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"You Want Some Cream In That, Honey?" (Stockholder's Son-In-Law Write Off)Feb 10 '03 (Updated Feb 14 '03) Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line "Odd" doesn't begin to describe it.
Whenever I’m back home in Holyoke, MA, I spend many a night hanging around the city with my friends, usually Sean, Nick, Justin, and Kevin (or Bounty628, as people in the virtual community know him). There’s an assortment of things to do – bars, hockey games, pool halls, getting kicked out of hippie cafes in Northampton – but it seems that just about every night ends the same way: with a visit to the Whole Donut. Why the Whole Donut? Well, aside from the fact that it’s open later than most places in the city, we go there to get more than our share of laughs from our good friend Irene, the lady behind the counter. Irene is a kindhearted old lady, but don’t start envisioning a short, grandmotherly figure just yet. Irene is quite different than most old ladies – or most people for that matter. She is as strange as the day is long. This is apparent from the second you walk in and notice this skinny drink of water and her long, multi-colored hair (we’ve counted four colors at once) and hear her spout off some nonsense about Lord-knows-what. She’s friendly to everyone who walks in, but some of the things that come out of her mouth are simply baffling. First off, make sure you get the Irene lingo right. It’s not sugar – it’s “tigger.” I’m guessing because it makes you bounce, though sometimes I wonder if there’s more than tigger coursing through her veins. Once you place your order, sit back and hear the sexual innuendos fly. Crullers, cream-filled, honeybuns – no pastry is safe. Once she gets a hold of her laughter (could take up to five minutes, especially while she’s hitting on Sean), she starts with the tall tales. There was the time she stood face to face with a bobcat in her own kitchen. There’s the underground water-tunnel connecting Boston and New York. There’s the woman who subsists on nothing but ashes. There’s the hookers giving five-dollar head jobs across the street (wear your raincoat!). The list goes on and on until you don’t know what to believe. You have to take everything this woman says with a bag of salt. Irene is not the sharpest crayon in the box either. Let me sum it up with a brief exchange between her and Sean. Irene: You ever been to Arizona? Sean: (jokingly) Isn’t that in South America? Irene: How the hell should I know? You can see that Irene is probably Holyoke’s best-kept secret in terms of entertainment. A perfect cap to any night is a donut, a cup of joe or hot cocoa, and a million laughs courtesy of the way-out-there mind of Irene. For further Irene reading, check Bounty628's entry. And for more general idiot reading, check Stockholder's profile.  |
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