Joey Gladstone: An Analysis of Thought

Here is a single man, living in the big, cluttered world of San Fran, trying to make it as a comedian, and decides to move into this house "full" of his best friend's children. The following is why I feel sorry for Joey Gladstone.

First of all, his comedy. He is trying to earn a living via humor but he lacks the necessary qualifications, namely, being humorous. Let's begin with his Rocky and Bullwinkle imitation. Do you know why this isn't funny? It's because nobody watches Rocky and Bullwinkle. Most people don't even know what this is. Get some current material, Joey, not 1960s animated sitcoms with laugh tracks. But then you have his Popeye impersonation. Again, not quite up to date, but a bit more recognizable. Even still, why is this funny? "Woah...blow me down!" Just stupid.

But of course, his "tag line," his catch phrase, his bread-n-butter is his "Cut-it-Out!" accompanied by correlating hand gestures. You have the scissors for the "cut," the finger point for the "it," and the thumb thrown over the shoulder for the "out." He really wants people to cut it out. Badly. And again.....not funny. Just really, really cheesy. And really bad. It makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it.

So you have a terrible comedy act. But secondly, I feel bad for Joey Gladstone because of his living situation. How is a single man in San Francisco honestly supposed to work the dating circuit when he lives in a house "full" of men and children? (Maybe he's working the dating circuit just fine and NBC didn't feel comfortable airing it??).

What drives this man? What motivates him to wake up and keep going? Is it the courtesy laughter that he is guaranteed? Is it because he honestly thinks he is funny? Is it because he enjoys tapping into his inner child via the children surrounding him? Is it his latent attraction toward Uncle Danny or Uncle Jesse (or maybe Kimmy Gibbler?!?)? Who knows?

The conundrum continunes...

How's My Driving?

I love driving behind large vehicles that are ornamented with the inquisitive bumper sticker, "How's my driving?" First of all, that is a fairly insecure question. It assumes the worst in asking it. It might as well be phrased, "I'm a bad driver, aren't I?" Second of all, they actually provide the number so that you can call in and give your two cents. I like this. I've actually called it. It's been too long, but I think it went something like this:

"Hi, this is Matt and well, yes, I'm driving behind this enormous truck. He's driving fairly well, I'd like to report. He's sticking to the speed limit and is staying in his lane. I would like to note though: He's a bit slow on the pickup. It really takes him a while to get going. That's a bit frustrating. What's that?....Oh no....this is not a formal complaint for your records, the slow pickup thing is just a personal preference of mine."

People have let me know how my driving is even though I don't have a sticker on the bumper requesting this information. And they usually don't let me know with words. Usually facial expressions and hand (and finger) signals.

Phone Ethics #2: A Conversation

Gene: So I was at home shaving my cat and using the fur to fuel my yuletide fire the other day, right?

Oliver: Right.

Gene: And out of nowhere, Rog knocks on my door.

Oliver: I thought it was pronounced: Rogg, with a hard "g," almost like "rock." Rogg.

Gene: No, it's a soft "g." Shhuh. Rahsh. "Raj." Like that. Rog.

OIiver: Are you sure? I once overheard Rogg introduce himself to someone and I'm pretty sure he pronounced it with a hard "g." Rogg.

Gene: What are you, serious? Rogg? No, it's short for Roger. Roge. Rahsh. Raj. Not Rogg.

Oliver: Call him.

Gene: You call him. I'm not going to call him.

Oliver: Fine. I'll call him.

...

Oliver: Hello, Rogg? Yeah, hey this is Oliver.....nothing....just sitting here chewing the birds with Gene.....downtown.....no, I'm not going to Firma's party tonight, it sounded a bit lame to me, what with all the line dancing and dart throwing and fire eating and all.....oh yeah?......HA HA HA!!!!......that's hilarious......HA HA HA!!!!!!.......you should totally tell her......uh huh..........uh huh.......yeah.........no way?!?!?............yeah..........ooooh good one!!!.........14?!?!?!?!?!?!? You are crazy, Rogg!!..........yeah.......nah.......uh huh.......Firma.......yeah, that's her name.........I'm serious........No, I'm with Gene here........No, not Geen, with a hard "g," it's more of a soft g "Schheen"......No, I'm serious......uh huh......ok, I'll ask him - Hey, Gene, is your name pronounced with a hard "g" or a soft "g"?

Gene: Hard.

Oliver: Really? Hey, Rogg, Gene says it's pronounced with a hard "g." What would that be? "Geen." Wow. I never knew that. Ok, keep going.....uh huh.....yeah... -

Geen: You know, I love sitting here listening to your conversation with Rogg. It's really how I wanted to spend my afternoon - sitting in silence, watching your expressions change with each new bit of unhearable dialogue. Yeah, I love that. I also love it when you laugh so boisterously loud that the people sitting next to us look over at me in annoyance. I love that too.

Oliver: Uh, hold on Rogg.....Hey, Geen, can you keep it down? I'm on the phone here.

Geen: Exactly.

Danza: A Conversation

Gene: So I was watching the Tony Danza Show yesterday and you will never guess who he had on -

Oliver: Wait a second.....The Tony Danza Show? Are you serious?

Gene: What's wrong with that? It's not like watching The View.

Oliver: No, actually it is a lot like watching The View. What are you? A middle aged woman?

Gene: Does it look like I am a middle aged woman?

Oliver: Well, you're telling me you watch the Tony Danza Show, so, I don't know, you tell me.

Gene: Tell you what?

Oliver: If you are a middle aged woman or not.

Gene: You want me to tell you that I'm a middle aged woman?

Oliver: Yes, say those words to me.

Gene: Can I just tell you who Tony had on his show?

Oliver: Did you just refer to him as "Tony"? Like you're on a first name basis with this guy or something, you middle aged woman?!?

Gene: Ok, clearly you are not in the mood to hear this story.

Oliver: No, no, I am. Really. I'm dying to hear who "Tony" had on last night.

Gene: Steve Urkle.

Oliver: You sure it wasn't Stefan Urquelle?

Gene: No, no, that was when Steve transformed himself into the smooth-talking, lady-crazy, sexy hunk.

Oliver: Did you just say "hunk"?

Gene: I did.

Oliver: Remember his "Did I do that?"

Gene: Oh, do I. How could I ever forget?

Oliver: Exactly.

Panic!!! Button

We have an alarm system in our house. And conveniently, the alarm system people have provided us with little remote control dealies (for lack of a better word) to put on our key chain. That way, when we come home and open the door and the alarm begins going off, we simply have to press the correct button on our key chain and, boop!, off it goes. This prevents us from coming in, quickly throwing our bags down, and frantically running throughout the house to the keypad to punch in our code before the scary alarm starts and the swat team comes out.

This little remote-control-key-chain-dealy also comes with a panic button. The panic button is different. It isn't white. It is red. If you hold this button down, the scary alarm begins going off immediately. Obviously, this button is to be pressed only in emergencies.

But what I don't understand is this: Why do the alarm people assume this frenzied, panic-stricken emotional state on behalf of their customers? Why call it a "panic" button? Do the alarm companies see the users of this button as utterly freaking out? "Why else would they hit it?" they are probably asking themselves. Is this the button you hit when you are simply panicking? Why not use a more emotionally-neutral term and call it the "Emergency" button? Just because I am in an emergency does not necessarily mean that I am panicked. I don't like being pigeon-holed into certain emotional states.

And what happens if you are having a panic attack? Do you hit it then? Certainly, one could make the case that this is legitimate. "Hey, I was panicking. So I hit the panic button." Perhaps one could make the case that this is the only time one should hit the panic button - when one is truly panicking.

Capin.

Phone Ethics: A Conversation

Oliver: So I was going through my neighbor's trash last night -

Gene: You what?

Oliver: I was going through my neighbor's trash....What? Why are you giving me that face?

Gene: You realize that is not normal right?

Oliver: Hold on.....I'm getting a phone call......uh.....

Gene: Why aren't you answering it?

Oliver: I don't recognize the number.

Gene: So what? Answer it.

Oliver: No.....I don't want to.

Gene: Are you serious? Why not?

Oliver: Well.......oops......Any way it's too late now. I'll let the voicemail get it.

Gene: Why didn't you just pick it up to begin with?

Oliver: I don't want to be thrown off by someone I don't know. You know, it could have been a telemarketer or something, I don't know. I'd just assume let the voicemail get it and then I can know who it was.

Gene: I don't see what the big deal is about answering. What do you think the worst that can happen is? Some terribly awkward person who wants to talk to you for 45 minutes? The mafia or something saying they are out to get you? Can't you just hang up if you don't like what you are hearing? I don't get this. Besides....it doesn't sound like they're left a voicemail.

Oliver: Yeah....no voicemail yet.

Gene: What are you doing now?

Oliver: I'm calling them back.

Gene: What?!? Now you are calling them?!? Just a second ago you wouldn't even pick up the phone for these people and now you are initiating a phone conversation? Does this make any sense?

Oliver: Shhhh....they're about to pick - uh....hello? Yes....did someone just call this number?

Gene: Exactly.

French Fries: A Poem

Curly Q or straight
Golden brown crisps and bite-sized
Potato vectors. Searing fleshy tongue
Microwave transforms leftover crunch to
Soggy, flabby. Swimming in grease pools
Taking dips in liquid crimson heaps
Fried and French: A Friend to the Fat
A Foe to the Flimsy
A Necessity at Burger King

French Fries: A Run On Sentence

The aftermath of Simon's unsightly barrage of formidable vituperation only left Lenny, Simon's loathly brother-in-law, with a lackluster and rather lethargic apathy, while on the other hand, it left Remmy, Simon's other, though no less loathly brother-in-law, utterly recalcitrant, who then decided to return the favor, not with his own invective opprobrium, but rather with a culinary assault of launching bushels of scorching-hot french fries from his Medieval catapult atop Simon's newly renovated house, which by the way, was only serving to perpetuate the ongoing gentrification in this particular neighborhood, which up until the late 90s was self-consciously opposed to any social trajectories deviating from traditional, historical categories, but unfortunately, after the congressional "push" in 2002, surrendered its priorities to the state's, which corresponds with what Hobbes wrote when he wrote, "When congress pushes; push back."

French Fries: A Conversation

Oliver: Are you gonna eat all those?

Gene: You mean, "all those" french fries I ordered? Yes. I am planning on eating what I ordered.

Oliver: Woah, easy killer. Don't get fussy with me. It's not that stupid of a question.

Gene: No, actually it's pretty stupid. And nice use of "fussy" there.

Oliver: You're telling me that it is a stupid question to wonder whether or not someone is planning on eating the mountain of fried potatoes that was just put in front of them?

Gene: It is a stupid question to assume the possibility that I might not eat what I ordered.

Oliver: Look at the amount of fries on your plate and tell me whether you are currently committed to the principle of "finishing what you started" or that you are actually in the process of developing an eating strategy to consume all 400 french fries.

Gene: Do you not think I am able to eat all of these?

Oliver: That's not the issue. The issue is whether or not my initial question was stupid or not.

Gene: It was stupid.

Oliver: You're stupid.

Gene: Prove it.

Oliver: You ordered 400 french fries and you are planning on eating all of them.

Gene: You're just being fussy because I'm not going to share with you.

Oliver: Exactly.

French Fries: A Portrait

fries of the french

French Fries: A Short Story

Jean, the Pastry Master (also and otherwise known as the 'Bread Artist') scrambled about in his kitchen for the confectioner's sugar. It was not in its place. You see, everything had "it's place" in Jean's kitchen - meticulously organized spice racks (alphabetical order), strategically placed pans (the heavier pans on the lower shelves), and methodically structured oven times (muffins and scones in the morning; cakes and tarts in the afternoon). But his system was is utter disarray now. The confectioner's sugar was not in its place.

"Rose!" Jean snapped to his understudy, "I am missing zee confectionah's sugar! Whuh izz eet?!?!"

"I have not seen it today, Pastry Master (Jean made all employees refer to him as that). Is it not in its place?" Rose responded elegantly.

"NO! Eet izz not in eet's place!"

Jean was now bustling about in haste, turning over pans of scrambling eggs, sweeping off entire table tops, and knocking over a full stock pot of bubbling stew (he also dabbled in soups, stews, and stoups in addition to pastries) trying to find his very much needed confectioner's sugar. "WHUH IZZ EET?!?!?!?!?!"

Jean was in the middle of preparations for his famous lemon bars. He was at the last and most crucial step in the process - a gentle dusting of confectioner's sugar. But without the confectioner's sugar, there would be gentle dusting.
It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Jean knew that the after-school-crowd was like clockwork: Every day at 3:30, his quaint pastry shoppe ("Ye Quaint Pastry Shoppe") filled up with students fresh out of school and freshly in need of lemon bars. In fact, he kept his entire shoppe financially stable due to the lemon bar sales alone. And with thirty minutes (actually twenty-nine now) counting down, he had no lemon bars.

In utter desperation, Jean surveyed his kitchen for a back up plan. He could, of course, whip up a batch of his cherry tarts, but alas, those need a good 3 hours to cool before serving. He could, on the other hand, throw together a few eclairs, but alas, he had not made any custard that morning. And then it hit him. It hit him like someone had thrown a rock through his window and it smashed into his cranium. It hit him like someone taking a baseball bat and swinging with all of their might into his rib cage.

French Fries. Of course.

Jean and Rose quickly chopped up some potatoes (they had plenty on hand from today's Potato and Tomato Stoup), sprinkled them with salt and paprika, and immersed them in the deep fryer. With only a few minutes to spare, Jean removed the piping hot fries ("chips" in Britain), packaged them appropriately, and waited for the after-school-crowd.

At 3:30, the door swung open and in poured the excited, sugar-dependent pack of hungry students. But their looks of excitement quickly vanished and were even quicker replaced with looks of disgust when Jean, the Pastry Master, was not waiting for them with a plate of lemon bars, but rather a few grease-stained bags of french fries. Sensing their frustration, he bellowed, "Surprise!!! French Fry Day!!!"

They were not amused.

French Fries: An Adventure

I just discovered something that I did not know. This week is officially recognized as the National Week of French Fries. It is the one consecrated week of the entire calendar dedicated to fried potato strings - actually, French fried potato strings.

Thus, in lieu of the National French Fry Week, I have decided to dedicate a blog-a-day for the remainder of the week towards the end of honoring the beloved French Fry. If they (the powers that be) can dedicate an entire week to the French Fry, then I (the power that be) can dedicate a blog-a-day for the entire week towards the honoring of the French Fry.

And here begins our adventure...

Mispunching: A Conversation

Oliver: So I was swimming at the community pool yesterday and I happened to see this one kid flailing, lurching, and mispunching in the shallow end.

Gene: Mispunching?

Oliver: Yeah, you know, shadow boxing.

Gene: Shadow boxing isn't the same as mispunching.

Oliver: So, you knew what mispunching was to begin with?

Gene: Yeah, I knew what it is. What I don't know is why a child in the shallow end would be mispunching.

Oliver: Interesting. You got caught up more on "mispunching" than "lurching"?

Gene: Sure. I could see a kid lurching in the pool. But mispunching? Come on. Get real.

Oliver: I don't see why a kid mispunching would be any less believable than a kid lurching. If you told me you saw someone both lurching and mispunching, I would find that believable. It seems to me that if you were lurching, you would almost by necessity have to be mispunching.

Gene: No, no, no. I totally disagree. Lurching does not necessitate mispunching. Not at all. Lurching necessitates....movement. But not mispunching.

Oliver: Lurching totally necessitates mispunching...which is movement, of course. Have you ever mispunched?

Gene: I've mispunched.

Oliver: Did you lurch when you mispunched?

Gene: No.

Oliver: Liar.

Gene: Exactly.

A Blogue

Asperity.

If Cameron Diaz was to marry Kirk Cameron, her name would be Cameron Cameron.

If Chino Espinoza married Al Pacino, his name would be Chino Pacino. (I like saying this one aloud repeatedly.)

If Meryl Streep married Will Ferrell, her name would be Meryl Ferrell.

If Meryl Ferrell separated from Will Ferrell and got married to Jacqueline Daryl, then Meryl Ferrell would be Meryl Ferrell Daryl.

Now what if Meryl Ferrell Daryl hid in a barrel? Singing Christmas carols? With Fred Harrell? Sending out posts via Errol? To her own peril? In an environment that is sterile?

An Epilogue

The following is taken from the Epilogue (After Word) of Reuben Thimpery's "Sandwiches: Neither Sand nor Witches"



So there you have it. The myth has been dispelled. The lies have been exposed. The rumors have been hushed. The whispering has dissipated. The longings have been crystalized.

Thus far we have traced the origins of the Sandwich - finding its vintage beginnings in the Middle Ages where men who "always needed to be holding something," developed a way to put lettuce between two hunks of barley dough. The Sandwich later intersected with the development of the Hamburger (which surprisingly did not originate in Hamburg, Germany, but rather Burgham, Russia. See ch. 19 - "Hamburg or Burgham?"), which of course, evolved and splintered off into several different modifications: the Bagel Sandwich, the Panini, the Wrap, the McMuffin, the Whopper, and the McRib. The concept was simple. The implications were devastating.

The government has long purported "sandwiches" to be a quick, easy, consumer product "on the go" (as they say, (see ch. 8 - "Sandwiches in Brown Bags are for Dumb People")) and have advertised them as such - roping in unsuspecting housewives, lawyers, children, and men who "always need to be holding something" (see ch. 14 - "Why Men Always Need to be Holding Something"). But "sandwiches" remain the most deceptive, duplicitous, egregious invention (with a patent) that the American government has produced. The lies have been exposed.

Sandwiches do not contain sand. All of the research reported in ch. 29 - "Mr. Sandman, Bring me a Lie" yielded that 99.9% of sandwiches across the globe contains no sand (with the only exception being the Sandy Clamwich in Menduza, India).

Furthermore sandwiches are not made by, nor have any known association with witchcraft. No spells, curses, magic, magick, sorcery, or any paranormal activity surrounds the creation and distribution of sandwiches, as our findings revealed in ch. 30 - "WitchCraftwich?"

So where do we go from here? Ethically, we must boycott. We must create new morally-significant ways of eating. Granola Bars are a great substitute. As are Porridge Bars. Soups are good. Stews, as well. Any Victorian Classic that pre-dates "sandwiches," really.

A Prologue

The following is taken from the prologue of Alexander Heath Yeamen's "Discovering Discovery for the First Time: A Journey through the Pallawanee Rain Forest"....



186 days. 10 degrees fahrenheit below at night. 108 degrees fahrenheit at day. You do the math.

The contents of this book are the contents of my lack of contentment. Contentmentless, I ventured away from the city to the forest, away from the chaos of the sirens, gunshots, and advertisements to the chaos of animals devouring each other and no working toilets. I abandoned my post at Lunar Jack's Snack Shop to take up the post of picking berries, trapping and bar-b-que'ing squirrels, and not shaving. I didn't shave for 186 days straight. I didn't bathe once. I didn't brush my teeth. Not so much as a mint, an altoid, a mentos, or an altoidos. And I didn't even watch television once. It was rugged. raw. real. ridiculous.

In the city, I was anonymous. In the forest, I was king. In the city, I was a robot - churning the cranks and rods and spurnets of the Machine. In the forest, I was free. In the city, I had air-conditioning. In the forest, I didn't. Just the clothes on my back. And a canteen. And some toilet paper. And a few altoids (ok, so I lied up there).

The Rain Forest served as a Metaphor for me. It provided the insight (and the outsight, mind you) that the city obscured. I was removed from the clutter of traffic, schedules, and rent payments. I entered the jungle of mosquitos, large growling things at night, and sunburns. (I didn't shave once.) The Metaphor of the Forest was that I had abandoned my former life to discover my inner life - that at my core, deep down in my soul, beneath the hair, skin, fingernails, and hair, I was destined and designed for refrigeration. And air-conditioning. And microwaves. And clean, hygienic razors for my facial stubble. That is what I discovered. I realized that I am Man, not savage. I am Man, not walrus. I am Man, not tree bark. And as Man - I have needs. Needs that the Forest could not meet. Needs like Hot Pockets. And hamburgers. And chimichangas. And clean, hygienic razors for my stubble (I didn't even shave once.)

This is my journey. My song. My discovery of discovery.

A Monologue

Eleanor: I wonder if other people lick the top of the yogurt and pudding lids like I do. Is that something only I do? Surely not. Surely at least one other person licks the tops of yogurt and pudding lids. I don't really see why you wouldn't. You're saving some of the yogurt (or pudding). You're not wasting a drop. Although the bottom edges of the rounded cups are hard to get with the spoon. I often give up on those edges down there. I guess I do waste some. But what I waste in the edges I make up for in the lids. See....that's not bad. Lid licking isn't gross, is it? I don't think so. Oh crap, what if its gross and I don't know it? What if every time I've lid licked in front of someone they thought, "Oh, Eleanor is so disgusting. There isn't anything she wouldn't lick if she licks pudding lids. She probably chews the gum she finds under her lunch tables." But surely not. I wouldn't lick the outside part of the lid. Only the inside part - protected and sealed from the elements. Surely people don't lid lick on account of it being gross. So why wouldn't they? What is wrong with lid licking? I honestly don't understand why someone wouldn't enjoy the yogurt appetizer. You at least get 2 licks worth. That's 2 more licks of yogurt you wouldn't have received had you simply peeled the yogurt lid and tossed it. Man....I'm getting in the mood for a brick of guacamole. Or a hay ride. Or an egg salad.

A Dialogue

Oliver: So you're telling me you know how to change the oil in your car?

Gene: That's what I'm telling you.

Oliver: And you're telling me you have had no professional training in oil-exchanging?

Gene: Yup.

Oliver: Impossible!! I'm calling your bluff.

Gene: Call it then.

Oliver: I just did. BLUFF!!

Gene: That's not really "calling my bluff," that's more just saying the word "bluff" really loudly.

Oliver: No, that's actually calling it. I called out your bluff.

Gene: No, you don't understand. You didn't call out my bluff. You just called out "bluff."

Oliver: I don't think you get how bluff-calling works. That's all that is required, me "calling your bluff." Bluff has officially been called. End of story.

Gene: No, no, no. You can't just say "I'm calling your bluff," you actually have to do it. You can't just announce, "I'm doing something right now" when you aren't doing anything. A bluff-call has not happened yet.

Oliver: What are you talking about? Bluff-calls happen when you bluff-call. There is nothing else to it. What else is involved in bluff-calling?

Gene: You call my bluff.

Oliver: I don't even know what that means anymore.

Gene: Exactly.

Mercantilism, Feudalism, and Pop Tarts

I think I have come across something more frustrating than 7Up! advertisements: customer service on the telephone. A few moments ago I had to call up our cable company to discuss a bill. You would think with "customer service" there would be some form of "service" for me - the customer. But no. No human contact. No personal representative. I had to talk to the Robot Lady - you know, the automated voice of some computer.

And this was the type that didn't want me to press any numbers, this robot actually wanted to engage in dialogue. "Please...tell...us....the.....phone.....number....associated.....with.....your....account." So I began speaking. And miraculously it understood. And then parroted back to me the correct number. I was a bit surprised. This usually does not work for me, especially surrounding the robot's confusion over the number 5 and number 9. They sound alike to robots. They get easily confused.

And now the robot wants to know "in two or three words" the reason why I am calling. It is polite. It gives me suggestions, "You....can....say...."Account Information"....or....."New Account".....or......"Service Desk." So, in a very abrupt and out-of-context-sort-of-way, I blurted out: "Bill." And miraculously, it understood. Robot Lady repeated, "Billing."

And just when I thought I was getting somewhere, the whole system fell apart. Once again she gave me some options to repeat back to her: "Make a Payment"...."See Account Balance".....or......"Neither of these." I wanted option three. So I said, "Neither of these." And I was quickly interrupted, "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" the robot insisted. I repeated myself, "Neither of these." And again: "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" So now I pretend like I am talking to a 2 year old foreign exchange student. "N...e....i...t....h....e....r...........o......f.............t....h....e......s......e......."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

Now why do these companies think this is a good idea - to talk to robots as opposed to engaging with an actual human being? Oh I know....you don't have to pay a robot to talk to you but you have to pay a real human. So that's it, I guess. It's all about the Benjamins. So while they are loading up on the cash, I am growing more and more irritated with the robots I have to dialogue with.

Dottin Dips

I'm sure that you've seen this kiosk in the mall. Or perhaps you have even seen them in certain vending machines. You know what they are. Dippin' Dots: Ice Cream of the Future. For $5 or more you can have a 3 oz. cup of ice cream pellets. What a wonderful idea. And what a complete rip off.

What I have been thinking about is....what if Dippin' Dots actually is the ice cream of the future. Are we no longer going to have normal tubs (or cartons) of ice cream? No more traditional scooping? No more ice cream cones? I suppose that in 3030 there isn't going to be any of this. Ice cream will come balled up in little "dots" that you can "dip."

I cannot conceive of any possible reason why the future would yield such results. What futuristic, space-age, technological need would there be to change traditional, creamy, tubby ice cream into little ice cream balls? Ok, maybe the lack of oxygen in space? But that's why we have that astronaut-Nasa-space-ice cream that comes in an aluminum pouch and looks (and tastes) like Neapolitan-colored styrofoam. But that's not the ice cream of the future. That's the ice cream of space. Down here on earth and in the future, we are still eating tubby ice cream. Not ice cream "dots."

Tubby, Danza ice cream.