Ok, I fucking cannot stand scooping ice-cream.
Why is that?
Well, in a day and age where technology is so advanced as to provide human beings with a phone that can basically do everything--aside from wiping one's ass--technology has failed to invent an instrument that makes extracting iced cold, ice-cream easy.
I mean I hate when some cheeky little bastard wants his ice-cream sundae for dessert.
I fucking SCREAM over ice-cream.
I walk into the kitchen, open the small, tedious fucking freezer and HOPE that it's broken--by some miracle of God--so as to allow the ice-cream to be lukewarm, and therefore scoop easier than sour-cream.
Of course this is never the case, and so I prepare myself for battle.
I grab the infinitesimal scooper, and drive it--harder than a Mike Tyson jab--into the block of ice-cream.
...Nothing...
Now, I start to lose my temper--especially once I notice the cuffs of my shirt are stained chocolate, or coffee, or whatever the fuck.
I go at it again; nothing.
I try to leverage my whole body against the fucker. I mean, now, I am completely bent over with more than three quarters of my body inside the fucking freezer.
Again, nothing!
Fuck it, it's time to give that son-of-a-bitch the people's elbow.
I'm punching it, kicking it, elbowing it when finally the smallest fucking scoop avails itself.
Nice, now all I have to do to render a full-size serving is repeat this process a hundred times over.
Luckily, the physical exertion expended to scoop has caused a rainstorm of sweat to glide off my forehead.
The salt seems to melt the ice-cream, and--BOOM--it finally gives way.
I bring the ice-cream to the table, and the little bastard complains that he didn't order strawberry sauce.
Oh, don't worry that isn't strawberry sauce, but, rather, the blood that spewed forth after I broke my fucking hand on the ice-cream.
I mean, let's go! It's time Brookstone or Sharper Image invents some crazy geothermic fucking scoop that glides through ice-cream the way that Michael Phelps glides through water.
