Mr. Ding-a-Ling made an appearance at the warehouse last week

Mr. Ding-a-Ling made an appearance at the warehouse last week

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So I heard Mr. Ding-a-Ling made an appearance at the warehouse last week and as much as I love ice cream I have to admit it's kind of a relief that I had that day off. There's something extra sinister about the ding-dong cart this summer, and despite my propensity for paranoia, I don't think it's just me. I think it's the music. Which I don't know if that decision comes down from corporate or is at the drivers discretion or what. But whenever that truck crawls, spider slow, down my street with that music-box-winding-down tune looping and looping and the July heat is rising from the pavement in those visible wavy vapors, all I can do is wonder what kind of monster can listen to that all day, can tolerate that. And my mind is flooded with images of disturbed clowns, glassy- eyed and grinning, unnaturally calm and the back of the truck packed with bloody meat-hooks and freezers stuffed with body parts. But I think that was just some movie I saw, or maybe a Clive Barker story, which does little to comfort me.

Still...I can't deny the knowledge that there are Choco Tacos in there and I am equal parts dread and want. Suddenly I have an insight: this is how my dog feels when it's time for her allergy meds. She knows she's going to get a delicious, chewy, sweet potato treat, but first she has to do this uncomfortable pill swallowing thing and you can see the mixed emotions in every inch of her body language. I weigh my options – do I want to confront the freak behind the wheel of this murder machine or hang my head and settle for the freezer burned frozen yogurt at home.

 

But I'm a grown man, surely I have the courage of a dog. Aha. There's the perfect way out of this predicament. I'm a grown man and Mr. ding-a-ling is totally for kids. I imagine how it would look if I stood in line for the ice cream truck. I would be the laughing stock of the neighborhood, that loudmouth guy across the street would call me a wimp for the next year at least. This is what I tell myself, that I actually give a crap what they think, and I almost believe it.

Thanks to Ken Szabo, I got my Choco Taco anyway. Glad you made it out alive, Ken – I owe you one.

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We're getting our hands dirty, together.
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