All Flavors And Push-Ups, Too
One of these days, you’ll read that they’ve arrested me for killing an ice cream man, and I will swear to you in front of Abraham Lincoln and Jesus that the motherfucker deserves it.
Stop playing the ice cream music at night, ice cream man. You drive that heap of shit truck full of refrigerators and horror by my house two or three times a week blaring Turkey in the Straw, but always at night.
It frightens me every time.
Stop it, ice cream man. Because I’m going to murder you eventually. Please don’t make me murder the ice cream man; even for Florida, that’s weird.