It must be spring: the ice cream truck just rolled slowly down my street, playing that horrid tinny music, prompting every child and woman within earshot to rush out the front door, pocket change in hand.
Mr. Good Humour doesn’t need abs of steel, perfect teeth, or glossy hair to attract women. He gets by without broad shoulders or slick pickup lines. He just needs that freaking van and the ability to drive v-e-r-y slowly. It’s an unfair seduction. The women flock to him like flies to fresh dog turds.
If there’s one thing I know about, it’s dog turds.
On this lovely May evening, the ice cream truck tempted me. I watched it roll by but stayed on my couch working on my blog. I was not moved by the promise of frozen treats and cold confections.
That’s right, Mr. Ice Cream Man, you have no power over me. I will not rush into the street like so many of your other victims.
Besides, I have better ice cream in the freezer.
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