, ever compatible together. All Chinese are bananas and all Natives are cherries on top. And in my kingdom made of graham crackers, with pillars made of eclairs, my queen awaits on a throne weaved of Red Vines, during a night raining gummy bears.

Her warm embrace, my queen, she's made largely of long johns and so am I. When we make love on our bed of jello. During the passion we share the sweat of cherry cola and Skittles. When ready, I ooze my strawberry filling into her raspberry, lightly sprinkled passage, and instantly, out comes our offspring made entirely of french crullers. After eating the child's head we lay on our memory foam-mimicking brownie pillows, while achieving rest aided by an IV of highly-concentrated slushy.

Although bittersweet, in our slumber, we hungrily dream of more elaborately delectable realities.

3/19/2008 1:47:36 AM

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