Some random musings.
A musing is a contemplation. I looked it up. I knew it meant something like that, but I wasn't sure. What I am writing now is not a musing, but rather a simple definition. If I continue on any further with this train of thought, it may become a musing, but as it stands now, it has not been mused yet.
I keep hearing the ice cream truck drive up and down our neighborhood. Has anyone seen this guy? I swear he is just canvasing our neighborhood for children. However, I do need to ask him how he got sweat stains on the front of his white tank top and how he gets his sideburns to grow to his shoulders.
I'm surprised that when Dateline does their "Catch a Predator" deal, there has not been a single ice cream man. It's probably because they pay off the producers with push-ups (not bras) and Crunch Bars.
I'll admit it, I have never bought my kids ice cream from the back of a van. I've bought them other things: Used car audio equipment, jewelry, drugs, those rubber bands you put over your Swatch so it won't scratch . But when it comes to buying stuff out the back of a van, ice cream is simply the biggest rip off.
If I were an ice cream man, I wouldn't use that disturbing music box music crap. No one even looks out the window when they hear that nonsense now. No, I would crank the Jonas Brothers and Hannah Montana! And I would name my ice cream bars after them. What preteen would not want to buy a Nicky Licky?!
Am I still musing? I think I am actually just BS-ing. Musing requires introspection and sincerity. I am without either. Now am I musing about musing? I am a such a simpleton.
I have memories of Michael Jackson. The first time I watched Thriller at a friend's house, I left in tears. I was frightened by the mouthfuls of red jello. At the right consistency, jello can look very much like a bloody mouth and bloody mouths are scary. Also, Captain E-O one year was my favorite Disneyland attraction. If you would like, I can still show you a few break dance moves I picked up from the man/woman/thing. I am a dancer. I dance.
My memories of Ed McMahon are a little less clear. I don't think he was in Captain E-O.
My musings took an unexpected detour. I felt as though there wasn't enough coverage of Michael Jackson's death. I am obligated to allow The Blog O' Cheese to weigh in. Allow me to refocus my musings.
I don't believe that I have actually ever seen the ice cream man on our street. Perhaps he is intimidated by my rugged manly man ways. Nonetheless, his obnoxious tones are heard far and wide across our great city of Murray.
Here's a helpful hint: Tell your kids that the ice cream van does actually give out ice cream, but only after you get a shot. Say, "You want an ice cream bar from that van? Okay, first you must get your rubella shot." Then grab your kid by the arm and drag them toward the van while trying to roll up their sleeve. They will never want a $5.00 Dove bar from the sinister, porn-stached, grease-soaked fellow again. And your wallet will thank you for it.