One of my fondest childhood memories is the Ice Cream Truck. That pyscho music box playlist of caliope circus marches and the taste of an orange Push Up on a Thursday afternoon in July in South Carolina was my redemption.

But today I had to hear the goddamn Ice Cream truck play a mind-numbing loop of inane attraction music that began and ended with a girl's voice calling, "Hello?!"

In February. In nippy twilight weather. No dick. Hard nipples. Cold.

This bastard's selling fucking ice cream in a took and mittens.

That qualifies as "Ice cream to Eskimos", 'round these parts.

What I wish, at 40, is that we had a better offering for 30-degree weather.

A soup guy. An old Jewish soup guy, kvetching in righteous Yiddish indignation, but with this cart of hot soups.

This, I would like.

Chicken Noodle and Lentils would be your choices and you better have correct change, but after a while you figured you were counted among those people he'd bitch about while never cursing anybody to their face.

And forget the sickening, major-key yuck yuck music of the Ice Cream truck, you knew he was coming owing to his endless lament over this or that social ill; you'd hear his bitching blocks away.