I would do unspeakable things to the Mister Softee truck. I swear that that bastard just circles our block with his out-of-tune jingle machine set to “annoy.”
Last week it was so off key that it was set to “eerie.” Perhaps it was a different truck, selling ghostly ice creams of yesteryear to long-dead children?
I love Mister Softee. I used to get it every day and ran down the stairs to grab ice cream almost every summer afternoon when I lived in New York. In fact, when I moved away, I worked with Mika to write a midi-file of the song that I could use for a ringtone on my phon.e
Maybe you’d appreciate it more if you ate their ice cream more frequently and built up some positive associations. I can recommend the strawberry sundaes.
Reminds me of this bit from a Rudy Rucker novel, where a Mr. Frostee truck is hiding a bit of a secret….
“Perhaps he is not honest,” Mr. Frostee said inside Cobb’s head, sounding a bit worried. “Of course he isn’t,” Cobb answered. “What we have to look out for is him calling the cops anyway, or trying to blackmail us for more money.” “I think you should kill him and eat his brain,” Mr. Frostee said quickly. “That’s not the answer to every problem in interpersonal relations,” Cobb said, hopping out.
— Rudy Rucker, “Software”