ASS-KIN ROBBINS

Travel back with me now to my misspent youth in Westport, Connecticut, during the late summer of 1979 for one of my fondest childhood memories.

It was a beautiful, sunny day and my friend Enrico and I had just gotten out of a matinee at the long-gone Fine Arts IV movie theater, our young heads full of zest for life and a driving desire for some post-movie ice cream. Luckily for us, the local Baskin and Robbins ice cream parlor was two doors down from the movie house.

We shelled out our money and walked onto the streets of downtown Westport with our chocolate cones held high, frosty cocoa orbs mounted upon hard cones, truly scepters for two young kings of New England existence such as ourselves. Yeah, it was a terrific day and nothing — I mean NOTHING — could ruin it for us.

Heading back to Enrico’s house, we waited at the curb for the light to change. Suddenly, we heard a loud voice yell, “Hey! Hey, you kids!” Our heads whipped around and we beheld a naked, hairy white ass protruding from the passenger side of a dilapidated Chevy; the exhibitionist in question had actually sidled out of the driver’s seat and stuffed his turd factory out of the window for our shocked delight.

Never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, Enrico’s evil mind instantaneously formed a plan of action and with speed that would have made the Flash green with envy his arm shot out and lodged his ice cream, hard-shelled cone and all, right up the driver’s unprepared ass. The cone shattered with a sickening crunch, and the frozen dairy confection mingled with the shrapnel elicited a scream of pain and horror from the mooner.

The air turned chartreuse as a litany of profane language spewed forth from the car, highlighted by the sight of the guy stuck at the now green stoplight as he clawed great hunks of chocolate ice cream from his violated ass-crack like a grizzly bear digging its way into an underground beehive. The honking of annoyed drivers stranded behind the buttcheek miner nearly drowned out our own raucous laughter as we ran to Enrico’s house.

Ah, sweet bird of youth…