Dearest, beloved Dunkin’ Donuts – we love you not because you are good, but because you taste like the Northeast.
You taste like the Patriots; the Red Sox; like “You talkin’ to me?!”
Your colors are bright and social media-friendly. Your donuts are picturesque and your coffee is best with milk, packed with a dangerous amount of caffeine.
Dunkin’? Double-D? The Dunk? There are a million-and-one affectionate nicknames for you.
Starbucks? Bitch, please.
We don’t need that fancy-ass mocha-latté-double-twist liberal elitist bull crap.
We know that they’re called munchkins, not donut holes. And while we shit on you endlessly, we will defend you to a west-coaster within an inch of death.
How dare they?! They know not your majesty, your innate ability to enchant, to disavow your own questionable quality.
Wherefore Art thou, Dunkin’?
A New England staple? A cultural icon? You are a rose; nay, you are a daisy (a far less pretentious flower).
No one knows you like we do. You start our day; you ride with us in our cars and fuel our spirit. You are our rock, served with three creams and three sugars, iced, in 30 degree weather.
I won’t say America Runs on Dunkin’ – but New England certainly does.