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14 December 2015

Say hello to my little friends

BBLarry360It's a good thing I'm not trying to verbalize these thoughts right now.  My tongue appears to be frozen.

The same goes for my left hand, which has alternately been supporting two recently purchased half gallons of Blue Bell Peppermint and Homemade Vanilla ice cream.

Yes, this is the day Blue Bell finally returned to San Antonio.  I know other sections of the state got a month or two head start on the rebirth of the Creamy Nectar of the Gods, also known, sadly, as the brand of ice cream tainted by the much-publicized food-borne illness caused by listeria linked to the deaths of three people.  Blue Bell was yanked from freezer shelves back in March.

For those of us addicted to the tasty frozen treat produced from the milk of cows so contented they thought they were in heaven (so the TV ads said), the re-emergence of Blue Bell (especially Homemade Vanilla) is a banner day.

Now, as I try to peel the spoon, also quite frozen at this point, from my numb tongue, here's something you might not know.  The Great Listeria Scare of 2015 wasn't the first time I risked my life to tantalize my taste buds and freeze my innards with Blue Bell.

Nope, that would be years ago, when the act of a desperately addicted man drove him to the brink of madness so real you could cut it with a knife.  Almost did, in fact.

You can find the sordid tale in my new book titled Did I Write That Out Loud?  The Blue Bell madness episode unfolds in Chapter 16, The Real Cold War, which I am pleased to share here:

Despite what you may have heard on the news, the Cold War isn't over.
It rages on with me, a slightly bloated army of one. I'm deeply entrenched and flailing away on the front lines of a fierce, ongoing, losing battle.

I have this little ice cream issue, you see.

I wouldn't really call it an addiction, as such. To me, it's more like the cold, creamy, slippery slope to self-esteem hell.

It started out innocently enough. I remember sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night as a kid of 10 or 11 in Grand Prairie, Texas. While my family slept, I'd stand in the harsh glare of the refrigerator light and my nagging conscience. Degrading myself with one teaspoon of frozen self-esteem poison at a time.

BookCover290It was the cheap stuff back then; three-for-a-dollar iced milk. It tasted like frozen Elmer's Glue-All with a hint of cheap chocolate.

It made no difference to me. I'd scoop away, out of control (and often shivering), until one tiny teaspoon remained. Then I'd carefully replace the carton in the freezer and shamefully hope no one noticed that some thief in the night had gone on a binge.

For many years, my dad (who died in 2001) loved to tell the story about the time he replaced a flimsy carton I had previously ravaged with a brand-new one. Same generic brand. Same dull flavor. For once, my mom, dad and older brother got to enjoy an ice cream-like concoction at their leisure while I waited for my next target.

Good one, Dad.

In adulthood, the situation has gotten worse, not better. Needless to say, if my addiction were to a more lethal drug - say cocaine or “Lara Croft” video games - my life would be over. I'd be sleeping in a cardboard box outside some Baskin-Robbins store.

Don't get me wrong. I fight it. And I lose. Last winter, for instance, I had gone two or three weeks without giving in. But on the coldest, most miserable night of the year, I caved. It was sleeting. Every step outside was a precursor of doom and perhaps a visit to ER (not the TV show).

"If you don't absolutely have to go out, stay home," the weather guy in the loud bow tie was saying.

I absolutely had to go out.

I bundled up and gingerly made my way to the car, which was shrouded in a thick sheet of ice. De-icing would take at least 10 or 15 minutes. So I drove the four blocks to my neighborhood 7-Eleven at about 5 mph with my head sticking out the window like a flop-eared dog -- a flop-eared dog with icicles.

That's nothing, though, compared to the time a few years ago when I inadvertently swallowed a knife during a binge.

I don't exactly have patience when my craving gets the best of me. I have this dangerous -- ludicrous, in fact -- habit of chiseling chunks of rock-hard ice cream from the carton with a dinner knife.

One night, in my haste, I plunged into a solidly frozen half gallon of Rocky Road with a knife and reckless abandon. I plopped the chunk of instant gratification into my mouth. And I pulled back a rather incomplete table utensil.

A piece of the knife - about the size of a thumbnail - was missing. Since this kind of gluttony knows no shame and obviously makes no sense, I rushed through the rest of the abusive ritual.

The thinking, if we can call it that:

"I'd better hurry. This just might be my last shot at Rocky Road."

I'm happy to report that no dire consequences resulted. Once the empty euphoria of gorging had passed and was replaced by guilt, I thought that, at the very least, I'd have a difficult time getting through the metal detector at the airport.

I think the knife tip is still lodged somewhere in my body. I think it's in my "yet." I don't know which internal organ a "yet" is exactly. But I'll never forget a television news anchor reporting one night about a poor woman who had been shot.

"She survived," the golden-throated anchor said, "but the bullet remains in her yet."

Hopefully, the unwelcome foreign object won't relocate to a more easily damaged organ for either of us.

With a little luck and about $10,000 worth of therapy, I might just get this Chunky Monkey off my back before it's too late. I may not be so fortunate the next time a concealed sharp steel object rides the Blue Bell Express into my Homemade Vanilla-coated internal abyss.


Did I mention that Did I Write That Out Loud? has been called "the perfect Christmas gift" by some (Well, me)?  To order online -- and please limit your order to no more than 200 copies at a time -- go to Amazon.com.


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