BEN ADDRESSES JERRY
The results of the Name That Flavor contest
are in, but I’m not going to share them until
we figure it out ourselves. What in the hell
could sell a name like Summer Pony or
Glasgow Coma Scale? I ate a full pail
of Crow & I don’t know about you, but
I hate ice cream. If I had it to do all over,
Americone Dream would be just a dream
deferred. & Tequila Mochabird, in a word,
would be unheard (of). Listen, Jerry,
there is such a thing as too much muchness.
This intellectual gamesmanship & vertical
scaling is worse than Gone Whaling, worse
than Aging Hippie. All the usual blather
about fat content & mouth feel now feels
like clever manipulation by Unilever
or whoever owns us since we last sold out.
Don’t shout at me about idealism, Jair--
have you even tried Cockblocker’s Paradise?
Season after season of busting our blockbusting
balls is no reason not to just throw it all
into the industrial freezer, dead & wheezing
like us two Bartles & Jaymesian old geezers.
People-pleasing’s a mug’s game & it bugs me
that my job entails playing it, & dealing out
desserts like so many drugs makes us thugs.
One bite of Kind Bud Krunch could land you
w/ a case of munchies strong enough to make
the pint self-defeating. Anonymous overeating
leads to bigger bodies which leads to more heat;
All about entropy’s not much of a slogan. I’m
leaving Vermont, becoming Quebecois--au revoir,
Americone, w/ your Pee Wee Hermans & Hulk
Hogans. The border skulks like a teen in the distance,
& you know how teens like their ice cream:
sweet like their hearts, cold like their schemes.