The Freaking Ice Cream Man…

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

I’m sitting once again at my son’s soccer game.

He excels in soccer and his team is riding high — undefeated in the tournament league. All kinds of parents around me, however the older big kids get, the fewer the parents to show up.

The ice cream guy is driving by. A rickety contraption that is identical to the truck they used in “Borat.”

The music is damned annoying.

Frankly, it’s a miracle that this thing moves at all. It’s a gasolin-ic wonder on wheels, despite the load it carries of the re-re-re-frozen goodies.

FYI — I never buy anything milk-based from one of these frozen “Goodie men.” I figure that I am risking my next 5-12 hours of digestive health whenever I purchase anything from one of these “trucks.”

Possible botulism on a stick.

I thus, further argue that you can re-freeze a fruity popsicle at least 20 times in a season before the bacteria converts it from a perky cherry pink to dulled dark grape. Wouldn’t that be a hoot — that grape is not actually a flavor at all… just the natural progression of bacterial degradation…?

I digress.

So, I walk up to the Goodie truck.

Also FYI, I am always wary of ice cream trucks or vans with no windows.

Makes me nervous.

Like… what’s going on back there? You got a secret, buddy? Something you don’t want the world to know about? A little contra-

“What do you want, lady?”

“I’m…uh… trying to make up my mind…”

“Well, hurry up. I’ve gotta hit two more soccer fields before noon.”

“What kind of popsicles do you have?”

“What lady, you can’t read?” He asks impatiently. “Make up your mind woman, because once I start playing my music again — I’m outta  here.”

“Okay… a Cherry Popswider, please.”

“Out.”

“Huh?’

“No have. Out. Nada. Zero. Got it, ding dong?”

Ding Dong? “Uh… Okay,” I leaned back and reread the side of the truck. “How about a Lemon Ginger Crack?”

“You joking me? Don’t you see that line crossed out for that one?”

I take a step back and look at the 6 inch painted letters that say Lemon Ginger Crack, and I see a single pen line drawn through it that looks more like a key scratch which happens to match all the other 8 million scratches on this musical motorized contraption.

“Kids don’t like no stinking Ginger.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice and ‘ice creamy’ like the digital music that you blarefrom those dangling speakers?” I proceed with caution, “I think I remember another guy. He’s a little nicer, you know. Are you really the ice cream man?”

“No. I’m his brother. He’s out interviewing clients for a case.”

“He’s… an attorney?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

What did he just say?

“Now are you gonna buy a freaking popsicle or you gonna find out more about my illustrious family tree, doll face?” He circles his nipples with his ring fingers and blows me a silent kiss.

Eeeeuuuu.

I am now officially scared of this man. 

“Uh… Do you have any Tutti-Frutti on a Stick?”

“How fricking old are you? Those were out in the 90s, man. Join the 21st century, Darlin’.”

Here I am, being berated by a substitute ice cream man?

WTF?

I decide that I can’t handle the stress of ordering one of these frozen pastels. One of these icy delights…

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

“No.” Jerk off. Doo-doo head. Nanny nanny Boo Boo, stick you head in-

“Do you want something or not, I’ve got an itchy music finger.”

“Press your fricking music button, asshole. What do you do during the week when you’re not degrading preteen ice cream clients and their parents?”

“I drive a cab. Now get out of the fricking way.”

—–

Just a little Saturday humor!

Happy freaking Saturday, y’all!

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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About SheriBelle

Award-Winning Author & Screenwriter

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