--- On Mon, 9/7/09, [email protected] <[email protected]> wrote:
> Hmmm, hard to say. There are lots of bad burger joints, but putting it in
> KrispyKreme label has a whole different tagging. That would probably mean
> really big, over-advertised large chain serving a product that really isn't
> all that good.
No, KrispyKreme label as in: the *ultimate* (frickin' English geeks)
combination of ingredients to deliver the greatest negative impact to the
biological system. There is nothing healthy in a KK food item - all
fruit-derivatives are irradiated and mixed with arsenic prior to use.
I have to admit that I have been indulging in the KK products in recent years,
which is more a betrayal of self than would normally be the case. I have to
relate a story to impart just how bad it is for me to ever eat one of those
accursed whitebread sugar and grease bombs:
In August 1987 I was working in Greenville, SC for a mafia money-laundering
operation that involved shipping a mountain of pumice from Turkey to the US in
rusted containers on the decks of tramp steamers (just so they'd be able to
soak up some brine on the trip). The containers were double the allowed weight
(70,000lbs cargo), so a black camaro would lead each truck up from Charleston
to our steel warehouse, radioing back if a weigh-station was open so the truck
could get off the interstate and go around. I and the redneck who had broken a
beer bottle over my head the previous weekend (Feral Smith - I didn't even know
that was a real name before this) were 2/3 finished hand-bombing the 150lb bags
of rock out of the third and last truck of the day when this air-conditioned
mirage in a Krispy Kreme uniform materialized at the door of the 120-degree
hell-hole, brandishing a box of cool white pastry. The mirage smiled like an
Irish imp and said: "Would
you boys like some Krispy Kreme doughnuts? They're fresh fresh fresh!"
We both stared at him for a moment that seared itself into my mind and I
involuntarily reached down to the ten-inch hunting knife I had worn on my hip
since the aforementioned beer-bottle incident (seemed only fair, Feral carried
a .357). While my own words in response have faded in time - or perhaps
spontaneously combusted due to heat and/or bile - they included the concepts of
offer refusal as well as alternate options to be pursued, not to exclude
disembowlment and bestial procreation.
Not missing a beat, our erstwhile doughnut deliveryman cocked his head at a
jaunty angle, proffered said sweets just a little bit further forward, produced
self-generated twinkles in both eye and eye-tooth and said: "Are you
*sure*?!?!? They're Fresh, Fresh, FRESH!!!" I believe I entered a fugue state
and lost the next month, because next thing I knew I was landscaping at
Greenville Tech and taking classes at night, but for nearly two decades I never
touched one of the accursed confectioners' creations.
It was only in early 2007 - I believe suffering from head injury or
entreprenuers' fatigue - that I reached into one of the now-ubiquitous
refrigerated KK boxes in a convenience store in Toronto and to my extreme
disappointment found that the contents could be combined with Red Bull to
achieve the fabled Nerd Nervana of unlimited overwork.
I've been in therapy ever since. I just try to take each day as it comes, now.
-chris
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