Every summer the ice cream truck makes its rounds. I rarely can catch it because I can't locate it. I hear the tra-la-la of the irritating loop of "Pop! goes the weasel" and I grab my wallet and rush outside. I stand on the front side walk, head cocked to locate the source of that summery memory laden sound. Unfortunately, it echoes badly and the truck is actually about two miles away. And sometimes the ice cream driver drives by at 50MPH. I rarely catch the truck.
But not this weekend. I caught the ice cream truck, driven by a woman with her baby strapped incorrectly into the seat next to her. Usually it's an old woman who has an oxygen tank and makes children uncomfortably aware of the process of smoking and aging, but she wasn't there this weekend.
I asked for a pink panther ice cream, which is pink and white and has gumball eyes. Like all food should be, it is on a stick.
As the ice cream truck pulled away, I peeled away the sticky wrapped and began licking. I still hadn't left the street curb. About five minutes later, I got a creepy pink skull on a stick.
He looks like a very feminine Skeletor.
Either way, he was delicious and died a tasty death by licking and melting.