Hollerin’ Fer Ice-cream, by Jasper

Hello, my name is Jasper, and I’m an ice-cream-a-holic. Ice-cream is my kryptonite. Hardly a day goes by without me having at least three scoops of ice-cream. (However, if I go on some wacky no pizza, no ice-cream diet, I have been known to resist the sweet temptation for up to a month. How I survive without it is a mystery to me.) I prefer ice-cream with some form of chocolate in it, but I’ll generally try anything. In fact, I just finished massive quantities of thin mint ice-cream.

There is an ice-cream shop not too far from the Mockingbard Manor. Sydney and I often joke about riding our bicycles up to the shop, stuffing ourselves silly with creamy goodness and then riding home. Theoretically, it should be a guilt-free binge because of the exercise involved getting there and back. Perhaps this summer we’ll try it, but with Esmeralda. Kids get free ice-cream, and she may be ready to try it by then. This ice-cream shop is one of our favorite places. When friends or family are in town, there is usually a request, if not an expectation, to go there.

Friday night, Sydney (for once) had a craving, so I made the short trip to get dessert. The ice-cream shop is typically busy, and this night was no different. Management was missing in action because there were only three windows open, and this could have easily been a five-window-night. The lines were thick, with all sorts of people. There were that few stood out, so naturally, I started giving the play-by-play via text message to Russ. (Ultimately, the experience was too good not to chronicle on the blog.)

In front of me in line, there was a pasty-white brunette dressed in what I considered standard hippie attire: a long, puffy skirt with a patch-work pattern, a thin, slightly puffy white cotton blouse and bandana in her hair. I suppose she wasn’t far from being pretty. Initially I thought she was there alone, but then I realized that the Rastafarian orbiting the shop with two small girls was her husband/partner/soul-mate/babies’ daddy. The girls were cute and dressed identically to their mother.

Hippie chick was one those friendly types- those kind of people who try to strike up conversations with whomever is standing near. Since there was a buffer of two “normal” looking people between us, I was safe from her. Unfortunately, my superhuman hearing could hear her inquiries of popular flavors and comments about the advantages of organic milk. The Rasta-daddy deposited the youngest of the girls in the mother’s arms and continued wandering with the other. Now that the hippie chick was occupied with her hippielings, I was certain we would be safe from any further oddness.

A few moments later, my ears began the pick-up the sound of a sweet nursery rhyme. Oh, she’s singing to the girl. How nice! It makes me think of Esmeralda… Then I started listening to the words…

The itsy, bitsy ganja was growing in a pot.
Daddy and mommy like to smoke a lot.
When we get high, we start to act all dumb.
Here’s the itsy bitsy ganja- come and get you some.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider used to be my favorite song. Nevertheless, the youngest hippie child fell asleep quickly, as hippie chick rocked her gently.

For a few moments, there was peace in the lines of the ice-cream shop. Soon, the calm turned to calamity, as the Spuckler family started yucking-it-up. The five, fine members for this clan were sedate during much of my wait. The youngest boy began dancing in circles while squealing. Cletus (Pa) was guffawing loudly, and the other two boys were hootin’ and hollerin’. Since they were near the front of the line, I had to crane my next to see what all the fuss was about. The boy who had been dancing was now running around screaming, “Oh! It’s a bug! It’s a bug!” Cletus reached to the ground, and pick up something. With a toothless grin plastered on his face, he tossed this thing at the boy. The boy squawked and wiggled from head to toe.

“Pa, pa! Whatcha doin’ that fer’?”
“It’s gonna git ya, boy?”
“Pa! Stop!”
“C’mon, boy. Be tuff!”
"Pa! Pa! Git it off me!”

With that, Cletus let out a hearty laugh, and then watched the boy squirm some more. The brothers were jumping up and down, pointing and chanting a barely intelligible phrase. It sounded like:

Bug in yer hair,
We don’t care!
Bug on yer back,
Who a gives a frack?!

Ma was just standing there, looking irritated. When Cletus caught her glare, he abruptly knocked the thing that had been torturing the boy. As it fell to the ground, I realized it was a mole cricket. The child was immediately relieved, and the bug began to scurry away. The brothers began to chase the insect, with Pa in tow. The other boy was recovering at his mother’s side. The mole cricket could not escape and was snatched off the ground by Cletus. He then tossed it to the brothers, who batted it around like a badminton birdie. Eventually, the traumatized boy raced from his mother’s side to stomp on the bug and ran back. As if it were a rite of passage, father and brothers stopped in their tracks and began to applaud.

“Way to go, boy! Ya done smashed it!”
“Wooooo! Ya got it done!”
“That bug can’t get ya no more!”

The boy’s face was covered with a smile. Ma looked a little proud too. As the family came back together in line, the calmness returned to scene. Everyone who has been engrossed with the antics of these people, also seemed a bit happy for the family. Even the ice-cream shop workers were affected, because the lines started moving a little faster... At least until the boy looked at the menu, bellowed out “DIRT SUNDAE?! WHAT THE FUCK IS A DIRT SUNDAE?”

At that point, I just closed my eyes and covered my ears. I didn’t what to see or hear what was going to happen next.

Note: A dirt sundae is ice cream, with hot fudge, crushed Oreo cookies and a gummy worm.