Ice Cream Truck

I only lived in the city for the first five years of my life, and my memory of those first five years is almost non-existent. The one thing I do remember clearly though is the Ice Cream Truck! No child can sit apathetically in place with the tantalizing tinkle of the the Ice Cream Man's bell chiming down the street. My babies fully enjoyed there first Ice Cream Truck treat just the other day. Although the Ice Cream Truck is irresistible to children, as an adult I am less enthusiastic. Paint your creepy pedophile-looking van for Pete's sake. The rust and primer-deep chips in the exterior do not ensue a tremendous amount of confidence in the internal hygiene of your ice cream peddling efforts. I look at your sleazy van with its bald tires and well worn vintage stickers, and I am roughly seventy percent sure I could buy a significant sized baggy of brown-stained Mexican-cooked methamphetamine for the right amount of cash. We are really not talking about a lot of overhead expense here for a sizable increase in profits: scrape off the stickers, buy a professional menu board with removable letters/numbers, put some new tires on that bucket, and get a freakin' $300 Macco paint job.