What the butter brickle did you just chocolate chipping ice scream about me, you little tutti frutti? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in Blue Bunny, and I’ve been involved in numerous flavor testings, and I have over 300 confirmed ice cream scoops. I am trained in sprinkle sprinkling and I’m the top cherry on the entire Sundae Squad. You are nothing to me but just another cone dropped by a crying kid. I will wipe you the chocolate fudge out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, just mark my chocolatey double-fudge coated words. You think you can get away with putting that Smuckers crap on your “ice cream?” Think again, sorbet-lover. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of coldstone creameries across the USA and your ice cream is being poisoned right now so you better prepare for a rocky road. One that ices the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re creamed, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you with over seven hundred flavors, and that’s without toppings. Not only am I extensively trained in cream-fu, but I have access to an entire arsenal of waffle cones and I will them to their full extent to freeze your miserable frosting farter off the face of funfetti, you little dairy devil. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your tongue to a light pole, instead of my ice cream. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you strawberry cheesecake. I will heap molten fudge all over you and you will drown in it. You’re creamed, kiddo.