An ode to Arnold Jackson

So this past weekend was a glorious thing. Not only did the Yankees not have to do anything to get into the playoffs, thus preventing any unnecessary drama *cough Mets*, but the Giants also decided that maybe they should reincarnate the defense of the late 80's, and actually bring a pass rush to the Eagles. They even brought Harry Carson and Lawrence Taylor to the sidelines, to participate in the voudoun. I believe they also used one of their wives to sacrifice to the football gods to make this happen (*Authors note- this is a lot more funny if A) you had seen the game or B) I could find the pics of the smiling players, with one of their wives between them. Just trust me*). Don't ask what was in the gatorade. Suffice to say, the Giants were a juggernaut, and stomped on the mostly 2nd string players of the Eagles Team (a win is a win bitch!) 16-3.

But my spectacular Sunday (TM) started off even before the football started. This was mostly due to the fact that Sunday, September 30th was "St James Day". Basically, this is a festival that involves all of the local vendors lining up and down Lake Avenue, pushing their wares for the good people of the town. Occasionally there are free samples, which my son and I (mostly I) partake in. Hot Dough and Sugar are a definite "yes", while yogurt and raisins are a distant "maybe" which is just slightly ahead of "gym"- pronounced goyum, I believe.
It wasn't long before the boy scouted out a Mister Softee Truck, and ever polite- asked "May I want some Ice Cream Please?" Being an obliging father, I got him a vanilla cone, with the necessary napkins (about 1 x 10 to the tenth degree.) A few minutes later
after I ponder a Karen Silkwood type of cleaning process on the boy, he hands me a mostly empty cone- with but a small gathering of vanilla remaining in the coin sized reservoir of the otherwise untouched receptacle.
Being the Fat Suggestable Zombie Dad that I am, I commence to eat said cone almost before my son releases it. Nearby parents gasp in terror, as they ponder if the hospital will be able to reattach the three year olds' fingers. But the real comedy involves my son, who looks to me as would a certain child actor of the late 70's-80's, Mr. Gary Coleman. "Whatchu talkinbout Willis" he almost seems to ask.

I looked down at my son, and then looked to either side, slightly reminiscent of a certain pre-Mohawked Mr. Deniro, wondering "Hey, you lookin' at me?" (*authors note- I know it's "Talkin'" to me. Roll with it please*) before it dawns on me just the reason for the perplexed look on my sons face.
Consider yourself sitting in a restaurant. After finishing a completely fine meal with a family member- a family member who had up until that point seemed stable in mind and body- said relative decides to start devouring the plate that their food was on.
I don't REALLY laugh often. When I find things hilarious, my guffaw is much like Jackie "the Jokeman" Martling. I own the laugh, sure. But when I realized why my son was so very troubled by the eating of the cone, as displayed by his "WTF" look, I laughed loud and deep and hard, almost to the point where I lost my breath.
I explained to my son that the cone was a lot like a cookie, and gave him a try. He devoured the poor thing in maybe a minute.