Showing posts with label Dairy Queens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dairy Queens. Show all posts

Monday, November 26, 2012

Congratulations on Dying While Eating a Blizzard!



Today, after exiting the Dairy Queen in downtown Lindstrom, located just down the road from the world’s largest water tower in the shape of a Swedish teapot and just up the road from the famed downtown Lindstrom Swedish Bakery, you’re going to immediately eating the Blizzard you acquired.  It’ll be a custom creation, spawned by your own foul imagination: three kinds of cookie, paired with cookie dough in the thickest choco-vanilla swirl ice cream ever conceived.  It’ll be so good, so attention getting, that you won’t be able to put it down after taking even a single bite.

This means you’ll be driving with zero hands, since it takes two hands to eat a Blizzard.  And anyone who’s ever driven in any place knows that driving without hands is ill advised even under the best conditions.  In Lindstrom, near the Dairy Queen, it’s particularly ill-advised because of a conspicuous stop sign at a major intersection.  This stop sign will add to the challenge of pulling off a left hand turn without any hands.  Paired with an incoming freight truck, prepared to deliver thousands of to-be-pressed apples to Lindstrom’s bakery, it will make the normal exercise of turning and moving your car through traffic all but impossible.

You’ll die, spoon pressed into your mouth, Blizzard splayed about the car, about your body.  As you perish the paramedic who fishes your mangled form out of the car will hear your last words:

“Try…some…of…the…Blizzard…if you can…”

Then you’ll die, and go to a sphere of hell which is exactly like Lindstrom except the Dairy Queen has permanently closed and the apple tarts are all just so-so at the bakery.

Congratulations on Dying While Eating a Blizzard!

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Congratulations on Getting a Blizzard!



You’ll pull back the hammer on the pistol and gesture towards the cup.

“Extra cookie dough.”

She’ll flinch by reflex at the request.  Her manager will move like he plans to say something but he won’t.  He’ll just stand there, hands up, waiting to see what happens.

Waiting to see what you do.

When she slides the blizzard over to you it won’t have a spoon in it.  You’ll sigh.

“SPOON.”

She’ll flinch again and brace herself, like she expects you to shoot then.  But you won’t and after a moment’s pause she’ll pull a spoon out of the cup full of spoons, equidistant between the two of you, and slip it into the thick non-dairy product that sits before you.

“Thank you,” you’ll take a moment to look at her nametag. “Sarah.”

She’ll smile and nod, then take a step back.   You’ll tuck the money sack under your arm and pick up the Blizzard with your non-gun hand.  Then you’ll back out the door, keeping the gun trained on the employees of the Dairy Queen the whole time.

“Have a good rest of your evening!” you’ll shout as you withdraw, then trot to the Honda Accord you stole from that parking lot in Saint Cloud.

Congratulations on Getting a Blizzard!