Apparently Christina, my esteemed colleague who wrote Tuesday’s Cuff, pissed off a few Krispy Kreme Christians.
I would apologize for her severe misunderstanding of the Krispy Kreme experience and good clean fun, but that would take all my joy out of reading her hate mail.
As much as you folks will miss Stina, I have returned to claim my rightful post as Cuffist.
Yours truly has spent the past week homeless.
Not under-the-Perkins-overpass homeless, but homeless nonetheless.
Thank the good doughnut-loving Lord I have cool friends who have allowed me refuge on their couches.
Unfortunately, one cannot live on couches alone, so I’ve been seeking a solo apartment.
The only downside to this plan is my desperate need for extra cash to support my bachelorette lifestyle will lead to my inevitable return to the food-service industry.
It’s been a while since I’ve been a grubslinger, but I have a long and storied history in the biz.
My first food service gig was as a cashier at the Dairy Queen in my lovely hometown — Tallassee, Alabama.
Unlike in the big city, Dairy Queen is fine dining in T-town.
I was revered among my peers for my instant access to Chicken Finger Snaks, my superior Blizzard blending skills and my excellent lemonade mixing ability.
My post was the drive-thru.
In the world of fast food, the drive-thru is the pinnacle of upward mobility among pimple-faced part-timers.
Part of the allure of the drive-thru is that one never knows what one will see there.
One evening, a respected gentleman around town appeared at the window sans-pantalones.
The most disturbing part of this little experience was that he ordered a frozen treat, and I distinctly remember his car had no cup holders.
Who knows where he put that milkshake, but I’ll bet it was a chilly ride home.
Despite the entertainment of the drive-thru, the best part about the DQ was the staff.
Miss Annie was a dentally challenged DQ cook who weighed about a buck-oh-two sopping wet and who was always a sweet, quiet grandmother type.
Until one day, when my school-aged coworkers and I cleaned up in the back while Miss Annie chopped onions with a 14-inch butcher knife.
My chums and I discussed our weekend illegalities and giggled as we scrubbed grease pans.
Finally Miss Annie piped up:
“You know (chop chop) when I was y’all’s age (chop chop), I was getting locked up every weekend (points the knife at kids for emphasis) for doin’ drugs and stabbin’ folks. (chop chop chop) Then I found Jesus. (chop chop)”
“Amen, Miss Annie,” I said. “Amen.”