There’s not much I hate about summer. Mosquitos, skinny bitches in bikinis, and the damn Ice Cream Man and his stupid truck with the relentless music are the only things I can think of.
Mosquitos are Satan’s minions, skinny bitches in bikinis set unrealistic expectations that no middle aged woman could ever live up to, and the Ice Cream Man is the bane of my existence.
For example, the other day I was minding my own business, working in the backyard (on my third jar of Hippie Juice) and the familiar siren song of the ice cream truck rings out across the neighborhood. The kids eyes glazed over and they were instantly hypnotized.
“Mom, can I have ice cream?” The little one shouts jumping up and down in place.
“Please? It’s summer!”
“Because most of the ice cream trucks around here are just a cover to sell drugs.”
For the love of Christ…
I found some cash in my underwear drawer and we went to stand on the curb like cheap, low-class hookers.
The dumb truck finally pulls up with the annoying music and comes to a complete stop. Yep…I’m that asshole neighbor that causes you to listen to the ice cream music until it gets stuck in your head for three weeks.
The kids wanted Warheads and I wanted a Chocolate Eclair. Ice Cream Man asked what the ice cream looked like and disappeared into the back to find the items. He came out a few times to look at the picture on the side of the van and I quickly realized he was unprepared to sell anything outside of weed.
After about five minutes he comes out with two Warhead popsicles and a Chocolate Eclair. He tells me that will be six bucks, and I pointed to the picture of the Warheads and told him they were only one dollar.
He disagreed and handed me my Chocolate Eclair, which we both acknowledged was two dollars. He disappeared to “find the Warheads that cost one dollar.”
After about five more minutes, my Chocolate Eclair melted and I seriously considered just buying some weed as the neighbors started peering out the windows to find out why the damn truck was still playing that music.
He hands me two Bomb Pops and says “That says Warheads.”
I smiled politely and said “No, that says Bomb Pops.”
Five minutes later, he comes out with the Bomb Pops again and says it was all he had which was funny because I could’ve swore he had two Warheads in his hand earlier.
So I looked at the little guy and begged him to just take the Bomb Pop so I could go drink my melted Chocolate Eclair, to which he agreed.
I handed my five dollar bill to the Ice Cream Man and he informed me he didn’t have any change.
I thought about pulling him out of the van by his twiggy little neck and beating his ass, but then I remembered that it’s not very “lady-like” so I smiled politely and told him to “Have a nice day” while I silently placed a curse on him.
I poured my Chocolate Eclair into a cup and told the kids to enjoy their overpriced Bomb Pops, because we’d never be getting ice cream from the truck again.
It turns out I’m not as patient as I thought I was.