The Marquis’ Intimate Diary

SATURDAY, 27 MAY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA
Yesterday, driving home from work with my friend who lives across the street, we got stuck behind the Lickety Split ice cream truck swarmed with dirty-faced clamourous peasant children and I observed a tragic (IMHO) sign o’ the times.

“Matt,” said I, “do you see what that truck says?”

“Lickety Split — Ice Cream & Non-Fat Yogurt,” replied Matt whose reading skills are exemplory.

“I hate to sound fuddyduddymustypoohpooh, but that shit would not have flown very well when we were kids. I mean can ya see it?…” and I demonstrated in a not-very-convincing child falsetto:
(Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle — the sound of the ice cream truck’s merry electronic soundbyte chimes.)

“Ooo! The non-fat yogurt truck! Hey maman! Can I have some change for the non-fat yogurt truck!? Huh? Can I? Can I?”

“Mais oui, mon p’tit marquis. Here ees zee coinz for you and to be zee buying ov zee non-vat yogaht.”

“Hey! Lickety Split man! Slow down! I wants me some non-fat yogurt! Hey! Lickety Split man! Non-fat yogurt man! Wait up! (Pant, pant, pant) I want some non-fat yogurt, non-fat yogurt man! MAMAN! Tell ‘im to slow the fuck down! (Pant, pant, pant) Wahh! I desire non-fat yogurt! Or some organically grown oat bars or yeast flakes! Heyyy! Maman! Il est parti!”

“Vell run fastah, mon cher, and bring back your maman a fresh plate ov crudités…”
Matt just looked at me weird.