I hate the Ice Cream Man

For those that don't know me well, I was born and raised in the middle of effing nowhere. Next door neighbors meant I'd still have to ride my bike, drive a golf cart, or waste gas on idling through a street. Needless to say, I didn't grow up in average suburbia. Little did I know that there was such a thing as an Ice Cream Man that came to your neighborhood every day to sell you frozen treats.

Because I don't see this daily occurrence as normal, I find the presence of the Ice Cream Man abso-frigging-terrifying. I hear the tinkling of "Pop Goes the Weasel" over a loud speaker and I see that ice-cream-sandwich-peddling fiend's van, creeping through my neighborhood, tempting me with sweet delicious TREATS! I say, "No! No, Ice Cream Man, you're not normal!"

By the way, it's 9:23 p.m. on a Sunday and I distinctly hear child yells in the streets. Lock your wigs, bolt down your patio furniture: The children are out.