| | Ahh, camp. I was gone for a good long while. Without internet, I discovered I am a hollow shell of a man, incapable of sentences that don’s start with “If I had Internet access…” Good things happened at camp however, but rather than tell you one of the many exploits there, I would like to complain of an event that transpired en route to said camp.
Being a large man, it is required of me at random intervals to pay homage at the shrine of Dairy Queen in the form of downing a cookie dough Blizzard. The time was at hand, thus I began my pilgrimage. One sale were small and medium Blizzards. I scoffed at the man who could only handle the “chicken sizes” and boldly ordered a large. My delight was handed to me not 2 minutes later by a surly woman who shared both my affinity towards large stomachs as well as facial hair.
Grasping the spoon by the hilt, I held it aloft over my head and in a triumphant voice cried, “Yum!” Giddy with anticipation, I slipped the spoon into the ice cream and pulled out white ice cream. “What? What is this?!” My mouth gaped in shock and disgust. “Why is this ice cream white? Oh, the calamity, the horror!” My ice cream was white, not brown.
For those of you who do not share my devotedness to a Blizzard, a key ingredient is hot fudge mixed in with the white ice cream, thus transforming the vanilla ice cream into the thing of legends. Mine was not the all-holy experience I had sought after, but rather a very scientologist experience. I mean it’s cool and all, but I want to touch my newborn.
Taking the brown out of things is not good. Imagine going to the new Samuel L. Jackson movie and instead of seeing the man ply his trade, you saw John Candy in his underwear. It just isn’t the same. Such was my Blizzard. I wanted to share that traumatizing experience with you, in hopes that certificates for Blizzards would soon fill my mailbox to be cashed in for Blizzards soon filling my belly. Good day.
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| | Posted 6/14/2006 10:40 AM - 44 Views - 24 eProps - 21 comments
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