Yesterday I was folding my laundry in my comfy Brooklyn pad enjoying the breeze blowing in from the deck. Lovely Sunday afternoon and I was groovin’. Then fuck nuts decides to pull up with his Ice Cream truck across the street. I wouldn’t have cared, I don’t really like sweets, but the kids do, so that’s good enough for me. But this mother fucker stays parked in the same location (directly across from my building) for damn near 40 minutes. For the ENTIRE time he was playing, as loud as it would go, his little ice cream man PA system. Would you like to know what song got played over and over for 45 minutes? Would you like to know what god-awful whore-sucking bitch of a tune I had to listen to (about 3 notches louder than I jam my own system -which is REAL fucking loud) for just long enough to go insane?
It’s a small world. That’s right. As if riding that fuckin’ ride at Disney world, bringing me within a hair of blowing my own fucking head off so as to end that goddamn song once and for all, wasn’t enough . . . In my own goddamn home I had to listen to the instrumental version of “It’s a small world” damn near 100 times. It ended with a sound effect too. A real loud “Boinngngngigng” like some cartoon spring at the end. What follows did not, unfortunately occur, but it is where my mind began to wander after about 15 times through the song:
“The Maddest DJ”
He had the guns for protection, and had hoped to never have to use them. A high powered hunting rifle, a .45, a .38 and a shotgun. He always imagined using them in case of a burglary at night. Never did he think he would need them for a Sunday brunch.
He was having a few neighbors over for Mimosa’s, backgammon, and enlightened conversation. All was well until the noise started. Everyone laughed at first - the familiar sound of an ice cream truck brought back memories for them all. The tune chosen was “it’s a small world” and everybody grinned.
The first time.
By the fifth time it wasn’t even mildly amusing.
By the tenth time it had grown annoying.
By the twentieth time, folks were starting to get angry.
30 iterations into the repeated playing of this horrendous song brought on raised voices and the sentiment that something must be done.
40 times and the people wanted blood.
On the 49th play of this vilest of songs, a strange calm came over the host. He casually walked into the bedroom and retrieved said guns from his closet. When he returned to the deck, guns in hands, his neighbors knew what he had in mind. Silently, other than that repeated torture related to the percieved size of the world, they nodded in agreement.
The neighbor with the most shootting experience stayed on the deck with the hunting rifle. The host and two other neighbors headed downstairs towards the ice cream truck. When they were in position they signaled to the sniper on the deck.
He took aim, thinking how sweet it would be when the noise finally stopped. He chambered the rifle and then fired hitting the speaker dead on. The music stopped briefly, and then started back up. This time it was playing “If your happy and you know it” which was no cure for their problem. The sniper worked the bolt and took aim again, this time shutting down the PA for good.
Moments later the door to the ice cream truck swung open and a furious ice cream man stormed out. Big mistake. The first shot that hit him was from the .38. It hit him in the shoulder. He realized he was in trouble and took off running down the street. Then a bullet from the .45 hit him in the leg and he was left crawling on the sidewalk - bleeding heavily.
In a final triumph the host advanced on him. He kicked the ice cream man and flipped him over so he could look into his eyes. He realized he recognized the wounded man from a local bar.
“Hey! Don’t I know you?” he asked of the ice cream vendor leveling the shotgun at his head.
“Yes! Yes! From the rain lounge! Please don’t kill me.”
“Huh. I guess it is a small world after all” uttered the host as he pulled the trigger. The ice cream man’s head exploded onto the sidewalk in a bloody display of brain and skull.
“Boingggggggggg Mother Fucker!!!” the Dj screemed.
A crowd of people had gathered and watched what had just happened. For a moment there was silence as the pool of blood grew around the lifeless corpse. Then, suddenly, a cheer louder that any football fans could make erupted from the streets of Brooklyn. The ice cream man could never torture anyone again.
Champion of the people, he returned to his abode with his neigbors. Much revelry was had - and free ice cream.
DaLovin’ Dj
