It was my birthday a few weeks ago. To celebrate, I requested that we take Mom Mom and Pop Pop up to Dude’s house, since they hadn’t seen it before. Then, we would go out for an early dinner at the closest restaurant that both Dude and I enjoy, Red Lobster.
(Cheddar Bay biscuits, am I right? NOM!)
Mom Mom offered to bake a cake for us to enjoy at Dude’s house after dinner. During dinner, Mom realized that we needed milk because apparently you can’t eat cake without having milk to wash it down.
On the way back to Dude’s house, we took a detour to Giant. Dad ran in to grab a gallon of milk while the rest of us waited in the car.
When Dad returned, Dude, who was sitting next to me in the back of the van, craned his neck to see what Dad was carrying.
“Donut. No donut,” Dude said, expectantly. (To understand Dude’s use of the word “no,” kindly refer to the Dude Language Guide.)
When Dude lived at home, every time Dad went grocery shopping at Giant, he would pick up a chocolate or vanilla iced donut for Dude as a treat. Dude saw Dad go into Giant and immediately assumed a donut awaited him.
He had to settle for one of his Mom Mom’s homemade cakes. What a tough life.