Tag: ice cream

February 13th, 2026

Journal Writing

February 13th, 2026

The Big Game vs. a Miniature Schnauzer

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We watched the Super Bowl on Sunday. And I’m not talking about the sporting event — I mean the actual bowl wearing a cape. You know, the one Super Schnauzer eats her super foods out of. It holds kibble by day… and justice by night.

If we did watch the other Super Bowl, it was probably for the commercials. We weren’t rooting for either team. Seahawks pose a legitimate risk to unsuspecting flying terriers, and as for New England — we only eat Claw Chowder in this house. Super Schnauzer insists.

We certainly weren’t tuning in for athletic excellence. We already have a superhero in this household, and she sheds.

As for the halftime show, we don’t understand all the controversy. Would people have preferred a Good Bunny instead? Personally, I would’ve preferred Blue Bunny. I’d gladly fill a Super Bowl with their Super Chunky Cookie Dough and call it a game plan.

They should just rename the whole thing Super Bowl Sundae.

Although Super Schnauzer wouldn’t approve. She’s not allowed to have ice cream. Of course, that didn’t stop her from begging — whether for a bite or for us to switch to the Puppy Bowl. Especially after learning that Cheesecake — one of the stars of Team Fluff — is a Shih Tzu–Miniature Schnauzer mix. Representation matters.

But she isn’t allowed to have cheesecake either. So, she settled for watching quietly, still hopeful, as if dessert might somehow leap from the screen and into her Super Bowl.

June 13th, 2025

Journal Writing

June 13th, 2025

Monkey See, Monkey Chew

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There’s a lot of talk these days about body image. It refers to how we think and feel about our own physical appearance. Personally, my body image is like a Rorschach test—every time I look in the mirror, I have to squint and tilt my head just to make sense of it. Some days, I swear it looks like two gorillas fighting over a banana split sundae.

Ideally, I’d like a physique of a different primate—maybe a monkey like Curious George. But let’s be honest: I’d probably trade the banana split for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and end up looking more like Curious Gorge. At that point, The Man with the Yellow Hat would have to rebrand as The Man with the Yellow Plastic Grocery Bag Over His Head—not because he’s embarrassed to be seen with me, but because he forgot to buy more ice cream.

My girlfriend gets me, though. She’s sweet enough to bring me my favorite frozen treat: Good Humor Strawberry Shortcake bars. I just wish they were short on the strawberries—not the cake. Not that I’m complaining—especially since last summer’s shorts still technically fit. I think I’m just getting taller. Probably in the waist.

What I like best is that the bars come in a six-pack—which is more than I can say for my abs. At this point, with all the frozen treats I’ve packed away, my stomach’s starting to resemble The Abdominal Snowman—a mysterious, ape-like creature spotted mostly in the wilds of the freezer aisle, known for its soft serve core and elusive six-pack.

If I really want to improve my body image, maybe I should stop aiming for abs and just aim for survival—like our early ancestors. Neanderthals weren’t counting carbs. They were just trying not to get eaten by saber-toothed tigers.

Somewhere along the evolutionary timeline, the missing link must’ve wandered into a fast food chain—and stayed there.

Have we really evolved from kings of the jungle just to sit in the Dairy Queen drive-thru? I’m ordering an Oreo Blizzard—because it looks like a Rorschach test, and if I stare at it long enough, maybe I’ll see Tarzan instead of two gorillas fighting over a banana split.