Dis Ice Cream Man Be Trippin’

First, I would like to credit my newfound and constantly growing knowledge of ghetto slang to my daughter, Micaela.  (Also, I would like to take this time to remind all our friends to please not tell her that she is a read-headed while girl who lives in the suburbs.  This knowledge would crush her.)
Next, I would like to tell you about a little run-in we had with the ice cream man yesterday.  My question is this:
Who the hell is hiring these ice cream professionals, and what exactly are their credentials?!
While sitting at Papa Murphy’s yesterday, the boys and I heard the distinct sound of an approaching ice cream truck.  (This is the sound that all parents will recognize as the bane of our existence All. Summer. Long.  Enough with the music already!  Our kids KNOW you are coming.)
The aforementioned ice cream truck proceeded to pull to a stop behind our car.  Jason and Marissa were already inside ordering a pizza, so it was just the boys and me waiting in an abandoned and overheating car wondering where the hell our pizza was.  And just so you know, NO, the ice cream professional did NOT turn off the music.  Because this kind of scene needs playful circus music accompanying it.
At that moment, two young ladies who were also inside Papa Murphy’s popped their heads out the door and waved the ice cream professional on his way.
THEN, the ice cream professional proceeded to put his truck in Park and hop out of the truck.  Aw, holy hell, we were about to have an ice cream versus pizza throwdown.
Apparently, the ice cream professional did not take well to being turned down by these two lovely young ladies, and he wanted to voice his frustration.  And so he did.  Loudly.  Both inside the restaurant and out.
I won’t even repeat what the ice cream man said, because frankly, I don’t think any ice cream man should be allowed to speak that way.  It’s traumatizing to both children and parents.
Also, he was the skinniest ice cream man I’ve ever seen.  Like he never eats any of his products or something.  So this would help explain why his pants were falling down past his butt.  I’m not sure what could explain the dreadlocks or the seemingly fluent gang signals he was making with his hands, but that just adds to the mystery.
Anyway, as he was YELLING at these girls, I picked up my phone—sort of because I thought we might die and also because I thought I might need to call for help for the girls.  However, before I could dial, I heard my 6-year-old shout from the backseat, “He’s probably from prison!”
Probably so, son, so let’s not add fuel to the fire, m’kay?
So instead of dialing, I shrank into my seat and started desperately signaling my husband to return to the car.  He didn’t see me because he was too focused on the we-make-the-pizza-in-front-of-you scene to notice that the rest of his family was about to be killed in the parking lot.
We survived, AND we had delicious pizza.  And I did check with the girls in the car next to us to make sure they were ok.
And I’m left to ponder the hiring process behind the ice cream professional business.  It seems that we should not have just-released-from-prison vendors selling ice cream to our kids.  I might need therapy, and I’m pretty sure we won’t be chasing down an ice cream truck anytime in the near future.

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