15 Interesting Quotes About Donuts

 "I owe it all to little chocolate donuts."

 ~  John Belushi, actor

"Donuts. Is there anything they can't do?" 

 ~  Matt Groening, cartoonist

"I worship scones and danishes. If I never 

had another meal, I wouldn't care as long as 

I could eat pastries and jelly doughnuts."

  ~  Gene Simmons, rock star (KISS)

"When I was growing up in Monrovia, the capital of

Liberia, I sold doughnuts, popcorn, and Kool Aid every

day after school so that my family had some money

and I could pay my school fees. It was a tough life."

  ~  George Weah, Liberian politician

"I always have to have a six-pack or twelve-pack 

of Entenmann's doughnuts in my house, no other brand."

  ~  Victor Cruz, NFL football player

"Be sweet and honest always, but for

God's sake don't eat my doughnuts!"

~  Emma Bunton, pop star (Spice Girls)

"I served seven years as the chair of the Princeton

economics department where I had responsibility 

for major policy decisions, such as whether to serve

bagels or doughnuts at the department coffee hour."

  ~  Ben Bernanke, Federal Reserve chairman

"Now, have I ever been tempted to break into a 

Krispy Kreme doughnut store in the middle of the 

night? Oh, yeah. God help us if I had a mini-bar 

stocked with cheesecake and chicken-fried steak."

  ~  Mike Huckabee, politician

"An actor without a playwright 

is like a hole without a doughnut." 

  ~  George Jean Nathan, drama critic

"I take the no-doughnut pledge, and then I break it."

  ~  Lauren Graham, actress

"I'm an all-things-in-moderation kind of person. 

I do eat a warm donut occasionally. I especially 

enjoy a cider donut when I'm apple picking. 

I don't think there's anything wrong with that."  

~  Rachael Ray, celebrity cook

"I fell in love with Erica Kane the summer before my 

freshman year in high school. Like all red-blooded teen 

American boys, I'd come home from water polo practice 

and eat a box of Entenmann's Pop'Ems donut holes in front

of the TV while obsessively fawning over 'All My Children' 

and Erica, her clothes, and her narcissistic attitude."

  ~  Andy Cohen, television host

"Probably millions of Americans got up this 

morning with a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a 

donut. No wonder they are sick and fouled up."

  ~  Jack LaLanne, fitness guru

"Between an optimist and pessimist, the difference is droll. 

The optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist the hole!"

  ~  Oscar Wilde, writer

"I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for

the doughnut. I don't need a receipt for the doughnut. 

I give you money and you give me the doughnut, 

end of transaction. We don't need to bring ink 

and paper into this. I can't imagine a scenario that 

I would have to prove that I bought a doughnut." 

  ~  Mitch Hedberg, comedian

Things I Find Fascinating: 37 Impressive Crop Circles

Not much commentary here. Just an "art appreciation," of sorts, with the subject being crop circles. Maybe they're crafted by creative farmers or maybe they're made by aliens with cryptic messages to convey. Either way, they're fascinating to look at. I think so, at least. Enjoy!

Stories # 30, # 31, & # 32: "Whatever You're Doing," "It Isn't Working," & "You're Still Ugly"

Here we have a mixed bag of rather short stories. The first one's almost sickly-sweet, the second one's disturbingly twisted, and the third one simply oozes cynicism. That being said, enjoy!  –  JH

"WHATEVER YOU'RE DOING"

In case you were wondering, yes, I have noticed something different about you lately. It was gradual at first, but suddenly it's dramatic. You haven't missed a day of work (I would remember), so I guess you haven't had any kind of procedure done. It's obvious that you've been working hard. I always found you pleasant to look at, but you weren't necessarily what most people would call attractive, per se. But all that has changed. You've changed. Now that there's less of you physically, the rest of you shines through more clearly. You walk with your head high, displaying a confidence I never knew you possessed – and that swagger becomes you. You smile all the time, and your smile is beautiful. You are beautiful. Whatever you've been doing, and whatever you're doing now, keep it up. I'm noticing. And I'm thinking things. Like, how am I going to spend the rest of my life with anyone else but you?

"IT ISN'T WORKING"

I've been trying for twenty-five minutes to kill this jerk, but it isn't working. I thought it would be a simple enough task to perform. I'd enter his office quickly, locking the door behind me, and hook my arm around his despicable throat and break his neck before he even knew I was there. It didn't happen quite like that. He saw me coming and recognized me as trouble, warding me off with a cup of hot coffee in my face. I didn't stop advancing, though my skin was burning – with rage and with coffee. Plan B was already in place. The scissors were in my back pocket, and I pulled them out, separating the blades into a "V" shape and striking out at his jugular. They were dull blades, but I thought they'd be just sharp enough to pierce his sickening skin. They weren't, and so I had to think of a Plan C on the fly. I managed to grab his emptied coffee cup in my other hand and smashed it over his head. He seemed stunned for a second, but didn't leave his feet. Before he could gather his wits again, I slammed him into the wall of his office. Seventeen times. He collapsed in a heap – as much of a heap as a skinny, six-foot-five twerp can collapse into, that is. This was my chance to finish him off. I  wrapped my hands around his throat as tightly as I could manage and began strangling him. It should've worked, but the rascal inexplicably came to and started fighting me again. For a scrawny little wimp, this guy sure could fight. Plan D was – and is – destined to fail, but I've run out of options by now. I've been smashing the stapler down and stapling every square inch of his exposed skin for the past ten minutes; and while he seems extremely uncomfortable and has mostly stopped fighting back, this guy is disturbingly alive and seems content to stay that way. I knew I should've brought my chainsaw to begin with.

"YOU'RE STILL UGLY"

"Hey, Gordon."

"What's up, Saralee?"

"Oh...just my face."

"What, did you get another facelift or something?"

"Oh, Gordy, you noticed!"

"Not really. You just pointed it out."

"Well, you would've known anyway, even if I hadn't said anything, right?"

"Probably not."

"Don't you see any difference at all, Gordy?"

"Your eyes look swollen."

"Oh, well, that's just the aftereffects of the procedure."

"It looks like it hurts."

"It did at first, but not so much anymore. But it was worth it, don't you think?"

"Whatever."

"Gordon Mobley, you're awfully impertinent today."

"Yeah, well, I'm constipated. What's your excuse?"

"Well, I never!"

"Wouldn't surprise me one bit, Saralee."

"Gordy!"

"What?"

"Why are you being so mean to me? I just asked for your honest opinion."

"You don't want that."

"Well, of course, I do. You're my friend, aren't you?"

"If you say so."

"Well, what do you really think about my face?"

"That's a loaded question, Saralee."

"Fire away, Gordon. I can take it."

"I seriously doubt that, but here goes nothing."

"Go ahead."

"Well, remember when you asked me what I thought of your implants?"

"Yes, you said I looked very buoyant."

"Right. And remember when you asked me what I thought of your nose job?"

"Yes, Gordon. You said it didn't pass the sniff test."

"Right. And remember when you asked me what I thought when you got your lips done?"

"I remember, Gordy. You said it wasn't wise to go around kissing bees."

"Right. So now you want me to tell you what I think about your latest facelift."

"Right."

"Well, Saralee, I think you're wasting tons of money fighting a losing battle. Because no matter how many times your face gets lifted, at the end of the day you're still ugly, and no amount of surgery can fix that."

"Is that what you really think, Gordy?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Remind me again why I value your opinion."

"Beats me."

"Goodbye, Gordy."

"Nice talking to you, Saralee."

Story # 29: "Desperate Houseflies"

This is the latest in my new mini-series of unrelated short stories that take their titles (or the inspiration for their titles, in this case) from the names of popular TV shows. This one is very dialogue-heavy, which always makes for some degree of awkwardness in both writing and reading it. But I tried to use the two "characters"' names frequently enough to make the dialogue easy to understand, without having to write "he said" and "I said" in a multiplicity of ways approximately thirty-eight times in one short story. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"DESPERATE HOUSEFLIES"

"We gotta get outta this place!" Felipe complained, for what was probably the thirtieth time in the past thirty minutes.

"No, duh!" I said, "But how do you suggest we do that?"

"If only they'd open up a window or something," he suggested, for what was probably at least the eighteenth time.

"That would require them to actually do something besides sitting around and texting their lame-brained boyfriends, now wouldn't it, Felipe?"

"Well, yeah, but –"

"When's the last time you saw either of those two dimwits doing anything as strenuous as opening a window? Or even a door, for that matter."

"Well –"

"That's right. Never, Felipe."

"Just because they haven't before doesn't mean they won't today, Jim."

I sighed, for what was probably the sixty-third time in the past half hour. "You and your optimism."

"Hey, somebody's gotta hold out some hope around here."

"I'm just being realistic," I countered. "Anyway, we've already been in here a week and a half. Your girlfriend's probably already dead or dying out there by now."

"Don't say that, Jim! Lizzie's not dead!"

"You don't know that, do you?" He stared at me intently with all of his eyes, looking as if he were about to cry. "Don't do that. No, we're not doing this. We're not crying again."

But Felipe buzzed his melancholy tears nonetheless. It was actually quite a pitiful sight to behold.

"Felipe! Seriously, are you a fly or are you a mouse?"

"I'm a fly."

"Say it loud, Felipe!"

"I'm a fly!"

"Say it proud!"

"I'M A FLY!"

"Once more, with feeling this time."

"I! AM!! A!!! FLY!!!!"

"Good. Now act like a fly."

"How's that, Jim?"

"Face reality. These chiquitas are not budging any time soon, so you are going nowhere. And neither am I."

"But Lizzie –"

"Lizzie's out there, and you're in here, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"But I miss her."

"Felipe –"

"I know, I know. I'm a fly!"

"That's right. Now try to exercise a little restraint, and be a little patient, for crying out loud!"

"Jim?"

"Yeah, Felipe?"

"You're a good friend, you know that?"

"Felipe?"

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Buzz off."

"Whatever you say, Jim." Felipe whimpered for what was probably the seventeenth time in the past fifteen minutes, and whispered. "Lizzie..."

Stories # 26, # 27, & # 28: "Professor Cupcakes," "Not Your Average Voyeur," & "A Frog In Her Throat"

Three more very short stories for your reading pleasure. The first two are 100-word drabbles. The third comes in at an even 150 words. Enjoy!  –  JH

"PROFESSOR CUPCAKES"

He could never understand why his students didn't respect him. It couldn't possibly be the suits he wore. They were all of the finest quality. Surely it couldn't be his voice. Often, friends and family had commented on his soothing tones and the crispness of his diction. And it certainly couldn't be his teaching methods. Based on their exams thus far, the students were clearly learning and absorbing the material. And yet, the professor could never seem to connect with his students on a personal level. What was worse, they openly mocked him. It couldn't be his name. Could it?

"NOT YOUR AVERAGE VOYEUR"

She was no ordinary Peeping Tom. First of all, she was a woman. Secondly, she was classy and high-tech in her espionage. She didn't simply climb a tree with a pair of binoculars and stare at random people while they were changing clothes. She sneaked into their houses when they weren't home, installed microscopic high-definition digital cameras in obscure places, then retreated to the comfort of her unmarked van down the street and watched as her subjects performed menial tasks, such as scrubbing the toilet, frying eggs, and discreetly picking their noses. Everyone loves a good reality show these days.

"A FROG IN HER THROAT"

Working in the ER, you never know what you're going to see from one night to the next. Just when I thought I'd seen everything, I was proven wrong last night. This lady came in complaining of a severely sore throat. Most of the time, folks like her are triaged out in no time. Well, not exactly "no time." We make them hang around approximately three hours longer than necessary, then send them home with a $400 bag of cough drops. Anyway, this lady with the sore throat started having a hard time breathing, so we gave her some oxygen and ordered an X-ray. When the radiologist gave his report, we were floored. Apparently, the lady had swallowed a live bullfrog whole. It was still stuck in her throat and ribbiting away. After a complicated and utterly hilarious surgery, she survived unscathed. The frog died. Now I've seen it all.

Story # 25: "Call Me Mabry"

Indeed, I am riffing on the title of a wildly popular pop song, but this story has nothing to do with the song. The main character here is entirely fictional, but she could easily have been based on any number of people I have known during my life. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"CALL ME MABRY"

My name is Jenny, but I've never liked my name. It's not that there's anything inherently wrong with Jenny, or the name of which it's a derivative (Jennifer) – it's just that I've never thought it fit me or my personality.

It's not my parents' fault – they didn't know how I'd turn out or what I'd be like when I first came into the world. They probably thought I'd be their pretty little princess, and that I'd love wearing frilly dresses with ribbons or barrettes (or both) in my hair, and that pink would be my favorite color.

It's not. Never has been. I like black, in large quantities, in all shades, in and on everything. It's not that I'm morbid – okay, maybe I am a little – I just like the color (or absence of color, to be more precise).

I'm not a Goth, though if I were it wouldn't mean I was a bad person or anything. I have friends who are and they're perfectly normal; their look is just widely misunderstood.

My friends call me Mabry. It isn't any part of my actual birth name, but the name Mabry (which I first saw on the back of a baseball player's jersey when I was a kid, at a time when my well-meaning but thoroughly misguided dad was trying to get me to like sports) just seems to suit me better.

I've even managed to convince a few of my teachers at school to call me by that name. I told them Mabry was my middle name, and even though they had the records to prove me wrong, they didn't argue the point.

People ask me if I'm trying to reinvent myself by giving myself a new name. Actually, I'm not. If anything, I'm discovering myself for the first time, which isn't the same thing at all.

I'm convinced that this person Mabry – who likes black and not pink, and isn't a girly-girl in even the most rudimentary sense of the word – is the real me. She's who I have always been becoming. And I like her. I like me.

If you'd asked me that question two years ago, or even a year ago, I'd have given a different answer. That would have been when all-black-everything meant something darker to me. Yes, I cut myself – but I was always too chicken to go that deep. I didn't want to die. I just didn't want to live. Which isn't the same thing at all, either.

So if you see me in the hallway, or at the mall (not likely), or at the store, or wherever, don't hesitate to stop and say hi. I'm not a devil worshipper. I'm not some creepy vampire lover, either. I'm just a girl who marches to a different beat. Call me Mabry. I'll answer.