Thursday, July 23, 2009

For the love of Chapman's!

I went to the store after work today to rustle something presentable for dinner. The man is a mean, keen, grilling machine so I picked up a package of turkey sausages (over half the fat, baby), some sauerkraut and high-fibre buns (oh my, it's going to be a dutch oven night!) and proceeded to the checkout.

There was a lady behind me in the line-up, talking to her kids about an upcoming camp and carrying my favourite ice cream in the world. It's so good that I had to compliment her on her choice. You see, the ice cream is made in my dad's hometown of Markdale, Ont. and I have great memories of venturing to the dairy for a small scoop when my brother and I were shipped off... I mean lucky enough for a week-long visit. Chapman's Ice Cream was the only ice cream allowed in the house - my dad was loyal.

So, I said "that's the best ice cream ever" and was about to tell her that it's made in Markdale and that Markdale, though small, is da bomb. Her reaction: disdain. Disdain for what, I don't know. Me? Perhaps? My gastroriffic choice of a dinner? No. Perhaps, even in the suburbs, locals don't talk to each other. Sure, we flip each other the bird, spew venom at the clogged roads, but rudeness? I hadn't thought the city had gone as far as thumbing noses at complete strangers. Over ice cream dreams.

Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything, made my purchase and gone on my merry way, but that's boring. Predictable. Un-community like.

So, to the woman behind me in the line-up at the Fair & Fresh I extend my middle finger, snub my nose with it and say "Get over yourself." It's a little polite conversation and a recongizing of great ice cream when we see it. I called you on the ice cream and now I'm calling you on this. May your ice cream rot your teeth. May you lick my hairy... big toe. Okay, it's not hairy but it's been in a closed toe shoe for 9 hours. It's enough to kill someone. My death laser stare will have to do. Or, I can rub my toe jam under your nostrils. Your choice. Now if you will excuse me, I have some sauerkraut to eat. With ice cream. And toe jam.


  1. What a ho bag! Who could ever be a bitch about ice cream. Ice cream brings happy thoughts of delicious goodness and childlike emotions. I hope that wench got a brain freeze.

  2. Thanks Summer. At the time I was looking for an ice pick to ram up her nose but once I calmed down (I don't tolerate rudeness) I realized that karma will give her ice cream food poisoning and then everytime she will look at ice cream again she'll think I should have been nicer to that lady in the line-up. Now all my ice cream tastes like vomit and runny fesces. Here's hoping.

  3. You should have said, "Sor-ry!" and rolled your eyes a bit. People chat at the checkout or remark about things here and there sometimes to pass the time. No need to get stanky! It's not like you told her the tampons she had are "the best, very absorbent." That would deserve disdain, not ice cream compliments! Sheesh!