You might be in Independence if.........................

The guy who drives the Ice Cream truck only looks a little less high than his charming co-pilot/ significant other. For starters, a man driving an ice cream truck, well in to his thirties, is .....well..... just plain creepy. On a recent late afternoon/early evening, I'm sitting in the recliner, when I hear the familiar music and obnoxious ringing of the Ice Cream truck. I suddenly had this nostalgic rush of memories, summers as a boy, 50 cents and the promise of a crunch bomb pop, maybe a chocolate eclair bar, or the harmonic melding of the frozen treat races; the Banana Fudge bomb. Or it could have just been the hippy lettuce, either way, I had a hankering for some novelty ice cream. So I make my way out to the end of the drive and wait for the van to pull over. As I'm walking up to the side of the van, my first thought was, "This is one raggedy ice cream truck", my second thought was," that's one raggedy looking ice cream man", my third thought after getting a look at his passenger was, " Damn, who let their kid loose with a sharpie on Quasimodo"?

Listen up people, I'm really trying to keep an open mind here. I mean, sure I've taken a few cheap shots at some of the stereotypical Whiskey Tango residents of the area. But for the most part I've done my best to keep an open mind, give Kansas City's ugly stepsister a chance. But it's a little hard to overlook an ice cream man who is jerkin around in his van like he is doing the chicken dance while sitting down. It gets even tougher when his passenger, who was as ugly as a mud fence by the way, is in the passenger seat twitchin like she had an ant colony take up residence in her nether regions. I'm not exaggerating here either, the woman looked like Joe Cocker does when he sings, and she was covered in home made tattoos that ranged in size from a postage stamp, to a poker chip. None very big, but a whole shit load of them. She was like a flesh colored Connect the Dots. For starters they didn't have Crunch Bombs, Fudge Bombs, or any of the good stuff. These pricks were pedalling Blue Bunny ice cream, WTF, it wouldn't have surprised me if they would have shoved some state issue peanut butter on a stick out the window. So I grab some bullshit for the girlfriend and myself, comes to 6.50, I slip a 10 through the window to Medusa, and they can't make change. Goober asks if I want something else from his selection of Aldis best, I decline. So I go back in the house, scrape together exact change, pay the idiot and send him on his shaky way. To make matters even worse, the ice cream is half assed frozen.

You might be in Independence if................... I went into a discount smoke shop on 23rd. The first thing I notice when I pull in the lot is the number of cars, like 5 or 6 at least. I'm thinking there must be a line, there isn't. Upon entering I observe the place is your typical discount smoke place. For those of you smart enough to not commit slow suicide by smoking, and therefore have never been inside a discount cigarette shop, allow me to give you a tour. East Indian owned, combination cigarette, paraphernalia, novelty type place, that smells of the giant four foot long incense sticks they have parked in front of the register, racks of cellphone and long distance calling cards. Nothing special about these places, usually. So I walk in and there are about a half dozen derelicts surrounding what I first assumed was one of those crane type games. You know the ones, you try to pick up a stuffed toy encased in a glass box. There's a lovely couple in line in front of me , everyone else is surrounding the glass box.

Now, the two lovebirds in front of me are fine specimens. He is a tall gangly fucker, covered in prison tatts, she is about 5 foot by 5 foot, but dressed like she isn't. They are wearing matching cutoff jean shorts and tank tops. I shit you not in the least. They get a couple of handfuls of quarters and wait in line at the glass box. The guy at the counter grabs my smokes, takes my cash, then turns his attention back to the group of chuckle heads surrounding the glass encased box. My curiosity gets the better of me, I need to know what all the fuss is over some made in china stuffed toys, so I ease up behind the guy dropping quarters in the machine and grab a peek on my way out. There are no stuffed bears, or ducks, or plush gators in the box. There is a hole in one corner of the box, in front of the hole is a small wad of bills, they drop quarters in a hole in the top, the floor of the box appears to be like a conveyor belt, sending the quarters toward the pile of bills. Apparently the idea is to push the bills in to the slot by dropping quarters on the conveyor belt floor. It's some kind of backwoods cross between a slot machine and a carnival game. I look over my shoulder at the Indian guy, he is leaning on the counter, slyly grinning , as these walking wobble heads shove quarters in the box. They are probably still there, dropping quarter after quarter in the magic box O money. God bless em.