TumbleDweeeb

The Great Ice Cream Catastrophe
Written by: Emmitt Owens
(Index #12062023)

   Marla clutched her triple-scoop rocky road cone like a trophy as she settled onto the park bench, her beautiful white sundress fanning out around her. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, turning the asphalt into glistening waves of heat, but she was determined to enjoy every last chunk of chocolate and marshmallow in her frozen masterpiece. She’d earned this moment of indulgence after a grueling week at work, and nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to ruin it.
   The first warning sign came within thirty seconds.
   A fat droplet of chocolate-streaked vanilla slid down the cone’s exterior and landed with a wet **splat** on her bright white canvas shoes. Marla frowned and shifted the cone to her left hand, using her right to dab at the brown stain with a crumpled napkin from her purse. But the damage had begun, and rocky road ice cream—with its chunky landscape of nuts, marshmallows, and chocolate chips—was not known for its structural integrity under pressure.
       “No big deal,” she muttered, raising the cone to her lips for a first lick. The top scoop, softened by the blazing sun, yielded immediately under her tongue’s pressure, creating a landslide of melted vanilla that cascaded down the cone’s sides like a frozen avalanche. The chocolate chunks and marshmallow bits rode the vanilla wave, some adhering to her fingers while others took the express route straight to her lap.
   A jogger in neon yellow shorts slowed his pace as he approached, his eyes widening at the sight of Marla frantically licking around the cone’s perimeter in a desperate attempt to contain the damage. She attacked the melting fortress with increasing urgency, her tongue working overtime to catch every runaway rivulet. The wet, slurping sounds she produced would have made a Saint Bernard jealous, but dignity had already evacuated the premises along with any hope of keeping her outfit clean.
     “Come on, come on,” she whispered between aggressive licks, her tongue darting out like a lizard’s as she tried to corral the melting chaos. The wet, slapping sounds of her tongue against the cone echoed across the park with all the subtlety of a Saint Bernard drinking from a puddle. Her mouth opened wider and wider with each desperate lick, stretching into an almost unhinged position as she tried to engulf the entire cone circumference in one go. Saliva mixed with melted vanilla created foamy rivulets that dripped from the corners of her mouth, while her tongue worked overtime, flicking and darting with increasing desperation. But the rocky road had declared war on gravity, and gravity was winning. A particularly large marshmallow chunk broke free from the second scoop and tumbled down her chin, leaving a sticky white trail before disappearing into her cleavage with an audible **plop**. She paused mid-lick, her tongue hanging out grotesquely as a string of vanilla-saliva mixture stretched from her mouth to the cone like some kind of dairy spider web. She stared down in horror at the vanilla-and-marshmallow debris now decorating the front of her sundress in the form of abstract art.
   The jogger had completely stopped running now, transfixed by the unfolding disaster. He stood twenty feet away, pretending to stretch his hamstring while stealing glances at Marla’s increasingly frantic battle with her frozen nemesis. A cyclist approaching from the opposite direction caught sight of Marla’s grotesque tongue display and turned his head so sharply that he completely missed the upcoming curve in the path. His bike careened straight into a concrete barrier with a spectacular **CRASH**, sending him tumbling over the handlebars in a tangle of limbs and spinning wheels. “I’m okay!” he called out weakly from behind the barrier, apparently more embarrassed by his gawking than his crash. She caught sight of him and felt heat rise in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. In a moment of misguided vanity, she attempted to eat the cone “normally,” taking what she imagined was a dainty, ladylike bite from the top scoop.
   The result was catastrophic.
   The weakened ice cream structure, already compromised by solar assault and her previous licking campaign, couldn’t withstand the lateral pressure of her bite. The entire top scoop separated from the cone and slid sideways, smearing across her cheek like chunky face paint before gravity claimed it for the ground below. It hit the concrete with a wet **smack**, exploding into a Jackson Pollock painting of vanilla, chocolate, and marshmallow bits that decorated a three-foot radius around the bench.
       “Oh, for the love of—” Marla began, then bit off the curse as she noticed a family with two young children approaching on the walking path. The mother’s expression shifted from pleasant afternoon stroll to barely concealed horror as she took in the scene: Marla with chocolate-streaked cheeks, a destroyed sundress, and what looked like the aftermath of an ice cream truck explosion surrounding her bench.
   But Marla wasn’t ready to surrender. She still had two scoops left, and by God, she was going to eat them even if it killed her. She opened her mouth impossibly wide, her jaw unhinged like a python attempting to swallow prey twice its size. Her tongue emerged again, this time taking on a life of its own as it slithered around the cone’s perimeter with serpentine determination. The slurping sounds intensified, creating a wet symphony that made nearby birds take flight in apparent disgust. She gripped the cone more firmly, ignoring the way the soggy waffle was already beginning to disintegrate between her sticky fingers, leaving brown waffle chunks embedded under her fingernails like sweet dirt. This time, she would be strategic. This time, she would tilt the cone at the right angle to create a perfect ice cream delivery system that would allow her to consume every last bit without further catastrophe.
   The second scoop, perhaps sensing her renewed determination, chose that exact moment to stage its own rebellion. As Marla tilted the cone toward her mouth, opening it so wide that her jaw made an audible **pop**, the softened ice cream slid forward like a vanilla glacier, meeting her gaping maw with lightning speed as it compressed against her face and squirted out in multiple directions simultaneously. Her cheeks bulged like a hamster stuffing sunflower seeds into its pouches as rocky road filled every available cavity in her mouth. Ice cream shot up her nostrils, making her sneeze explosively and spraying a fine mist of dairy and chocolate chunks across the bench while more oozed from the corners of her mouth like toothpaste from an overstuffed tube. Her tongue, now completely coated in a thick layer of vanilla and saliva, lolled out helplessly as stringy ribbons of melted ice cream swayed hypnotically in the slight breeze.
   The family with children had reached prime viewing distance just in time to witness this spectacular display. The mother quickly covered her younger child’s eyes while the father stood slack-jawed, apparently unable to look away from the carnage. A female jogger approaching from behind them caught sight of Marla’s grotesque display and stumbled mid-stride, her legs tangling together as she pitched forward onto the path with an ungraceful **thud**. She rolled to a stop just feet from the ice cream blast radius, grass stains now decorating her expensive athletic wear. Their eight-year-old son, however, was absolutely delighted.
     “Mommy, look! That lady’s eating ice cream like a pig!” he announced at maximum volume, pointing directly at Marla with savage honesty only children possess.
   A well-dressed woman walking her small, yapping dog had also stopped to witness the carnage. She watched in horrified fascination as Marla’s tongue continued its desperate salvage operation before finally speaking up. “Excuse me, miss!” she called out, in a tone reserved for addressing particularly troublesome raccoons. “There are children present! Perhaps you could take your… feeding activities… somewhere more private? Like behind a dumpster where decent people don’t have to see this!”
   Marla froze, a string of vanilla-chocolate mixture hanging from her lower lip like dental work gone horribly wrong, her tongue still partially extended and twitching with residual licking motions. She could feel rocky road debris in her hair, could taste chocolate chips that had somehow migrated behind her molars, and was fairly certain there was a marshmallow chunk lodged in her left ear. Her mouth remained agape, revealing a landscape of brown and white dairy destruction coating her teeth and gums like some kind of dessert-themed dental disaster. The logical thing to do would be to admit defeat, throw away what remained of the cone, and retreat to the nearest bathroom for damage control.
   Instead, she doubled down on disaster.
     “I’m not giving up on you,” she whispered to the remaining scoop, which seemed to quiver with malevolent intent. She adjusted her grip on the increasingly soggy cone, feeling pieces of waffle break off and stick to her palm like wet cardboard. The chocolate chips embedded in the ice cream had begun to melt, creating brown streams that painted her fingers and wrists in patterns. Her sundress, once pristine white, now resembled a canvas where Jackson Pollock had fought an epic battle with Ben & Jerry.
   This time, she would be smarter. This time, she would eat from the bottom up, creating a structural foundation that could support the remaining frozen chaos. She lifted the cone’s pointed tip to her mouth and bit down decisively.
   The cone, weakened by moisture and heat, collapsed instantly.
   What followed could only be described as an ice cream apocalypse. The remaining scoop, no longer supported by even the pretense of structural integrity, dropped directly onto her lap with a wet **thwack** that sent chunks of marshmallow and chocolate flying in all directions. The cone itself disintegrated in her grip, leaving her holding what felt like soggy breakfast cereal while rocky road cascaded down her legs like a frozen waterfall of shame.
   But the universe wasn’t finished with Marla yet.
   A curious squirrel, attracted by the sweet carnage, approached the bench with the confidence of an urban scavenger who’d seen it all. It paused at the edge of the ice cream blast radius, twitched its tail thoughtfully, then launched itself directly at Marla’s lap where the mother lode of rocky road had gathered.
       “No, no, NO!” she shrieked, trying to stand and shake off both squirrel and ice cream simultaneously. But her shoes had lost all traction on the mixture of melted dairy and cone fragments beneath her feet. She windmilled her arms desperately, chunks of chocolate and marshmallow flying from her fingers like sweet shrapnel, before gravity claimed final victory.
   Marla hit the ground hard, landing directly in the center of her own ice cream disaster zone. The impact sent up a spray of vanilla and chocolate that decorated nearby park benches, innocent pedestrians, and one unfortunate jogger who had chosen the worst possible moment to resume his run. She lay there for a moment, stunned, looking like she’d been the losing participant in a food fight with a dairy farm.
   The squirrel, apparently satisfied with its haul of stolen marshmallow chunks, chittered what sounded suspiciously like laughter before scampering away with its prize. Around her, a crowd had begun to gather—not to help, but to stare in fascination at what appeared to be the aftermath of an ice cream truck collision with a human being.
   An elderly man with a metal detector looked down at her with a mixture of awe and disgust. “Miss, you’ve got a little something…” He gestured vaguely at her entire body, apparently unable to identify which specific area needed attention since she was now comprehensively coated in rocky road from head to toe.
   Marla attempted to sit up, her hands squelching in the puddle of melted ice cream beneath her. Vanilla oozed between her fingers with the consistency of warm pudding, while chocolate chips adhered to her palms like sweet barnacles. Her hair, once carefully styled, now hung in strings that were thoroughly shellacked with dairy products and studded with marshmallow chunks like some kind of dessert-themed dreadlocks.
       “I’m fine,” she said out loud, though her voice was muffled by the chocolate chips that had somehow infiltrated her mouth during the fall. “Totally fine. Just enjoying a nice afternoon snack.”
   A park maintenance worker approached with a water hose, eyeing the disaster zone. “Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to move so I can clean up this… situation.” He gestured at the mess, looking at it like a crime scene from an ice cream serial killer movie.
   Marla struggled to her feet, her sundress making obscene squelching sounds as it peeled away from the concrete. Vanilla ice cream had soaked through the fabric and was now dripping steadily from the hem, creating a trail of dairy destruction with each step. Her white canvas shoes had achieved a modern art aesthetic, splattered with enough chocolate and marshmallow to qualify as expressionism.
   But before she could even contemplate her escape, Marla noticed she had attracted an entirely different kind of audience. A single pigeon had landed near the bench, its head tilted at that peculiar bird angle as it studied her with one beady eye. The pigeon took a cautious hop closer, apparently drawn by the sweet scent of disaster emanating from her sticky form.
     “Shoo,” Marla whispered weakly, but her voice lacked conviction. She was, after all, essentially a human ice cream sundae at this point.
   Within seconds, the lone pigeon was joined by another. Then three more. Then what appeared to be the entire pigeon population of the greater metropolitan area descended upon the scene like feathered vultures who had discovered the motherlode of accidental bird treats. They strutted around her feet with the confidence of urban scavengers who had seen it all, their heads bobbing as they assessed the buffet that had literally fallen from heaven.
       “Oh no, no, no,” Marla muttered, but it was too late. One particularly brazen pigeon had spotted the marshmallow chunk lodged near her collarbone and decided to investigate personally. With a flutter of gray wings, it landed directly on her shoulder and began pecking at the sticky white morsel.
   The sensation of tiny claws gripping her crusted skin while a beak worked inches from her neck was almost too much to bear. But things got exponentially worse when a second pigeon landed on her head, its talons tangling in her ice cream-shellacked hair as it went after the chocolate chips that had taken up residence in her roots.
     “I am not a buffet!” Marla shrieked, but her protest only seemed to encourage the flock. More pigeons landed on her arms, her back, anywhere there was evidence of rocky road real estate. They pecked and clawed like customers at an all-you-can-eat restaurant, completely ignoring her increasingly frantic attempts to shoo them away.
   The situation reached full chaos when a toddler with a bag of breadcrumbs, apparently oblivious to the “Do Not Feed the Wildlife” sign posted prominently nearby, decided to help the nice ice cream lady feed the pretty birds. With accuracy that only small children possess, he hurled a handful of breadcrumbs that landed squarely in Marla’s cleavage.
   The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
   The entire flock went absolutely feral, swarming her like she was a living dessert tray topped with premium bird seed. Pigeons dive-bombed her from above while others attacked from ground level, creating a whirlwind of flapping wings, sharp claws, and aggressive cooing that sounded like the world’s most chaotic avian orchestra. Marla spun in circles, her arms windmilling desperately as she tried to dislodge her feathered assailants, but this only caused more ice cream debris to fly in all directions, further exciting the pigeon mob.
       “GET OFF ME!” she screamed, dancing what could only be known as the Rocky Road Rodeo while chunks of marshmallow and chocolate sailed through the air. One pigeon, apparently drunk on sugar and adrenaline, had wrapped itself around her wrist like a feathered bracelet and was consuming the vanilla coating her skin with the dedication of a tiny, winged vacuum cleaner.
   The crowd of onlookers had grown substantially, with several people now openly filming what was rapidly becoming viral video material. A jogger, so transfixed by the spectacle that he forgot to watch where he was running, tripped over his own feet and face-planted into a nearby trash can with a resounding **clang**. Even from inside the garbage bin, his muffled voice could be heard asking, “Did someone get that on video?”
   The stroller mom from earlier had returned, apparently drawn by the commotion, and was now shielding not just her own child’s eyes but also covering the eyes of three other random children who had materialized to witness the Great Pigeon Feeding Frenzy. “Don’t look, sweeties,” she whispered urgently. “The bird lady has lost her mind.”
   Just when Marla thought the situation couldn’t possibly get worse, one aggressive pigeon made the tactical error of pecking too close to her mouth. In her panic, she accidentally got a taste of pigeon foot, which combined with the lingering rocky road flavors in her mouth to create the worst possible fusion cuisine.
   The horror of the moment was broken by the shrill blast of a whistle cutting through the chaos. A park ranger appeared, looking like he’d seen this exact scenario play out roughly seventeen times that week alone. Without a word, he reached into his bag and began throwing handfuls of bird seed in the opposite direction, creating a trail of premium pigeon bait that led away from Marla’s ice cream-coated form.
   The effect was immediate. The entire flock abandoned their human dessert tray and swarmed toward the ranger’s seed trail with purpose.
   Marla stood there in the sudden quiet, covered not only in the remnants of her rocky road disaster but now also decorated with pigeon feathers that stuck to her sticky skin like organic confetti. White bird droppings added new artistic elements to her already comprehensive coating of vanilla and chocolate. A piece of stale bread from the toddler’s assault sat on her chest like a corsage at the world’s worst prom.
   The park ranger looked at her with the expression of someone who had definitely not been paid enough to deal with this level of chaos when he’d taken the job. He glanced at the “Do Not Feed the Wildlife” sign, then back at Marla, then at the crowd of onlookers still filming the aftermath.
       “Ma’am,” he said in the tone of someone who had clearly given up on the concept of normal human behavior, “do they sell shirts in the gift shop?”
   As she began the walk of shame toward the park exit, she became aware of the sensory symphony her movement created. Each step produced a wet **squish** from her saturated shoes, punctuated by the gentle **plop** of ice cream chunks and the occasional pigeon feather drifting to the ground. Her skin felt sticky and tight where the dairy had begun to dry in the sun, creating an uncomfortable coating that pulled at her pores. The sweet, cloying smell of vanilla and chocolate had transformed from delicious to nauseating as it warmed against her body temperature, now mixed with the faint but unmistakable funk of urban pigeon encounters.
   Behind her, she could hear the maintenance worker’s hose beginning its cleanup operation, the sound of pressurized water hitting concrete mixing with what sounded suspiciously like laughter from the gathered crowd. A jogger ran past, giving her a wide berth and a look that suggested she might be patient zero in some kind of dairy-based plague.
   Halfway to the parking lot, Marla caught sight of herself in the window of the park’s visitor center. The reflection that stared back looked like something from a horror movie where the monster was made entirely of ice cream. Her hair stood out at odd angles, held in place by a combination of vanilla and chocolate that had achieved the consistency of industrial adhesive. Marshmallow chunks dotted her face like sweet acne, while brown streams of melted chocolate had created tribal war paint across her cheeks and forehead.
   But perhaps most horrifying of all was the realization that despite everything—the humiliation, the mess, the complete destruction of her outfit and dignity—she was still slightly hungry. The rocky road had been really good quality ice cream, and she’d barely managed to consume any of it before the disaster struck.
   A mother pushing a stroller approached from the opposite direction, took one look at Marla’s ice cream-apocalypse appearance, and promptly crossed to the other side of the path while covering her toddler’s eyes. The child, however, managed to peek between his mother’s fingers and pointed directly at Marla with the unwavering accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.
     “Mommy, why is that lady covered in throw-up?” the toddler asked at a volume that could probably be heard from space.
       “It’s not throw-up, sweetie,” the mother hissed, quickening her pace. “It’s… actually, I don’t know what that is.”
   Marla wanted to explain that it was simply the aftermath of an epic battle between herself and a triple-scoop cone, but the words seemed inadequate. How do you explain that you’d just experienced complete and total defeat at the hands of frozen dairy products? That you’d been outmaneuvered, outflanked, and ultimately conquered by something that was supposed to be a simple afternoon treat?
   As she finally reached her car, Marla paused to consider the logistics of the situation. Her keys were somewhere in her purse, but her hands were so thoroughly coated in sticky ice cream residue that she wasn’t sure she could maintain a grip on anything smaller than a baseball bat. Her car’s interior was beige fabric, and she was essentially a walking dairy disaster zone.
   She stood there for a full minute, dripping steadily onto the asphalt parking lot, while others gave her a wide berth and shot concerned glances in her direction. One woman actually took a photo, apparently unable to resist documenting what might have been the most comprehensive ice cream-related defeat in recorded history.
   Finally, Marla managed to fish her keys from her purse using just her fingertips, trying to minimize the transfer of rocky road residue to her personal belongings. She unlocked her car and stood contemplating the pristine interior, knowing that the moment she sat down, she would essentially be christening her vehicle with the essence of her frozen dessert defeat.
       “Well,” she said to no one in particular, “at least it can’t get any worse.”
   As if summoned by her words, a park sprinkler system chose that moment to activate, sending a spray of cold water across the parking lot that mixed with the ice cream coating her body to create a dairy-based slurry that began dripping from her in earnest. The water reactivated the vanilla ice cream that had begun to dry, turning her back into a mobile dairy disaster zone just as she’d started to achieve some semblance of solidification.
   Marla stood there in the sprinkler spray, looking like a melting ice cream statue, and began to laugh. Not a polite chuckle or a nervous giggle, but a deep, full-bodied laugh that shook chunks of marshmallow from her hair and sent chocolate chips flying from her fingertips. Because sometimes, when you’ve been completely and utterly defeated by a dessert, when you’re standing in a parking lot covered head to toe in rocky road ice cream while being hosed down by automatic sprinklers, the only sane response is to acknowledge the absurdity of the universe and surrender to the chaos.
   She laughed until her sides hurt, until tears mixed with the vanilla streams running down her cheeks, until other park visitors began to wonder if the ice cream disaster had perhaps affected her mentally as well as her appearance. And when she finally stopped laughing and climbed into her car, leaving a Marla-shaped impression of rocky road on her driver’s seat, she was already planning her return trip to the ice cream truck.
   Because next time, she was definitely going with a cup.