The Ice Cream Idiot

Dad’s been telling stories again . . .

This . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

And finally, this.

He had just left his newborn daughter and her mother sleeping happily at the hospital.

The newly-minted father stepped out into the sunshine and grinned.

He needed to celebrate.

He stood there for a moment.

Then it hit him. What better way to celebrate then with a dish of ice cream at the Spudnut Shop?

Soon he was standing in the familiar café, studying the menu on the wall.

Hmm . . . he’d always wanted to try the Idiot Sundae.

He took a deep breath and grinned.

Perfect!

He stepped to the counter and placed his order.

“Just take a seat, sir,” the soda jerk said. “We’ll bring it right out.”

He did.

And they did.

Now I should probably mention, here, that the Idiot Sundae was a concoction of twenty large scoops of various flavours of ice cream. With all of the fixings.

All. Of. The. Fixings.

And one spoon.

The . . . platter . . . was brought out.

And slid carefully onto the table in front of him.

Heaven.

Another grin as he picked up the spoon.

And started working his way through the melting mound of deliciousness.

He did well.

One scoop after another disappeared.

Finally, there were only three scoops left.

He stared at them.

Three scoops.

He groaned.

He.

Just.

Couldn’t.

Do.

It.

He dropped the spoon in defeat.

So close.

So very close.

And today, almost 65 years later, he remembers those three scoops left melting in the dish.

And wonders.

Was he an idiot for leaving them?

Or just an idiot for ordering in the first place.

You decide . . .