It’s been hot if you live where it’s been hot. Nerves are short and tempers are high ’round these parts with what has been going on in the world, a cicada invasion, bi-polar weather patterns and my never ending work to fully quell the urge to throttle a neighbor what smells like Karl Marx’s underwear probably smelled. Just as the unusual circumstances scales are finding a wee balance with the introduction of some normalcy, along comes the donut hole overabundance.
Roomies salt mines planned a big company meeting a few days ago that ended up being a Puritan’s ménage à trois; himself, the woman who owns the company and the CEO, another woman. Betwixt his fussy foodstuffs ways and the gals Summer diets, my kitchen became the preferred environment for a box of goodies whose sole purpose had been to end up in the guts of the workplace proletariat. What does one do with a box of 50 Dunkin Donuts Munchkins after eating all of the honey-dipped and chocolate cake flavored donut holes? That question was pondered for two days during which time the remaining wee pastry bits firmed up, becoming quite rocklike upon a light squeeze. Still . . . something about trashing edible food reacts poorly with my DNA. A pattern was born; enter kitchen, look at Dunkin Donuts box, curse the donuts, look again . . . huh. Where’s my slingshot?
The first one was covered with pink powdered sugar. It did begin to squish a bit as I pulled back on the tubing, aiming the sweet treat for the bird feeder. Thwump. Too much squish must have occurred, it landed about two feet past the place from which it had been shot. Undeterred by the first futile attempt, or the Roomie’s open-mouthed laughing, I loaded up the sling for Volley #2. This one was white powdered sugar and got me about 25 feet further.
“Give me that thing.” Suddenly, Roomie’s interest switched from actively mocking to wishing to participate.
“The tubing is about gone, don’t pull back too hard, please. If you break my slingshot, that will make me sad inside. As you know, I’m a sharer who does not like to keep things inside. So, I imagine you breaking my slingshot will make you sad, too.” I tried to glower but seeing him load up a piece of pink fried dough was worth any potential break.
Giving the tool a mighty pull, he launched his Munchkin skyward over the backyard. Up, up it traveled until smashing into the lofty branches of a hundred-plus year old elm tree living on the other side of the fence, raining tree detritus, coupling cicadas and their offspring down into the yard. It was a magnificent volley, yielding rewards both aural as well as visual. The challenge was on.
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Retrieving my tool of donut destruction from Roomie, I reached into the ammo box without looking, using my forefinger to gently press one baked Munchkin against the sling held betwixt thumb and second finger. Careful not to crush the sugar-coated missile, increasing tension in the tubing while ignoring Roomie telling me how to use my own dang slingshot, I aligned the forks and let ‘er rip. Angels sang.
As if on a gentle breeze, a sugary pink orb arced softly through the air, up and over the apple tree before beginning a graceful downward bend, softly landing someplace the other side of the fence. All, without making a sound or disturbing a tree branch. The groan accompanied by a short clap or two said more than any Atta Girl the Roomie may have wished to offer.
It’s hot, the world is tense, the cicadas are settling down as is the weather pattern and the dog is now convinced she has the most magical backyard in all of Doggyville. Oh, if you have a sling shot, any old donut holes laying around and a neighbor who smells like a socialists skivvies, please let us know if the projectile fragments upon contact or if it penetrates.