A national holiday. The chains had invented it, I knew that. A day named for the donut, given free, no purchase required. A promotion, nothing more. And still. A thing the country has named and set a day for cannot be received lightly. Not by me. So I came in formal robes, bowed at the threshold, and accepted the offering with both hands. The man at the counter smiled, said happy donut day, and waved the next guest forward. To him it was a small kindness. To me it could be nothing small. That night I opened the calendar, to measure the full weight of my duty. National Hamburger Day. National Pizza Day. National Taco Day. National Pancake Day. It did not stop. A holy day for nearly every food a man can hold. To honor the donut and forsake the rest would be the deeper disrespect. So now I attend them all. Full dress. Every week. Hamburger Day, I bow. Pizza Day, I bow. Taco Day, I bow. The robes never rest. My week is sacred rite from dawn. I have served in many lands. I know of none so rich in holy days.