The ghetto ice cream van is in the ‘hood.

There’s this crazy person who drives a tan SUV and sounds a fire alarm, driving through my apartment complex, selling sweet treats out of his or her trunk to the neighborhood immigrant children. Oh, the humanity.

The fire alarm scares the living shit out of me every time it sounds. I’m not sure how ice cream and alarms came to be associated with each other — whatever happened to the nice, clean Good Humor truck and the “Goodybar Man” who drove it?

Oh well. At least it stopped the children temporarily from beating on our cars. I yelled at the whole lot of them today — I’m sure they’re wondering, “And who the hell are you, crazy lady with the bedhead and the Garfield pajamas?”

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