Saturday, October 04, 2003
(2:15 AM) | Anonymous:
If I Go Crazy, Then Will You Still Call Me Superman
I'm sorry, but I feel I've gotten away from the origin of the lyrical titles as the last few have not been consistent with the original intent. I thought a little Three Doors Down might re-focus me as far as the terribly annoying aspect goes.
To start abruptly, I hate Supeman Ice Cream and it has been a force at work to ruin my life from day 5.
I'm not sure if Superman Ice Cream is a universal thing. From what I can tell, it seems to be like Euchre, in that it is heavily based in Michigan but every once in a while it's also known by some random person in another state who's old fashioned ice cream store still sells it.
Let me briefly explain for the uninitiated. First, it is the brightest crap in the entire world. It takes the colors of superman's costume - Blue, Red and Yellow, and mixes them together in a swirl of way too vibrant color that will burn the very sockets of your eyes. It tastes something like Tutti Frutti. Every once in a while you'll catch the Superman by a different name (sort of how Ecto-Cooler Hi-C now simply goes by Cool Citrus or some such name). In less imaginative places it goes by Rainbow. In a few isolated stores it apparently goes by Patriot-Cream or Ameri-Cream in order to help us as a nation pull through these hard times.
Anyways, I tell you all this lest you feel temptation to actually seek it out yourself. Run away at your first sight of it, which should be at about 50 yards out. Dairy Queen is guaranteed not carry it, I advise you to drive the extra 15 minutes to avoid being within striking distance of this evil cream. The only way it could possibly be worse would be if McDonald's had decided to use Superman instead of Vanilla Ice Cream for those God Awful Dr. Pepper-nut McFlurry's.
But the true source of my hatred goes somewhat deeper. See, like it or not there are certain standards set in the Ice Cream World. The Mom will always go with butter pecan. The Dad will always go with mint chocolate chip. The Teenage/college child will choose a luscious rocky road or cookie dough or some other "vanilla with various toppings mixed in" brand. The Child is easily lead astray, and is attracted by the bright colors of the Superman. If any of these classes go with plain chocolate or vanilla (in an atmosphere where many other choices present themselves) you are likely impotent and boring, the type who will eat the ice cream with big, lapping movements of the tongue until there is not a speck of your face left clean, and then will lick the rest of it off your face in the same manner.
These are pretty rigid standards. They may never have been set down in writing, but we all knew. The prevailing opinion of the day was definitely that if we kids dared to order a vanilla, or even a strawberry, the terrorists had already won.
So, lets get to the real single defining moment that lowered my opinion of Superman to it's current low. In 3rd grade our teacher, Ms. Nancy Dutkowski, had the student's over to her house in turns at the end of the year. She'd order pizza, and other then that I don't know why she thought a bunch of 10-12 year olds would get kicks off going to a 40 year old woman's house, but, I think we managed to break some stuff at least. Eventually she took us all to Ron's Ice Cream Parlor to get some dessert. And there it sat before me, I could see its radiance from the parking lot and thus knew the trouble I was in for.
We went inside and one after another every single kid ordered a heaping 2 scoops of that intolerable cream that would have been better off left in the cows utter. It finally was my turn, and being the sensitive, bookish type I was, I ordered up a vanilla and sheepishly hoped no one would notice. Of course, they did. I believe it was probably Dan Lazar who led the laughing, he seemed to do that a lot in elementary school. Whoever it was, someone made sure to point out how different I was from everybody else, which lead to the declaration of a "Superman table," a "Superman club," special super handshakes, passwords, and special "members only" access to the Superman Club website. The one constant in all these things was that they did not include me. I tried forming my own "Bland Vanilla club," but was met with less success. I was on the outside, I was looking in, I could see through them, see their true colors. This was my elementary heartbreak, and it lasted for at least a week until someone farted on the story rug, which spawned a "non-story rug farters" club which did not include Jay Hall.
I'll close just by letting you know that I had a moral disagreement with the superman. It wasn't just that I couldn't buck up and swallow the stuff to achieve popularity. You see, I don't know if it's because of the truckloads of dye used to make the stuff glow like kryptonite, or the unnatural meshing of so many flavors, but whatever it was, the first time I ate Superman I defecated and urinated in vibrant reds and blues for about a week afterwards. There's something terribly unhealthy about that, and the spector of a blueberry looking terd paralyzed me as I stood in line that day at Ron's. I don't know how everyone else overcame this, but there's no way I was the only one with this problem. If the price of popularity is radiant crap, then popularity can take a flying leap, even if it did mean I had to sit with the Mr. Wizard fan club at lunch for a week. After all, that part where he drops the ping pong ball on the mouse traps in the beginning is actually sort of cool..
