Spring is here unleashing blossoms, showers and madness. Yes, it’s that pit in my year, that hole in my stomach. Just one irritant can cause me this grade of distress.

On the prowl for customers, the ice cream man trolls the neighborhood. A dissonant soundtrack over a cheap speaker heralds his arrival. Children rush to him to like he’s Michael Jackson before the sex change. My history with the ice cream man goes way back. As mentioned last year, I don’t like ice cream. Perhaps I also mentioned that I really don’t like ice cream?

Hatred aside, it seems this year that one bitter man ice cream barrista went too far. In San Diego a child, probably not unlike many, made fun of the vendor and his silly hat. Poor boy should have checked the calendar. It wasn’t pick on bitter ice cream man day.

Following a harrowing high speed chase, the ice cream man went postal, called the kid a fat tub of goo, and punched him in the face.

For me, ice cream men are the clowns under the bed. There’s just something not right about men in little white trucks cruising for children. And why are there no female ice cream vendors? I’ve yet to meet a girl that didn’t have a higher standard of hygiene than the average male. Perhaps the absence of women in that biz suggests that the conditions on those trucks are repugnant. If it’s so nasty that a girl won’t step on board, why the hell do we let the youth of America eat what’s served off those trucks?