The Morning Glory and the Ice-cream ConeMature

Pretty self-explanatory...

“I see your petals are shrivelling. Getting old?”

“End of the day.”

“End of the day? It’s only noon.”

“That’s about as long as my day is.”

“Hey, you’re one o’ them mornin’ victories, or summat.”

“Morning glory. And I am most definitely shrivelling, thank you. I see you’re sweating likewise. End of your fifteen minutes of fame, too?”

“The cone’s feelin’ a little soggy ‘round the edges, yeah. Oo.. there goes a trickle right down the spine. Gotta love those.”

“Oh, to be warm and dry up on my stem…”

“Don’t get around much, do ya? I’d go raving mad if I were you.”

“And I suppose you travel? What, do you dribble from table edge to dirty floor? Oh, or passed in a bucket from hand to grimy hand? I want to hear it.”

“Ever been in an ice-cream truck before? You meet some of the interesting-est folks. Crazy folks, with half the fat, and weird, chocolate wafer jackets.”

“Take your quaint little tales somewhere else.”

“What else do you have on the agenda? You got no one to talk to, and all you do is sit pretty. What on earth do you live for?”

“I’ll have you know that I am perfectly content. I am a MORNING glory, for crying out loud, one of the more coveted flower species around! I am fine like wine, lustrous like satin, delicate and graceful as the flare of a trumpet, I make the birds hum, I make the bees come, I AM A BOTANIST’S DREAM!’

“And all for a limited time. Fantastic, innit?”

“ It’s a wonderful life.”

“We really are great things. Look at you, you’re a stunning flower, and you look like a… a dancing ballerina-“

“-nice try-“

“-and I, the ideal North-American treat, but we gotta keep our shit together!”

“Maybe we don’t.”

“Come again?”

“Why do you think people always come back to us?”

“Because… we’re wonderful things?”

“I could be bluer, taller, bigger and more fragrant, and even then, no one would give a hoot about me. You could be vanilla, chocolate, both, candy-coated and sugar-loaded, but in the end, ice-cream is ice-cream.”

“Do us a little justice, we are the cream of the crop.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You were asking for it. Where are you going with this?”

“I need a live example… Alright, look, we’ve got ‘Chez Pierre’ on the west, and ‘Chez Paris’ on the east, both of which serve Foie Gras and a nice sprig of parsley. ‘Chez Pierre’ is open seven days a week. Pretty normal influx of customers. You know, the odd couple. ‘Chez Paris’, on the other hand, is open on Sundays only. And look, we’ve got customers left, right and centre. Now, do you see a line-up spilling out of Pierre, over there?”

“It’s the soufflé they’re after, numbskull.”

“So you’re gonna play idiot, eh? Okay…uh, see that little tyke in the batman shirt? What’s he holding?”

“A jug of… jumbo… ultra… super-extreme… bubbles!”

“Correct. Now watch his face light up as twenty or so bubbles sprout out the end of that bubble stick…thing. And look! He’s stationary. Does he reach out to grab them, those iridescent spheres? No, they’ll burst if he does. They’ll burst anyway, though- it’s only a matter of how long. All he knows is that it’s nice to watch the pretty things while they last.”

“That’s what balloons are for, dumbbell.”

“Well, heck! You want me to spell it out for you? It’s not rocket science, it’s a universal idea. Humans, those imbeciles, you give them the new levis, and they want the ripped ones, and when they get the ripped ones, they perish in half the time. They always want what they can’t have, but when they get it, it fades in the blink of an eye. Put it however you want. Nothing gold can stay, yada yada yada. Hey, you brown puddle, I’m delivering a monologue here!”


Pleasure: momentary as chitchat with an ice-cream cone.

The End

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