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Monsieur Don Don!

Posted September 16, 2011 @ 3:18pm | by Anne

This is a short story about a donut.

We have a friend who was lucky enough to go to college in some Eastern town that had a late night, donut delivery truck. Our friend would be out drinking like college kids do, and the donut delivery truck would cruise around town, selling donuts to drunk college kids.

Since the donut delivery truck probably played some creepy muzak looped over and over, ala ice cream guy, and could be heard from a half mile away, our friend would take to running out in the street and yelling after the truck. She called him Monsieur Don-Don, aka, Mr. Donut, in the best Pepe Le Pew French accent she could muster. (For reference, the Don is pronounced with a hard O, like 'dough'....just in case you were wondering)

Monsieur Don-Don was, for obvious reasons, hugely popular in a college town.


Said friend lives in Fruita now, and has passed on the story of Monsieur Don-Don. Whatever the reason, we all find it highly enjoyable to go about yelling "Monsieur Don-Don!!!" anytime donuts are within reach.

Flash forward to spring of 2010. We Tomatoes are hard at work constructing our new building. We didn't eat a lot of junk food during construction. Mostly we subsided on fish tacos and beer, which is a perfectly valid source of nutrition, but, one day, someone decided to bring donuts.

This was almost at the end of our project, and our Hot Friend Lisa had been helping us for the past month finish our construction. The building department had recently come by and told us that we needed to seal off much of the wood trim on and around ceiling, roof, etc etc. So Lisa was on a hard-core shellacking kick like no one's business. Nothing was safe from her can of clear coat. She was a shellacking Machine.

So we're working, working, working, thinking about beer and fish tacos.

and then, just like that, magic happens.

and there were donuts.

and they were glorious. like donuts should be.

And like setting up a Free Quinoa booth at an Occupy camp, we totally decimated that box of frosty goodness. They were gone.

All except for one.

Which no one in our High Fructose stupor could take for the team.

One solo donut, just sitting there like 'Ta da!'

Positively glowing in it's donut-ness.

Something had to be done with it.

And then we saw it.

Right there, in front of us. Like it was meant to be. A blank spot in an empty donut-less canvas. 

Since a donut lends itself naturally to this sort of thing, it was decided that it needed to hang from something. So Lisa pounded a nail into the wall, draped an unsuspecting donut over it, and perfecto! donut success.

The Immaculate Donut. His Donut Highness. Sir Donut. 

Like it needed it's name on the back of it's Honda Civic in Old English lettering. It was that glorious of a donut.

But a donut, being intrinsically donut-y, is a mess of carbohydrates and high fructose corn syrup. Not exactly the stuff of Man vs. Wild. (or Donut vs. Wild in this case) And left to it's own devices in a harsh world full of increment Colorado weather would have about the same success rate as trying to get Donald Trump's hair to do something else than a combover.  A donut's instincts for survival and self-preservation haven't made any recent history, so it needed help. 

It needed the marvel of industrial chemicals; it needed shellacking.

And that's how we ended up with a shellacked donut on our back wall.

It lasted for a long ass time.

Through sun,

Some rain,


It lasted a full year, and it looked perfectly preserved. 

Until one day, we went out to visit the donut (as we often did)


it was gone. 

No trace of it. No nothing.

We looked everywhere for it. We even looked for signs of it's demise. Donut remains that would give us some clue as to what happened in it's last minutes of life.

But we found none.

Sadly, our donut was M.I.A.

It's tough to look for a missing donut, once the ground directly beneath the donut has been searched, where do you go from there?

We theorize that some unsuspecting chunky kid walked by and got tempted, but we will never really be sure. 

Monsieur Don-Don disappeared, and our back wall has never been the same.

The end.

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