The first time I ever ate a Krispy Kreme doughnut was out of a dumpster.  If they ever put out a checklist of Signs That You’re Really Punk, I’d like to make that my submission.  We were on tour in Gainesville, Florida; and I was wandering around the town with Ron in the middle of the night when we happened upon the Krispy Kreme shop.  They were open and we could have just gone in and mustered up the change to buy a couple, but when we saw the doughnut guy throw an entire garbage bag of donughts into the dumpster right in front of us, paying for them seemed kinda stupid. We snatched the whole bag of still-warm doughnuts (although, in Gainesville in August pretty much everything is warm and moist) and scooted back to the punkhouse we were crashing at. 

For the next few months, this became a thing for us. We were always broke, always hungry, always had a sweet tooth, and there were doughnut shops everywhere.  So, whether we were having a party or had no money for dinner-trips to the doughnut dumpster became an unfortunately semi-regular thing.  

Of course, when you are bringing home doughnuts by the garbage bag-full, you end up with an abundance of them laying around, getting gross in your already gross apartment (a quick note on the general hygiene angle of what I’m talking about here-usually the doughnut shops would just empty the racks right into a bag and you’d just have a bag of mixed-up, few hours-old, perfectly good doughnuts. But sometimes, they’d get sick of us lurking and would empty the coffee grounds or actual garbage into the same bag and we’d have to be careful.) so, we started finding other ways to use the extra doughnuts.  We’d give em to our friends, fellow dirtballs, local homeless types (like the ones squatting in the basement-but that’s a story for another time) but then we discovered the best usage of stale doughnuts-projectiles.

Believe me when I tell you that there are few things in life that fly as true, or splat as satisfyingly as a stale cake doughnut.  It started with winging them at each other or at stop signs or whatever, but it escalated pretty quickly to where when people came to our shitty punkhouse they were being greeted by barrages of doughnuts fired out the second floor window as they scurried to the relative safety of the porch.  It was like the scumbag storming of Omaha Beach.  

We were (are) really into 90’s gangster rap and probably because of that, and the fact that our band van had a sliding side door, the drive-by donughting was born.  We’d spend hours rolling around Wildwood with the headlights off, The Iceberg blaring on the boom box on the floor, waiting for some unlucky soul to be out.  It started with our friends, but after a while no one was safe.  We’d roll up next to the victim, throw open the van door and open fire.  Now, none of us are fucken Rollie Fingers over here, and they WERE just doughnuts, so on the off-chance one of you did once get hit by a flying doughnut thrown from a ‘77 Econoline, I do sincerely apologize. But that shit was HILARIOUS.  

We knew eventually we were gonna get into trouble for this whole drive-by doughnuting thing, and the events that had went down at Big Daddy’s party (which are DEFINITELY a story for another time) made me feel like we were pressing our luck with what had become a common way to spend the evening. (It became so common, I remember pulling up on a friend of ours who was out doing the same thing and getting into a full-on intersection food fight with him and his crew.)  But, just like in the movies, our crew wanted to go out with one last score.

There was this other group of local kids in our neighborhood who were kinda new-wavey and sorta ‘alternative’ but also, you know, kinda lame. Like, for example, a friend of ours used to break into cars and steal tapes all the time and he said that one time he broke into one of their cars and stole the whole shoebox full of cassette tapes but that they were all so terrible, he went back the next night, broke into their car AGAIN, and threw the tapes back into the front seat. 

We’d caught wind that they were having a party at one of their houses, and although we were pre-declined invitation, we decided to make an appearance anyway.

The album OG by Ice-T had just come out and had really, uh, blown fresh wind into the sails of our delusions.  As such, we knew it was time to let those suckas know whose (suburban) hood this was! 

We all were wearing all-black, had a fresh three bucks worth of gas in the van, and Midnight was blaring on repeat and we were most definitely in hats and hoods and in attack mode.  The dude whose house was hosting the party lived on a farm and they had a long U-shaped driveway, which as all you gangsters assuredly know, are optimal for drive-bys.  

We posted up on the corner and eyed it up.  There was a porch at the apex of the curve in the driveway with about 15 people hanging out on it.  We had three bags of doughnuts and malice on our minds.  It was time to move.

The whole thing happened kind of at half-speed.  We rolled up slow with the lights off and the porch people all kinda turned to see who this was and I threw the door open.

Never before or since have more doughnuts been thrown-in volume or velocity-at unsuspecting victims than right there that night.  It was like one of those Vietnam battle cams, everything in slo-mo, doughnuts flying, tables being overturned, girls screaming and everyone scattering as doughnuts exploded all around them like flak in the skies over London.  A pastry Valentine’s Day Massacre.  

We hurled empty all three bags in lightning speed, if these were guns we woulda melted the barrels-then threw the empty bags out the door onto their cars and peeled out of there as the new wavers screamed at us and I have never seen a single one of those people since. 

The End, motherfuckers.