Death of an Ice Cream Salesman

It is 12:30 in the morning and I am still not asleep.  In fact, I have not gone to bed before nearly 1am for the past two weeks.  I dose off in class and sneak the 30 second nap at work nearly everyday, but I here I sit . . . blogging.  Why, you ask?  Well a little for the readers out there, but mostly for myself.  It makes me feel good and the fact that I have gone weeks without a post makes me feel a little pent up.  Now I know that guys aren't supposed to blog like the ladies, but SCREW 'EM.  I like it, and besides, I don't don't blog like the ladies.  Take THAT!

Anywho, here we go.

The other day I was driving home from work with the window down and the music up. (I was probably dancing and/or singing, but I don't care because I am off of work and get to go home to my amazing wife and adorable baby)  I like to take the "scenic route", as Megs calls it, and drove through a nice, all-American neighborhood.  I heard the Ice Cream Truck! and I got nostalgic.  Those were the days!  Summer, chores done, no homework, and Tang to our hearts content.  My sister and I would keep a coin stash close by the door so we could just grab and go.  We usually had to chase him down for a block or two, but it was worth the run.  I would get the Rocket Pop.  You know, the red, white, and blue popsickle with the ridges?  We would have it half gone by the walk home and eat the other have while laying on the grass.  My legs would then get a little itchy from the lawn so we would hurry and finish and go climb the tree or something.  These were the glory days!  THIS is the definition of childhood.

I want Emmalee to have these things.  I want her to know of this simple joy.  I want her to have this as part of her summers. . . . but just as I had that thought the "Ice Cream Man" came driving around the corner . . . DAD-GUMIT (I MAY have said something worse?)!  There he was, Chester the Molester, driving some nasty, old beat up van with some pictures on the side of ice cream you could buy at the store plastered on the side . . . GO AWAY!

Why did this man and almost ALL other ice cream men have to have ruined this memory and joy?  Why has this become the job of nasty men everywhere?  Has it become part of parole?  I HATE what has become of this simple life pleasure.

Here is what the Ice Cream Truck WAS. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And HERE is a MUTED version of what they have become. . .

 

 

Hella to the NO!

 

 

 

Sorry Emmalee, it seems as though this one is destined for the vault.  We'll come up with something better.  Promise!