Jul 202016
 

After another night of shitty news, I decided that the only way to end things on a good note would be to go and deep throat an ice cream cone.

We ended up stopping at Sugar & Spice since it was on our way home and our first choice was too crowded. (I WAS NOT IN THE MOOD TO STAND IN LINE WITH PEASANTS.)

Look, listen, do whatever it is you do to pay attention: I have no beef with this establishment. I definitely wouldn’t put it in my top local faves list but it’s not like, disgusting there or anything.  However, on this night, some RUDE FUCKING BROAD was at the window and, after already being annoyed with the people in front of us (the one girl had on camp sweatpants with flip flops and it just rubbed me the wrong way), she set me off before I even opened my mouth to order.

I’m sorry, but you have over 30 flavors of soft serve which I could not peruse until I got up to the window, so don’t fucking rush me  I hate being rushed. Go wipe down a counter or something and I’ll call you back when I’m ready, maybe?!

She was scowling and I didn’t want to stand there any longer than I had to so I blurted out “Cinnamon” but immediately had remorse and then Broad asked in a rude tone what kind of cone and I started to say sugar because I always confuse the cone-types and she cut me off to spit, “WE CANT PUT IT IN A SUGAR CONE. THE SOFTSERVE IS TOO HEAVY” and I totally looked like some sort of soft serve n00b to the guy who was still standing there waiting for his milkshake.

But the way she cut me off, I can’t even. My tolerance was already down real low, like the lowest rung of limbo, and this bitch and her highfalutin’ soft serve superiority was about to knock the pole right onto the rink IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN and I hope you do because my rollerskating analogies are a little bit rusty.

You guys, I then had the AUDACITY to ask her for sprinkles.  Whaaaaat was I thinking! I’m an alien sent to earth for my first ice cream cone and I fucking blew it, apologies to the Mother Ship.

“YOU CANT PUT SPRINKLES ON THIS, ITS TOO SOFT.” Wow, really, you have to straight scold me about this? You’re the one dishing out limp soft serve, you dumb ice cream cooze.

I literally snatched the cone from her hands and, as she was muttering in her bitch-voice about “putting the sprinkles on the side” I cut her off and in a PURPOSELY FAKE UPBEAT VOICE THAT WASNT TOO SOFT TO SPRINKLE WITH SARCASM, I sniped, “OK GREAT NO THANKS BYE” and stomped off through the parking lot while making loud, passive aggressive declarations to my 10-year-old son and the man who was waiting for his milkshake that I would NEVER come back to this place again.

PUT THE SPRINKLES ON THE SIDE. Oh for fuck’s sake. If I want to make a mess with my ice cream cone that I’m paying for, that’s 100% within my right as an American! IF I WANT SPRINKLES, DUMP THAT SHIT ON MY ICE CREAM AND TELL ME TO HAVE A NICE NIGHT AND I WILL SAY THANKS, YOU DO THE SAME

THIS IS HOW IT SHOULD HAVE PLAYED OUT. I have read from this script plenty of times

Henry tried to play devils advocate which is basically the only character he knows how to play because he’s so one-dimensional and I interrupted his empty words to shriek, “I’VE HAD THIS SAME SOFT SERVE AT OTHER PLACES AND GOT SPRINKLES ON IT!” And it is definitely the same soft serve because all those places use the same OMG 30+ FLAVORS sign and it’s the same machine!! Sugar & Spice isn’t unique! This isn’t their own creation! They use the same mix that every other place uses and I know this because I eat a lot of fucking ice cream.

I know my fucking soft serve.

Henry was stuck there at the window because he still had to pay, but I had already marched off to the car. I considered viciously pitching my cone in the garbage can on the way there but let’s be real: I’m too much of a tightwad to waste money like that so I leaned against the car and angrily lapped at my stupid too-melty-for-sprinkles ice cream while shuddering with rage.

What a dumb, surly bitch. I continued to spout off vague threats as we drove past her on our way out, like how I wanted to chuck my cone against her stupid window. “I don’t think she can hear you,” Henry mumbled.

“Oh I’m going to leave a really nasty review,” I growled against a background of mirthless laughter, cutting down my melty ice cream cone with my razor-edged tongue. And as soon as I opened the Yelp app to destroy this establishment with my hateful prose (“Not only do your employees have no chill, but either does your ice cream!”), the first thing I saw was a review from my MORTAL YELP ENEMY.

A FUCKING 5-STAR REVIEW.

So of course I had to clear my throat and read it out loud to Henry in my best Robin Leach voice.

“A den of sug’ry iniquity hidden in a seemingly innocuous suburb and building” — get the fuck over yourself.

ALSO HE WAS THE FIRST PERSON TO REVIEW THIS PLACE.

One time he sent me a message and was like “you should add some pictures of yourself to your profile” and I was like “That sentence was too simple. Needs 87 more adjectives.” I hate him so much. (Projecting? Or naw?)

I should probably just go to bed.

  7 Responses to “My Life Is a Limp Ice Cream Cone with No Sprinkles.”

  1. I don’t know that guy, but I hate him too!

    • I’m pretty sure he reviews every single place he does and it bugs me so much! I’m going to start making anti-Darren reviews. “It was good.” “I didn’t like it.” “I went there and had the food.”

  2. I hate that guy. And that lady. I was not my best self when I called an old door-guarding lady a “fucking bitch” at a baseball game, but it was about 750 degrees out and we were pouring in sweat and wanted to get to our suite, and she informed me we were in the wrong section and couldn’t walk through, meaning we had to descend a level, walk across several sections, and ascend again, which didn’t make sense. Then she pointed to the sign on the door that said “members only” and FUCKING READ IT TO ME! I was like, “Yes, I’m aware of what it says. The door we go through says the same thing.” But she wouldn’t budge, so I mumbled the offensive jibe as we walked away, thinking she didn’t hear me, but Mon said she did, and now I feel bad for looking like a disrespectful punk EVEN THOUGH SHE DISRESPECTED ME FIRST!

  3. Dear Henry: When my man-meat plays devil’s advocate, it subtracts minutes from my internal clock. The one that’s counting down how long until I stabbity-stab him in the face and neck many times. I can’t say for sure if Erin has one of those clocks, but probably :-D

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