Dunkino Donutos and the non-existant KKK hood.

DISCLAIMER: I killed Batman. And Robin. And that chick Robin that was around for a little while. And I think I accidentally turned Nightwing into a quadriplegic. I’m that much of a badass. No monologuing because I didn’t give a shit if he knew why I wanted to blow up Gotham or not. As I said: Bad. Ass. Fuck you, DC comics.


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Y’know, since I have switched over to Blogspot from Tumblr, I have noted one thing. I can’t post from work anywhere near as easily. Apparently, Blogspot is considered a “Social Networking” site, and Tumblr just lies low under the radar. Either case, the stuff I do for you guys had better outweigh the minor annoyances and such. Otherwise, I’m just gonna have to kill the people who don’t like the niceties, and then go back to my Tumblr log.

Let’s go back a few weeks. Before an old man called me a spic. Way after an old lady totally went Fried Green Tomatoes on some innocent mommy’s brown minivan.

In the morning, I wake up in a stupor. Doesn’t matter how early I get up, I manage to leave at the last possible second every day of the week. Every morning is the same habit. Wake up. Go to bathroom. Take poo. Brush teeth. Fall asleep in shower. Phone alarm goes off to wake me up. Get dressed. Go to work. Completely forget breakfast.

Except this one day.

For some reason, after the “Brush teeth” spot in my summary, I didn’t fall asleep in the shower. The whole day took a wild turn, because suddenly I was ready to go about a half hour before I usually am… and a crazy idea popped into my head. “Let’s go to Dunkin’ Donuts, Jae! Get some snacky smores!”

Now, despite the actual advertisement of Snacky Smores (in the movie South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut) stating that it is the wonderful taste of smores in a delightful cookie crunch (which fucking sounds amazing… where is this product in real life!?), I am actually defining Snacky Smores as “foodstuffs” and that is what you are to understand it as until Snacky Smores actually comes out in real life.

My brain came up with the idea, and my tummy was like “GRRRRROWL! I agrrrrrree brrrrrrain.” So off I went. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Quick right. Dunkino Donutos. I jump out of the car and walk inside. The place was packed. I had made a bad decision. It was bound to get worse, but I was already here and I wanted me a bagel twist.

M. Night Shyalaman would approve. “What a twist!”

I stood in line for food. I ordered a mocha coolatta, a sausage egg and cheese on a croissant, and a cheddar bagel twist. I could almost taste the awesomeness of my first breakfast in months… So I stood at the pickup counter in anticipation.

But let’s see if you can guess who was behind me in line ordering two donuts and a larger than life coffee in one of those trough-sized buckets?

(cue elevator-esque game showy music…)

(cue me looking at my watch)

(cue me walking away and playing WWE Smackdown vs. Raw 2010)

(cue me realizing I never finished my story and running back two days later)

If you said “An old person” you would have been right. If you would have said “old racist motherfucker” you would have been more right. Now, why is it that we have to just accept racist old people? Like they’ve been racist for so long we just have to sit there and say we can’t change them or get upset because they’re old?

This one deserved an ass kicking.

My order showed up at the window, and I grabbed the brown paper baggie of the gods and was on my way… but not seconds after I turned, I felt a very, VERY, weak punch to my left shoulder. The little old man was turning purple.

“THIS MEXICAN STOLE MY DONUTS!!!”

No offense, but at my height and skin tone, I look like at least 1/3 of the world. Indian. Arab. Any number of Hispanic races. But if anyone knows, I’m actually AMERICAN. I was born in the good ol’ USA. I can’t even speak Spanish. I’m probably more American than some of these old fuckers pretend to be.

But you see, you have to really understand the full surroundings of the situation to really digest what just happened. The woman behind the counter is Mexican. The manager that he called over to yell at is Mexican. The guy at drive through? Mexican. The lady in line behind the old man? Mexican. The guy that was in front of me in line, just entering his green pickup filled with gardening equipment? Mexican. Me? American. Go fucking fig!

He mushfisted me in the shoulder and called me Mexican in a room full of Mexicans.

Suddenly there was Spanish mumblings going on through the store as the old man continued his tirade. “Mexicans are stealing everything! Jobs. Just running into our land. And now they’re stealing my donuts!”

The manager asked me to open my bag, just to make sure I wasn’t accidentally taking his donuts. I complied. What else would I do? I showed my bagel twist, and my sammich, and then watched as the lady who had actually gone to get his donuts returned with his bag. He took his bag and coffee and muttered to himself and walked off.

No apology. Nothing.

I’ve often wondered what could go through someone’s head to just outright explode on people in public. Especially when you’re guaranteed to be on the losing side? Even worse, to hit someone without warning? Did that tiny old man really think he could take me on?

So this is what went off in my head. First, send a shot to his little old man face, and then throw him over the counter. As he tried to get up, Superfly splash him with the full brunt of my 280 lb. frame. Lay in with a right backfist followed by a nice forearm to the bridge of the nose. Drag him to the back where the donut fryer is, and drop his arm into the bubbling oil. As he yanks it out screaming in pain, slap him in the face with a baking tray while all the Mexicans look on in horror.

And then yell “I’m Puerto Rican, asshole!” as the police storm into the building and I turn myself over.

Instead, the little old man left… and I have a story to tell.

I have too many stories to tell.