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| - Donuts. The drunk man's life jacket. An arm full of these gooey, sticky, dense little oily gems and your mobility starts to put on its socks and get back to work again.
Dunkin is the bastion of freshly ground, crumbly coffee grinds and milky, frothy frappe confections. On the East Coast they are the Constantinople of every person's work day.
On my last visit to Vegas, I managed to pick up a dozen donuts from this venerable establishment, trot back to my hotel room, and whiz the box over to my girlfriend.
"Dude," I say, articulately, "I got us some donuts."
The Red Sea of silence opens to applause.
My girlfriend snatches a French cruller. I nab an old fashioned. We begin fastidiously talking about bars and taxi drivers. All is pleasant until I feel something wiry and unpleasant in my mouth.
I look down, one eyebrow climbing so high it wants to reach Everest, and see a curly hair protruding out from the inside of the donut. I want to scream, but the terror is too much, so I open my mouth, much like a toddler in pain, and emit a soft cry of horror.
"It cant be that bad, Rob," my girlfriend says, irritated. "stop being a sourpuss, you drama queen."
I show her the hair in the donut and she backs away from it as if it were a king cobra.
After we have all dialed down our sensitivity and convinced ourselves it wasn't a hair of the pubic variety, I decided to march down to Dunkin, tell the manager, and retrieve some compensation.
The manager asked if I wanted another dozen. "NOOOOOOO!" I yell in terror before bringing it back in to a simple "Nooo, thanks." She apologizes and refunds my money. She told me that the donuts were delivered by an offsite vendor, so that the staff had nothing to do with the situation. She was really sweet about the whole thing.
Sadly, I don't want to rate this place poorly, because it's not their fault, but it's still hard not to give Dunkin one star after my donut did some Bruce Vilanch cosplay.
Sorry, guys, I don't want to shave my donut before I eat it.
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