I had seven glorious months of quiet until the first warm day in April. That's when you and your ice cream truck turned up again. Just like last year, you stop in front of my house, music blaring. No longer can I hear the birds, the wind blowing through the yard, or the people at my kitchen table. I can't even hear myself think because "Turkey in the Straw" is roaring from your fucking truck. Last summer I tried asking you to turn the music down, but you pleaded that without it cranked up to full blast "the kids can't hear me to come and get their ice cream." I guess I don't give a shit. Let 'em run a little farther, since they'll need to burn off some of the empty calories you're going to sell them. Plus, the one song you play over and over gets stuck in my head so that even once you're gone I'm still tortured. I hope this year becomes the coldest, rainiest summer in history and that you go bust due to lack of demand. I'm still surprised that more ice cream truck drivers aren't shot. --Anonymous
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