*WARNING* Graphic language
I love and enjoy a nice fat double scoop of Baskin Robbins ice cream. In fact, this past dollar-scoop Tuesday, I went into a Bask Robbins, 31-goddamn-flavors, and order two heaping scoops of pineapple coconut and a nutty coconut..double scooped that one too. I was good. I was nice. I was excellent.
Well, no sooner that when I finished the first cup, which was the pineapple coconut, my stomach started misbehaving and being rude. I had gas, solids, and liquids in me that weren’t mixing well. Alright fuck it! That ice cream gave me the shits. I’m not intolerant to dairy or sugar. It was delicious, but I never thought there was a possibility of ingesting ‘bad ice cream’. What kind of world do we live in, where a forty year old man can’t even enjoy a double scoop of ice cream excellence.
Man, I was in the bathroom having shit contractions, unwrapping toilet paper, spraying air freshner, lighting matches. It wasn’t nice at all. Shit, I even turned the light out, but I’m not going to bad mouth Baskin Robbins, but goddamn, is there a possibility that I was given a bad scoop..well double scoop? (rhetorical)
So when I finished knocking holes in the plumbing, I came out and my son asked me if I was okay, and I told him to get outta my business. I’d become someone else momentarily, it seemed. I walked out slow and bow-legged, like a fat cowboy with two six shooters, riding the fat part of a 1-ton turkey leg.
I found the couch and laid down on my stomach, trying not to flex any muscles. It was an ordeal. Fucking ice cream. How could I have enjoyed two whole scoops and not feel something was wrong until I’d finished wolfing it down?
I’m not terribly sure I’ll be visiting Baskin Robbins any time in the next twelve decades. I just can’t take that chance on dollar-scoop tuesdays…or whenever that was.