Today's blog comes as a direct request from my darling dearest, aka my editing department, aka Richy. His request came to me in his usual gentle manner. He said, and I quote, “Why don't you write about that damn ice-cream truck on your blog? Since he asked so nicely, I thought, maybe I’d oblige him. So, here we go.
That Damned Ice Cream Truck-
Richy moved into the apartment we now share about two years ago. He moved in about March and the sounds of the neighborhood sang through his ears as he hauled his belongings up the stairs to the loft apartment. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the familiar tinny music of an ice-cream truck driving through the neighborhood. He listened as it dinged its mechanical version of “Pop-Goes-The-Weasel” along the streets North of the house. Perfect! Enough time to run in and grab some change. He waited in the yard as The Weasel finished Popping its run and now “Mary Had A Little Lamb” chimed its way closer, oh so closer to the street.
Then, as if by magic, it was no longer north of the apartment, it was now south of the apartment. No longer was his delicious cold treat coming towards him, it was now taunting him from the street behind his current location. What fresh Hell was this? He had been so patient and all for nothing, the Ice-Cream Man had completely forgotten to come down his street.
Not willing to take this sort of injustice lying down, this 48 year old man ran through the backyard, hopped a fence, ran through his neighbors back yard and sprinted two blocks to chase down this Damned Ice-Cream Truck. All for an orange cream push-up popsicle. He was 48. Fortunately, the small children that he plowed down in order to get his elusive creamsicle, all blacked out as they hit the pavement, so no one can give the police an accurate description of the 6 foot 2 inch German lunatic running cross country, screaming at an ice-cream truck.
It turns out, the ice-cream truck really, truly…literally does not, will not come down our street... for whatever reason. This is the ONLY street in the whole neighborhood it doesn't come down. Richy finds this highly unfair and regularly uses colorful language whenever that ding-dong music starts playing “Old MacDonald”. Today, as he saw it pass on the street behind us, he cocked an imaginary gun and did a little pretend target practice, on That Damned-Ice-cream Truck.
I don't know which Congressman I have to write, or what federal authority I can get on this, but please, if anyone has any connections, let me know how I go about changing an ice-cream truck route. We find this exclusionary, and personally, I am not going to rest until my dearest darling can have a Rocket-sicle every day of the week if he wants.
According to a good five minute Google search, I found at least three sources that say it takes about 50 licks to finish an ice-cream cone. I say those people haven't reached their full potential.