Bart’s Bouncing Donuts.

 
Bartholomew "Bart". My Buttercup. He’s a man of boundless enthusiasm, a heart of pure spun sugar, and ideas that would make a caffeinated squirrel look lethargic.  I love him dearly.  Truly, I do.  But sometimes, his entrepreneurial spirit… well, it leaves me a little breathless.  

For years, he’s been plagued with flightless business adventures.  The "Chihuahua Chinchilla", the "Edible Eyeglasses", the "Self-Folding Laundry".  (the less said about the hamster union strike, the better). I still find stray sunflower seeds in the dryer.  Sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint squeak of tiny hamster voices chanting, "Fold faster! Fold faster! Fold faster!"  

I try to be supportive. I really do. But sometimes, it’s hard to keep my writer’s focus when he’s explaining the intricacies of a “house-dress bounce coefficient.”

His latest obsession? “Horizon Donut” – a food truck that would revolutionize breakfast in Overland Park.

Picture this: 5 a.m., the sun barely peeking over the horizon, and Bart, dressed in a chef’s hat and a slightly-too-tight donut-shaped apron, cruising through the sleepy suburbs.  

Like the pied piper of pastries he'd be, except with more sprinkles and a slightly unsettled glint in his eye.


“Imagine, darling!” he’d exclaim, his eyes sparkling like star-blue wonder. “The children would wake to the donut man calling out with wiffs of frying doughnuts coming closer!  

And the ladies… the ladies will be so overcome with joy, they’ll rush out in their… their unbuttoned house-dresses!

Bouncing tidbits, my love!  Bouncing tidbits!”

He’d actually calculated the bounce trajectory based on fabric type and… well, I’d rather not go into the details of his “research.”  Let’s just say it involved a lot of old movies and a very confused mannequin.

“They're burned out on those trendy donut shops,” he’d continue, oblivious to my growing sense of dread.

 “They’ll see us as a miracle! A sugary, coffee salvation!” He envisioned these suburban housewives as some Stepford gals gone wild for glazed goodness & espresso.  

In reality, they probably just wanted a decent cup of coffee and a quiet morning after getting the kids to school.  

“Millions, darling! We’ll make millions!” he’d declare, brandishing a sketch of his truck painted bright pink, and adorned with a glazed donut bouncing over the horizon wearing a tiara.

He’d even added little “bounce-o-meters” to the sides, whatever those were supposed to be.

I tried to gently nudge him back to reality.  “Bart, honey,” I’d say, “we don’t have the money for a donut truck.  And you hate getting up at 5 a.m.”

He’d wave his hand dismissively.  “Details, darling!  Minor details!  We’ll figure it out!  Besides,” he’d add with a wink, “think of the publicity! ‘Bartholomew's Bouncing Donuts: So Good, They’ll Make You Lose Your Buttons!’”

I just sighed and reached for my laptop.  Time to write.  Maybe, just maybe, if I wrote about it, I could exorcise the donut-induced madness.  And maybe, just maybe, Bart would finally focus on something… less bouncy.

 Though, knowing him, his next venture probably involves trampolines and tacos.  I’m already bracing myself.