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Deb's Diary

Blog > Deb's Diary > Don't tell me you're just selling drumcones up in there...

Don't tell me you're just selling drumcones up in there...

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Dear Diary.
 
I had just about had enough of something the other day.  So I did it again.  I called the 311 on someone.  It wasn't a big emergency and I certainly didn't need a flock of squad cars pulling up to my front door at 100 miles an hour, but there most definitely was a big nusance going on in the hood while I was trying to go to bed.  It was the Ice Cream Man.  Now I know you're going to groan at me andd think I'm abusing the 311 and over reacting but let me fill you in on the details.  This particular Ice Cream Man is intense.  I could swear that when I was a kid the Ice Cream Man came round once or twice a week, maybe more in the summer months or school holidays, but my Ice Cream Man ALWAYS seems to be lurking round the corner, blasting his horrible out of tune, distorted crappy "music" at the top of his jankety Ice Cream Van 's speaker's lungs.  Also why does he show up most nights after 9pm?  Aren't the damn kids in bed? Who's buying a small cone with extra chocolate syrup at 9.30pm while Lost is on?  Not me I tell you!  Which leads me to my point:  Is he really selling Ice Cream?  My good friend and neighbour Sarah has a theory that he's the local, mobile pot dealer.  WTF mate?  I think my childhood Ice Cream Man used to sell chips, sodas and maybe ciggarettes if my memory serves me well, but the chronic?  Well I never.  Oh, the 311 call?  I was too tired to wait on hold to talk to a cop and just went to bed instead.  I'll get that guy another day. 
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