I was getting ice cream earlier tonight at Cones in the West Village. They have tasty ice cream there, which means lots of different kinds of people like to go there... not just other balding Jewish guys with unconnected beards. No, Cones is not like Midtown Comics. Or the third stall in the bathroom of the Jersey terminal at Penn Station.
When you get something broad and mainstream and yet also great, you're often forced into interactions with people you'd rather not be forced into reactions with. Case in point, two blonde girls in their early 20s came into Cones about a minute or so after I got my ice cream. Skinny, tall, ectomorphish, obviously publicists.
That's cool. They can exist and do their thing and whatever. I don't discriminate. But as soon as I saw them come in, I started to eat my ice cream faster and faster. I knew something unpleasant was just around the corner.
As I quick-licked my dish full of Cones, I tried my hardest to tune out these two blonde girls; when they sampled four or five different flavors before deciding to share a tiny, one scoop ice cream, I focused elsewhere. When they whined about Cones' cash only policy, I stared hard at a poster in the corner of the room -- wow, that piece of cheese cake has a lot of cherries on top.
But then one of the girls obliviously grabbed an ice cream cone holder they keep on the counter and bring it back to her table, I lost it. I stood up right then and there and threw my remaining ice cream in the girl's face. Suddenly, ice cream started flying everywhere, from all the customers and employees. Soon we were all covered in ice cream and then we were knee deep and then neck deep in ice cream.
After hours of ice cream throwing, the chaos died down. The two girls were laying, face down, in a pool of melted pistachio gelato, their bodies cold and limp.
That's what happened.
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