The ice cream man is your life. You are forever late and chasing the dangling bells. It's hot, and an ice cream would have tasted all right. But they don't stop. Weird fucking business. Park outside. Let me scramble to find the loose change in the pants that cover my floor like roadkill. Give me a minute, brother. I'll be there. I'll take the rocket pop. But you don't ever wait. It's a 'right place at the right time' kind of gig, and I never am. In the right place. At the right time.
I might make it in time to see all the smug motherfuckers eating their ice cream. I smell exhaust and sour milk. What kind of business strategy is this anyway? It's like a drug dealer that runs full speed through the neighborhood calling out 'buds! thizz! shrooms!'. Ain't no way your customer base is gonna chase you down, brother. I don't see any flocks of kids chasing your little wagon. Why don't you chill the fuck out for a second and let me think! Shits always gotta be all rush fucking rush all the time. That's not the way I want to enjoy my ice cream.
So, fuck it. I return to my oven apartment and let the cold water run for years until it is actually cold. I'm all propped up in front of my fan. Whatever. But listen Ice Cream Man; I'm a businessman, too. I got no beef with you, but you might want to reconsider your MO. I would've put that buck 35 right into your hand if you'd been patient. But I guess you're chasing something, too. I wonder what your ice cream is.