I Scream, You Scream...
Camp town lady, sing that song; Doo-da–doo-da.
Camp town lady, sing that song; all of the live long day.
Or at least until your head explodes. Fucking-A Christ, are you SERIOUS?!?!?! You can only sit inside, impotently fencing with the brink of insanity for so long, and then you must take action. You must make a stand. You must fight for what you believe is right in this world. Now, I say, “you,” in the ubiquitous second person, but what I really mean is, “me.” And as I stand here, leering through the Venetian blinds at my current adversary, I now know it is time to escalate our feud to the next level.
But I’m getting ahead of myself... this calls for some exposition.
Rewind–one week ago.
* * *
This must be what it feels like to be a zombie... I know that I can move my arm, I just don’t want to. I know that the television’s on, I just don’t know what’s on. Without focus, I stare; like a zombie. Wait, scratch that... I bet zombies don’t get headaches. Yeah, in fact I’m certain they don’t. I’ve seen way too many zombies catch a chainsaw, shotgun blast, or random sporting-goods-related-object to the dome for them to have the ability to feel pain in their headular region. And I must admit, “Fuck! My head hurts.” Damn it, I must be hung over again... and it is fucking hot in here. It must be Spring.
Ahhh Spring, springtime always brings up a slew of heartfelt memories: the beach, baseball at Wrigley Field, the smell of freshly cut grass, the ice cream man, spring break in–wait, the ice cream man? What the fuck? Like a message from the Emergency Broadcast System interrupting the last twenty minutes of Fight Club, the Ice Cream Man and his delightful little jingle hijacked their way into my hang-over-induced daydream.
It seems like every ice cream truck spins a different tune out of their PA system. Today’s choice was the classic racetrack ditty, Camp Town Lady. An annoying song on it’s own right, once it is cut down to an eight note loop, it heralds the unique ability to cure deafness, and then compel the now-no-longer-hearing-impaired person to ram a q-tip into their eardrum until they are once again deaf. I groaned and decided it was time to take about seven more IB Profins, catch a quick shower, and head to work.
When I got out of the shower, what did I hear? The sweet release of silence? A phone call telling me I didn’t have to come to work today? No! Wrong! I heard, Camp Town Fuckin’ Lady. Surely I must be imagining this, it had been fifteen minutes, there’s NO WAY the ice cream truck is still in front of my house. I would be wrong, but I still didn’t believe it yet.
Standing outside, I was flabbergasted--my mind blown. Sure enough, there’s the ice cream truck, right in front of my house, a line of kids eager to blow their lunch monies on frozen treats, and, of course, Camp Town Fuckin’ Lady. Apparently the Ice Cream Man in my neighborhood never went to Ice Cream College, or at least failed his Ice Cream Ethics class, because he was breaking the cardinal rule of ice cream men. YOU SHUT OFF YOUR FUCKING SONG WHEN YOU PARK TO SELL ICE CREAM!!! Playing Camp Town Fucking Lady at eighty decibels isn’t going to whip the kids up into some sort of ice cream feeding frenzy. They’re already at your truck indulging themselves with ice cream baseball mitts (with the bubble gum baseballs), and the only thing that’s going to stop them from eating ice cream until they have a diabetic seizure is the fact that they only have a dollar and twelve cents. It’s not like Camp Town Fuckin Lady is going to persuade them to ride their huffies down to the ATM machine and go buck wild on your frozen goods; they’re kids jackass.
Now, I’m not really what you call a confrontational person. I would be hard pressed to think of a situation I could get into where the only resolution lies with fisticuffs. Given this fact, you might think that this is the end of the story–you, sir, would be wrong. It is now the next day, and my head is fucking pounding. Damn it, I must be hung over again... and it is fucking hot in here. It must still be Spring.
I sigh and pop a couple of IB Profins; no shower today, woke up too late, gotta leave for work in twenty minutes. I throw on some fresh deodorant, wash my face, and start getting dressed when it hits me. Hard too, like a zombie slaying croquette mallet to the face: Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady. Okay, it’s kind of early, maybe it won’t be so bad... I would be wrong. I decided to time the Ice Cream Man today, really put his ass on the clock, and after ten minutes and thirty-five seconds of non-interrupted, unadulterated Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady, I decided it was time to go and meet the Ice Cream Man.
Business was light today, only two kids eating their popsicles with no regard for manners or preservation of the experience. And yet, despite the light crowd, still the ice cream truck was parked and spinning Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady. As I approached the truck, I realized–in respect for the kindergarten audience–I should probably keep things PG-13.
The Ice Cream Man was a sweaty sort. Hispanic in origin, his hair was greased back and tucked under his filthy ice cream hat, which has long since turned a shade of yellowish grey. In a vain attempt to compensate for his dirty uniform, he wore a freshly polished platinum Mexican flag around his neck... which only made his appearance more ridiculous. As I approached, he flashed me, from beneath his unevenly trimmed mustache, the type of crooked smile that would make any orthodontist lease a new Porsche and book a family vacation to the Caribbean. “How’s it goin’ today, dude?” I inquired as I leaned against his window. He just sort of nodded and smiled the nod and smile of a somebody entrusted to take your order without necessarily understanding a word of what you say.
“Yeah, I’ll have a baseball mitt (with the bubble gum baseball),” I ordered.
To which he replied, “No, only,” and proceeded to point at the outside of his truck where the menu is.
“Uhhh, okay... I’ll have a Ninja Turtle then.”
“No, only,” and then that point again. Clearly, the ice cream industry has really declined since we were all kids... but that’s another rant entirely. So, I take a step back, examine the menu, and have made my selection.
“Okay, how about a, TURN OFF THE FUCKING MUSIC!!!!”
He looked at me with some shock, but also some confusion, and answered, “Que?” DAMNIT! Defeated. A perfectly good random outburst, with enough out-of-place jackassary to totally ruin a minimum wager’s day, wasted on somebody who didn’t understand it. Well, I guess it wasn’t totally unnoticed; the two kindergartners in attendance were staring at me slack jawed, their frozen treats dripping all over their hands. Embarrassed at myself, I muttered an apology, and fled inside and out of sight where I would plot a better way to get my point across to Señior Tastyfreeze, as he will now be known for forever and all time.
Sitting on the couch, I wait. It is now Day 3, my hangover is gone, and I’m prepared. I vowed that today, today would be the day that Señior Tastyfreeze and the Camp Town Lady Orchestra would learn their lesson. You just don’t submit people to that sort of Camp Town Torture--it isn’t humane--and soon he would know this. Finally, off in the distance, like a fife leading a revolutionary army, I heard a faint rendition of Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady and knew it was time.
On cue, Señior Tastyfreeze parked his rig right in front of my house and started selling his goods, all the while blaring Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady with reckless abandon. After about five minutes, I decided I’d had enough of his gibberish and sauntered outside. Walking up to his truck I smiled and greeted him a hearty, “Hola, mi amigo,” pronounced, of course, in the perfect white boy vernacular of, “ Hoe-La, Me, Ameego.” I then proceeded to order an “All American Popsicle,” (which, at the time, was really more of a statement than a dessert) and paid with a dollar bill stapled to a note.
On this note, written in black ink, was inscribed:
“Excúseme sir.
Dé vuelta por favor apagado a su música.
Está conduciendo la vecindad loca.
Seriamente.
Tipo débil.”
Loosely translated, by babblefish as I don’t speak spanish, this reads:
“Excuse me sir.
Please turn off your music.
It is driving the neighborhood crazy.
Seriously.
Weak dude.”
For the past two days, I have not seen hide nor hair of Señior Tastyfreeze, nor have a heard staff one nor two of Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady. As I sit here writing this blog, I feel a swell of pride and historical significance. I do believe this is the first blog ever written which describes a successful endeavor by the author. Usually a blog is a work of complaining and bitching and defeat. Well, not today, not for...
Oh... my... God... What’s this I hear? Yeah, it’s definitely CAMP TOWN FUCKIN’ LADY. AHHRRRGG!!!!! That bastard’s parked in front of my house, up to his old Camp Town Antics again. Well played Señior Tastyfreeze, well played indeed...
Well, I have the feeling as soon as I hit “Publish,” the police are going to be receiving an anonymous tip about the local Ice Cream Man molesting children in the back of his ice cream truck. The ball’s in your court Señior Tastyfreeze...
Image by Dong Wang
Camp town lady, sing that song; all of the live long day.
Or at least until your head explodes. Fucking-A Christ, are you SERIOUS?!?!?! You can only sit inside, impotently fencing with the brink of insanity for so long, and then you must take action. You must make a stand. You must fight for what you believe is right in this world. Now, I say, “you,” in the ubiquitous second person, but what I really mean is, “me.” And as I stand here, leering through the Venetian blinds at my current adversary, I now know it is time to escalate our feud to the next level.
But I’m getting ahead of myself... this calls for some exposition.
Rewind–one week ago.
* * *
This must be what it feels like to be a zombie... I know that I can move my arm, I just don’t want to. I know that the television’s on, I just don’t know what’s on. Without focus, I stare; like a zombie. Wait, scratch that... I bet zombies don’t get headaches. Yeah, in fact I’m certain they don’t. I’ve seen way too many zombies catch a chainsaw, shotgun blast, or random sporting-goods-related-object to the dome for them to have the ability to feel pain in their headular region. And I must admit, “Fuck! My head hurts.” Damn it, I must be hung over again... and it is fucking hot in here. It must be Spring.
Ahhh Spring, springtime always brings up a slew of heartfelt memories: the beach, baseball at Wrigley Field, the smell of freshly cut grass, the ice cream man, spring break in–wait, the ice cream man? What the fuck? Like a message from the Emergency Broadcast System interrupting the last twenty minutes of Fight Club, the Ice Cream Man and his delightful little jingle hijacked their way into my hang-over-induced daydream.
It seems like every ice cream truck spins a different tune out of their PA system. Today’s choice was the classic racetrack ditty, Camp Town Lady. An annoying song on it’s own right, once it is cut down to an eight note loop, it heralds the unique ability to cure deafness, and then compel the now-no-longer-hearing-impaired person to ram a q-tip into their eardrum until they are once again deaf. I groaned and decided it was time to take about seven more IB Profins, catch a quick shower, and head to work.
When I got out of the shower, what did I hear? The sweet release of silence? A phone call telling me I didn’t have to come to work today? No! Wrong! I heard, Camp Town Fuckin’ Lady. Surely I must be imagining this, it had been fifteen minutes, there’s NO WAY the ice cream truck is still in front of my house. I would be wrong, but I still didn’t believe it yet.
Standing outside, I was flabbergasted--my mind blown. Sure enough, there’s the ice cream truck, right in front of my house, a line of kids eager to blow their lunch monies on frozen treats, and, of course, Camp Town Fuckin’ Lady. Apparently the Ice Cream Man in my neighborhood never went to Ice Cream College, or at least failed his Ice Cream Ethics class, because he was breaking the cardinal rule of ice cream men. YOU SHUT OFF YOUR FUCKING SONG WHEN YOU PARK TO SELL ICE CREAM!!! Playing Camp Town Fucking Lady at eighty decibels isn’t going to whip the kids up into some sort of ice cream feeding frenzy. They’re already at your truck indulging themselves with ice cream baseball mitts (with the bubble gum baseballs), and the only thing that’s going to stop them from eating ice cream until they have a diabetic seizure is the fact that they only have a dollar and twelve cents. It’s not like Camp Town Fuckin Lady is going to persuade them to ride their huffies down to the ATM machine and go buck wild on your frozen goods; they’re kids jackass.
Now, I’m not really what you call a confrontational person. I would be hard pressed to think of a situation I could get into where the only resolution lies with fisticuffs. Given this fact, you might think that this is the end of the story–you, sir, would be wrong. It is now the next day, and my head is fucking pounding. Damn it, I must be hung over again... and it is fucking hot in here. It must still be Spring.
I sigh and pop a couple of IB Profins; no shower today, woke up too late, gotta leave for work in twenty minutes. I throw on some fresh deodorant, wash my face, and start getting dressed when it hits me. Hard too, like a zombie slaying croquette mallet to the face: Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady. Okay, it’s kind of early, maybe it won’t be so bad... I would be wrong. I decided to time the Ice Cream Man today, really put his ass on the clock, and after ten minutes and thirty-five seconds of non-interrupted, unadulterated Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady, I decided it was time to go and meet the Ice Cream Man.
Business was light today, only two kids eating their popsicles with no regard for manners or preservation of the experience. And yet, despite the light crowd, still the ice cream truck was parked and spinning Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady. As I approached the truck, I realized–in respect for the kindergarten audience–I should probably keep things PG-13.
The Ice Cream Man was a sweaty sort. Hispanic in origin, his hair was greased back and tucked under his filthy ice cream hat, which has long since turned a shade of yellowish grey. In a vain attempt to compensate for his dirty uniform, he wore a freshly polished platinum Mexican flag around his neck... which only made his appearance more ridiculous. As I approached, he flashed me, from beneath his unevenly trimmed mustache, the type of crooked smile that would make any orthodontist lease a new Porsche and book a family vacation to the Caribbean. “How’s it goin’ today, dude?” I inquired as I leaned against his window. He just sort of nodded and smiled the nod and smile of a somebody entrusted to take your order without necessarily understanding a word of what you say.
“Yeah, I’ll have a baseball mitt (with the bubble gum baseball),” I ordered.
To which he replied, “No, only,” and proceeded to point at the outside of his truck where the menu is.
“Uhhh, okay... I’ll have a Ninja Turtle then.”
“No, only,” and then that point again. Clearly, the ice cream industry has really declined since we were all kids... but that’s another rant entirely. So, I take a step back, examine the menu, and have made my selection.
“Okay, how about a, TURN OFF THE FUCKING MUSIC!!!!”
He looked at me with some shock, but also some confusion, and answered, “Que?” DAMNIT! Defeated. A perfectly good random outburst, with enough out-of-place jackassary to totally ruin a minimum wager’s day, wasted on somebody who didn’t understand it. Well, I guess it wasn’t totally unnoticed; the two kindergartners in attendance were staring at me slack jawed, their frozen treats dripping all over their hands. Embarrassed at myself, I muttered an apology, and fled inside and out of sight where I would plot a better way to get my point across to Señior Tastyfreeze, as he will now be known for forever and all time.
Sitting on the couch, I wait. It is now Day 3, my hangover is gone, and I’m prepared. I vowed that today, today would be the day that Señior Tastyfreeze and the Camp Town Lady Orchestra would learn their lesson. You just don’t submit people to that sort of Camp Town Torture--it isn’t humane--and soon he would know this. Finally, off in the distance, like a fife leading a revolutionary army, I heard a faint rendition of Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady and knew it was time.
On cue, Señior Tastyfreeze parked his rig right in front of my house and started selling his goods, all the while blaring Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady with reckless abandon. After about five minutes, I decided I’d had enough of his gibberish and sauntered outside. Walking up to his truck I smiled and greeted him a hearty, “Hola, mi amigo,” pronounced, of course, in the perfect white boy vernacular of, “ Hoe-La, Me, Ameego.” I then proceeded to order an “All American Popsicle,” (which, at the time, was really more of a statement than a dessert) and paid with a dollar bill stapled to a note.
On this note, written in black ink, was inscribed:
“Excúseme sir.
Dé vuelta por favor apagado a su música.
Está conduciendo la vecindad loca.
Seriamente.
Tipo débil.”
Loosely translated, by babblefish as I don’t speak spanish, this reads:
“Excuse me sir.
Please turn off your music.
It is driving the neighborhood crazy.
Seriously.
Weak dude.”
For the past two days, I have not seen hide nor hair of Señior Tastyfreeze, nor have a heard staff one nor two of Camp Town FUCKIN’ Lady. As I sit here writing this blog, I feel a swell of pride and historical significance. I do believe this is the first blog ever written which describes a successful endeavor by the author. Usually a blog is a work of complaining and bitching and defeat. Well, not today, not for...
Oh... my... God... What’s this I hear? Yeah, it’s definitely CAMP TOWN FUCKIN’ LADY. AHHRRRGG!!!!! That bastard’s parked in front of my house, up to his old Camp Town Antics again. Well played Señior Tastyfreeze, well played indeed...
Well, I have the feeling as soon as I hit “Publish,” the police are going to be receiving an anonymous tip about the local Ice Cream Man molesting children in the back of his ice cream truck. The ball’s in your court Señior Tastyfreeze...
Image by Dong Wang
posted by Tyler at 4:38 AM
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