Do Androids Dream of Electric FroYo?
by Will Bailey
I’m weighing in. No, I’m not at the Doctor’s Office, or the Guess My Weight Stand at the county fair, which is, ironically enough, run by the doctor. In fact, I’m out getting ice cream with Wife, an American tradition that has mutated so thoroughly since an insane person decided to combine waffles and cold, salted cream at the Worlds’ Fair that I barely even recognize it anymore. That is because ice cream has left the good, clean, ether soaked environment of the small town pharmacy and entered the evil, dirty, neon bedazzled realm of dime-a-dozen yogurt discos. I have to admit there is something tragic about the fact that my children will never know the joy of watching a junior varsity quarterback dig into a frozen solid block of black raspberry ice cream for hours, only to discover you’ve changed your mind and want a milk shake. The power…it’s almost sweeter than the ice cream. Instead, they will shuffle quietly into a large, sterile yogurt shoppe that looks like a Philip K. Dick adaptation of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, hold their utility bucket under a robotic udder that dispenses genetically modified Frozen Treat Product, shovel toppings of assorted shapes and sizes onto the pile, and then wait as a jaded college graduate weighs their creation like some sort of Medieval judge determining the fate of a witch. That’s right, they will be told exactly how much their indulgent shame weighs before they consume it. Because otherwise what’s the point of going out for ice cream? Happiness? Ha. Ha. Ha.