The Problem With Ice Cream Cakes

I think we can all agree that ice cream cake is one of the best things in the history of really good things, right? Of course we can. Because who doesn’t enjoy layers of ice creamy deliciousness packed between moist cake? No one, that’s who.

While it’s a scientific fact that ice cream cake really is the gold standard of frozen desserts, there is still come contention about where the best ice cream cakes can be obtained. Some argue that Dairy Queen, that infamous monarch of lactose, leads the pack when it comes to ice cream cake artistry. Others still swear by the work of Carvel or Baskin Robbins, especially citing the latter’s thirty-one flavors as the basis for their claim. While I agree that these purveyors are skilled in the craft of ice cream cakery, they pale in comparison to the pure ambrosia coming out of Cold Stone Creamery. For the eater, their cakes impart the purest of joys that is unmatched by lesser cakes. But for someone like me, that joy comes at an uncomfortable cost.

For whatever reason, I am overcome by a deep sense of discomfort whenever someone sings in public. I know, it’s weird. Some people don’t like public breastfeeding, others hate public displays of affection. Me, I don’t like when people sing in public. Maybe it’s the spontaneity of the situation that makes me uncomfortable or that people with poor singing skills seem to be the ones most drawn to strong-arming me into being their impromptu audience. Either way, I don’t like it, which makes going to Cold Stone a serious test of my character.

If you’ve ever been to a Cold Stone then you’re probably familiar with the disgusting “tip for a song” policy they enforce on their employees. If not, it’s basically this: for every dollar a grateful patron drops into their tip jar the Cold Stone employees are forced to croon some familiar tune (i.e. that old classic, “Zippety-Doo-Dah”) that’s had its lyrics twisted into a heaping scoop of propaganda by their creamy corporate overlords. Still, I feel obligated to tip them because of the overwhelming sense of gratitude I feel whenever purchasing one of their cakes. Well, that, and I don’t want them to think I’m cheap. I’m essentially forced to choose between the lesser of two discomforts, which is in itself a source of a whole other discomfort. The whole thing really puts me in quite a pickle.

I haven’t found a clear path to deal with the situation yet. Thankfully though, there’s still one slice of ice cream cake left in the freezer to help me think. There’s a decent chance that I might need more to help solve this problem, but let’s all pray it doesn’t come to that.

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