Ice-Cream-Truck Driving By Dummies

There are three, maybe four, ice-cream trucks that make my street part of their regular round, coming by at least once if not twice or even thrice in a single afternoon, and one hand-pushed ice-cream cart. The frequency can become so annoying that I fantasize about what to throw onto their trucks in hopes of driving them away. But that's not my point here.

One of the trucks, a new arrival whom I guess is trying to horn in on the perceived success of the one that comes by most frequently, just does not seem to get the whole ice-cream-truck thing: yesterday it was tinkling out "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," and just now Beethoven's "Für Elise." (In that respect it reminds me of Connecticut College's rugby club. One hopes that they've found a new club song, because the one they used in the early '90s was laughable: "Kum Ba Yah." I am not kidding. By contrast, here's ours:

     Oh, we play ____ rugby, we're the best damn' rugby team
     There is no other rugby team we couldn't fucking cream
     We used to play in Hell, but Satan kicked us out
     So now we just play rugby, drink beer, get laid, and shout)

At least, though, it tinkled in tune. That's more than can be said for the third truck. It occurred to me yesterday afternoon that the out-of-tune tinkling was the kind of thing you'd hear in a movie when things are going wrong, only the meaning in this case was sweet, sweet ice cream.

(It would be really nice if the geniuses at Blogger would provide some decent formatting tools.)