Good Humor indeed.
This picture truly amazes me. It’s rare when a single image is able to tell such a complex and detailed story, but this is one of those pictures. It’s a sad story; one you’ve probably heard before. Clearly this tale takes place in the South, judging by our li’l hero’s mullet, I’d say we’re in the deep South.
Let’s start with the ice cream man, something tells me his name is Billy Ray, but I bet his friends call him Shooter. Keen observers will notice that the missing fingertips on Shooter’s left hand suggests either a violent past in the Korean War or perhaps one too many bar fights down at the Country Bunker. Perhaps and more likely his disability is due to the hazardous effects that are sure to come when you mix extremely poor motor skills with dangerous and outdated ice cream truck machinery. From Shooter’s visibly irritated posture, it’s obvious that this kid did not pay for the fudgesicle. Clearly, Shooter’s half hand is the only thing standing in the way of our hero and a vicious beating. You just don’t steal a fudgesicle from a good o’l boy without paying the consequences, I don’t care if you are a preschooler.
Which brings me to our next subject, Li’l Buford. I’m 60% sure that Buford is male; his mullet is certainly cut to be masculine, although I suppose the same could be said of all mullets. It’s hard to tell at first but our hero actually put a lot of thought into his actions. To keep from burning his shoeless feet on the hot Ozarkian asphalt, he brought a towel along with him on his journey to the ice cream truck. This fact musters up an image of Lil Buford wrestling pigs in his tighty whities one moment, and then, after hearing the ice cream truck playing Dixie or Freebird or some other Southern jingle, our hero jumped to attention. Like a flash, he ran out of the barn he sleeps in, stopping only to grab spare change for payment, and a towel for shoes. Did he stop for pants, a shirt or even a pair of sandals? No, there was no time for such superfluous items. Buford was on a mission, a mission for fudgesicles, and nothing, not even a lack of valid, “Union” currency was going to stand in his way. There he is now, standing on an unwashed towel, enjoying the last few bites of a fudgesicle that are now only visible on his naked belly and ill fitting underwear.
Labels: fine dining