Following the Crowd

I realized the other day that I may be the only person left in the world that doesn’t have his own podcast and is also not running for president in 2016. I’m not sure what this means about myself. Am I lazy? Not ambitious enough? Don’t care?

If I had a podcast what would my subject be? My love of cream-filled donuts? I don’t know if I can fill an hour a week about donuts. Who would my guests be, the Dunkin Donuts lady?

“Good afternoon. Today I welcome Mindy Nussbaum, donut chef at Dunkin Donuts store #435 in charge of glazed, sprinkles and crullers.”

Once we got past the fact that she has a dream job though, I’m not sure where that interview goes. Each week I would need another guest. They would get progressively worse until around week 8 where it would be just me drooling in a sugar coma after eating a half dozen angel creams.

About running for president, I guess this would be the year to do it. There are already 119 candidates combined with the two parties and that doesn’t even count the fringe parties like communist, libertarian, Duck Dynasty enthusiasts, Duggar apologists, the Hipster Beard party and Johnny Depp in his worst role yet.

And let’s not forget that all proclaimed candidates suck. I may be the breath of fresh air this country needs. Well, maybe not fresh air. More like the slightly stale air that escapes when you open a closet door for the first time in months, which is still better than the “just down the road from the industrial pig farm” air that the other candidates are giving off.

So I guess if I want to conform I need to get the “Donut Hole in My Soul” podcast started and fill out the paperwork to declare as a candidate for president. I will be my own guest one week on the show so I can lob softball questions at myself about my campaign. I’ll lay out the tenets of my job creation program that is essentially building more donut factories. As podcast host I will warn myself about the health implications of this plan and as a presidential candidate I will speak eloquently for 20 minutes without coming close to the subject at hand. I will then kiss my own ass, sign off for the day and take a nap.

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“It was Jessie’s cousin’s girlfriend’s babysitter, that’s who gave me this recipe. I knew I’d think of it eventually.”

Matilda went back to mixing her ingredients in her favorite ceramic bowl, a tune humming between her lips. Her husband Lionel sat at the dinner table sipping a beer, looking confused. He turned to his wife.

“Where did you meet this woman?”

“At the carnival last week, remember? You were working late so I went with Sheryl, Dan, Hank and his wife’s nephew’s chiropodist’s daughter’s vet.”

“Ok,” Lionel muttered. “But . . . but how did you meet the woman with the recipe?”

“We were on the merry-go-round talking when I was tapped on the shoulder by an elderly lady who turned out to be my great-Aunt Sylvia’s second husband’s granddaughter’s best friend’s niece’s step-brother’s dance instructor’s mother.”

“Wha . . .”

“Anyway, this woman, I think her name was Francine, knew your late Uncle Dave’s mechanic’s girlfriend’s ex-husband’s son’s golden retriever’s groomer’s wife’s insurance agent, Gabe Frinkelman.”

“Sure,” Lionel muttered. “Who doesn’t know Gabe Frinkelman?”

“She was telling us a story about when Gabe got out of the army. He went to Vegas with some friends and met Wayne Newton’s manicurist’s daughter’s teacher’s third wife’s second ex-husband’s pastor’s great-Uncle’s flying instructor’s girl-friend’s high-school classmate’s cellmate’s sister’s pot dealer’s brother. Can you imagine meeting a celebrity like that?”

“Yeah, sure. But what about . . .”

“Oh, right, the recipe. It turns out the pot dealer’s brother moved here a few years ago. He met my friend Jessie’s cousin and they started a band together, The Neighbor’s Squirrel’s Nuts. One night while playing at that bar on route 46, Gary’s Guns, Groupies and Guacamole, Jessie’s cousin’s girlfriend brought along the woman who babysits for her and also Mrs. Thompson’s son’s shop teacher’s on-line girlfriend’s psychologist’s heavily medicated soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“I need another beer.”

“The pot dealer’s brother and the babysitter hit it off and started dating. That night I went to the carnival they had intended to stay in and watch a movie on Netflix but the babysitter got a phone call from her sister’s brother-in-law’s step-daughter’s nephew’s volleyball coach’s private detective’s father’s bookie’s wife’s neighbor’s goddaughter’s fiancé’s mother’s dentist’s dominatrix’s son’s classmate’s brother’s parole officer’s boss’s mistress’s nanny’s ex-con ex-husband’s ex-wife’s ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend’s sister and were invited to the carnival.”

“Holy shit,” Lionel said, his hand slapping his forehead.

“We met them in front of the fried pickle stand, got to talking and I mentioned I was looking for a good casserole recipe.”

“Don’t care anymore,” Lionel said.

“She put my email address into her phone and a few days later sent me this recipe.”

“Beer. Need beer.”

“She told me she found it in a magazine from a high school classmate’s brother’s daughter’s son’s cat’s vet’s office. She also said . . .”