The Voodoo Diet

October 16, 2010 at 11:20 am (Cussed Dumbers, The Easy Chair)

A diet based on doughnuts, you ask? Can it be so?

It can, if you’re a fan of Voodoo Doughnuts.

Anyone who has been to Voodoo Doughnuts knows there’s no such thing as a VD diet doughnut. They are full-fat, full-flavor, sometimes rolled in children’s breakfast cereal. My favorite is the Memphis Mafia; a banana fritter as big as Bill O’Reilly’s head, covered in chocolate and peanut butter frosting, with peanut butter and chocolate chips. I only guess at the nutrition numbers, which I would put at about 40 grams fat and about 1,000 calories. I probably don’t want to know the actual numbers.

I suppose I could downsize to an Old Dirty Bastard, a French Cruller version of the MM. But I’d just eat a half-dozen, so it’d be a wash. There’s no way to lose weight by going to Voodoo.

Unless you use my method.

The store where I work is about ten blocks from the Voodoo flagship store, down on 3rd and Burnside sandwiched between Berbati’s and The Paris Theater. (Dirty movies and doughnuts FTW!) Voodoo is never un-busy, except maybe about 4 AM when the booze starts wearing off and people wander back to their respective hovels. I will walk down to the doughnut shop, appraise the line, and 9 times out of 10 I will turn and walk back to work empty-handed. It’s about a mile, and I can feel proud of my self-control. Honestly, it has nothing to do with self control. I won’t wait in line more than ten minutes for a doughnut, no matter how fucking good it is.

However, Voodoo called my bluff the other night. The sidewalk crowd was waiting for an actual musical event instead of raised treats. I managed to squeeze into the shop; only fifth in line! Woohoo!

The rule is, once you get inside it takes about fifteen minutes. WHY? Because people go there for the experience as much as the sugary treats. They ooh and aah at the naughty panties on the wall that say “The Magic Is In The Hole”. They look at the petrified arm in the Voodoo display case. They read the celebrity obituaries on the wall. When it comes time to order, they have to stop and think. This can be a challenge after a few cocktails and bong hits, which is what a majority of the evening’s customers seem to prepare for treats with. “Oh, I don’t know… What are you having?” “I’m gonna have what you have.”

“Get the hell out of the way and let those who know what the fuck they’re doing carry on!” screams the voice in my head. But no, I wait… After they each pick out a doughnut, we have to wait until a member of the group goes to the on-site ATM, because no one in the group noticed the sign that says NO CREDIT CARDS.

Finally.

“Two Memphis Mafias, please.”

Normally it’s the chick with the fierce eyebrows that waits on me. Tonight it’s a guy. He doesn’t see the dollar-plus I put in the tip jar, or maybe he does. I get the two biggest fritters, they are sized like pies. Mmm…

“How long will these last you?” he asks.

“Til tomorrow,” I lie. “Or not.” I smile.

“Heart attack in a bag to go,” he smiles.

“Aah, but what a way to go.” The line behind me extended to the sidewalk. I elbowed my way out the door.

And now to the second part of the exercise portion. I scurried back to work, arriving with two minutes to spare. Giggles eyed my bag with lust and suspicion. “Where’ve you been?” he asked. Nosy fella.

“Lunch,” was all he got out of me. If I’d told him what I had in the bag, I’d have to kill him. (No really, I would. He wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave him one.) He left with a pout.

So instead of burning a couple hundred calories, I gained a full day’s intake. That’s okay, I’m going to enjoy the memory of them; I won’t be using *that* exercise plan for a while. The Voodoo Diet only works when the line is out the door. I had Diet FAIL. So it’s back to cruising the Transit Mall, or heaven forbid, actual work.

It’s time I focused more on proper nutrition anyway. I’ve been on a sugar-kick lately. I imbibed in seasonal ice cream, and the other night’s dinner consisted of a chicken breast and a large bag of BBQ Ruffles. I have no interest in regaining the weight I’ve lost. The last time Clairissa patted my ‘dickey-do‘ she hit something more vital. The look on her face was priceless. It was a Jenny Craig moment for me.

But… before I swear off all things tasty, there is one more ‘must have’ on my list. Dr T has been promising me a birthday dinner since, well, my birthday about three five months ago. I have my choice of DeNicola’s or Flying Pie Pizza. Since I’ve been to both and he’s been to neither, we will start with Flying Pie. If that suits the Eye-talian from Kentucky? We will try DeNicola’s next time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me? I have about five pounds of doughnut to walk off.

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