Terrorist Plot Uncovered! News at 11!

With all due respect to the recent furor over the (forunately) discovered conspiracy of blowing up British-American flights last week, I offer this little piece of intended humor to lighten the mood.

I am sitting at home indulging an Amelia Peabody mystery after a long day of serving (or attempting to serve) at church. I'm tired, sweaty, but relatively free of any particular want or care. (There is a need, however, of doing the rest of the dishes, but that is easily ignored.) The Boo is asleep, and I'm enjoying the peace and quiet. Er, I mean, reading allows me to be quiet. (My aunt works 3rd shift and has to grab sleep whene'er she can.)

For those that don't know me, I carry a goodly amount of extra poundage. At least 1/3 of that extra weight could be attributed to ice cream. Not chocolate. Not cookies or cake. Definitely not brownies. Ice cream. Smooth, sweet, refreshingly cool ice cream. *sssssiiiiigghhhhhhhh*

And there is nothing more disturbing to an individual intent on relaxing for the night with a good book than the sound of that demon of summer eves, that evil enchanter of the season... The Ice Cream Truck.

I can hear it at least a street over, because our a/c is dead, gone, passed away to wherever the working souls of air conditioners go when they decide they can't handle the friction any more, and our windows are open begging for a breeze. Its merry melody reaches my ears much the same way you see dogs tempted with smells in cartoons... the smoke-like whiff is the strain of the endlessly-repeating song, teasing and tickling my ears. It grows louder, stronger, and the child not very well submerged in me (I want the Spongebob popsicle, please!) pleads within to run out to the curb, waving my money. But I resist.

Especially since I don't have any cash. And - thank God - I sincerely doubt we've advanced so far into "The Mark of the Beast" technology as to have ice cream trucks fitted out to accept debit cards. (If I'm wrong, please do not tell me. They say ignorance is bliss and, in this case, it's probably about 10 pounds lighter, too.)

Still, that Presence that haunts the streets of suburbia in summertime is undeniably indelibly imprinted on the American psyche, calling to children of all ages and playing on the memories of the older ones of those long-ago, happy days... Calling, with its music; weaving its spell... But I say unto you: Beware the wolf in sheep's clothing! Beware the colorful dairy-product dispenser! Ignore the lure of the Pied Piper of Cellulite!

For I, aye, humble I, have uncovered the dastardly plot behind these traveling machines of early-onset obesity! Disassociate yourself from the sweet memory of turning your sunburned face up to the Ice Cream Man and asking for a Drumstick or a Strawberry Shortcake or a Rocket Popsicle. For he is not the friendly treat-bringer we've all been led to believe. He's a terrorist!

I know, I know, I found it hard to believe myself when I discovered the truth. It hurts, does it not? But, I beg of you, consider the facts:

1. Ice cream tastes good. Really good. Like, I'll-be-single-for-the-rest-of-my-life-because-I-can't-lose-weight-because-I-love-ice-cream-too-much-to-never-over-indulge-in-it-again good.
2. Anything that tastes good is bad for you. (I bet that fateful "apple" in Eden was delicious.)
3. Anything that's bad for you is easy to sell.
4. Anything that's easy to sell makes money.
5. Anything that makes money AND is bad for the general American public has got to be something terrorists really dig.
6. I'm generally two steps behind any money-making, health-threatening scheme, so somebody has to be already employing it.
7. Terrorists are a nice, ambiguous group of people to use as scapegoats.

Now, I ask you, how can you argue with my logic? It's as plain as day. You must buy your ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery.

My next in-depth report will cover my investigation of whether Ben & Jerry are really old hippies from Vermont or if they're really "Bin & Jihad." Stay tuned!