The disgusting frosty story about gluttony.
My parents tried every trick in the book, in an attempt to get me to save my money, but no matter; I’d spend it as soon as I got it.
Dad would tell me the story of how he saved all the nickels his mother had given him until he eventually had enough to buy his very own bicycle.
I’d say that’s great dad, but I don’t want a bicycle, I want a 4-pack of Bubblicious gum.
I didn’t see the point in saving my money for something that I didn’t even want and let’s face it; burning a hole in my pocket was just natural and was constantly ignited.
I was a sweet-toothed dinosaur-loving hyper child who loved things that tasted good and whatever my parents said, would go in one ear and right out the other; which resulted in many get-togethers with daddy and the paddle.
I guess I could blame ADHD for the impulsivity in my decision-making, but disregarding what my parents had to say was all my naughty self.
It’s a shame I didn’t listen to them more often and not just because my bum suffered.
One summer day, when I was very young (around 4), I was with my siblings at a family friend’s house while mummy dear was off running some errands.
I believe the reason why we weren’t with her, was because she was going to the doctor…who knows she was probably pregnant again, or something.
Not a second after she had put the car in park, I ran across the yard and burst in through the passenger-side front door.
She greeted me and began to climb out of the car when she noticed that I was intently staring at the glorious chocolate frosty nestled in one of the cup holders.
She sighed and, before shutting the car door, instructed me not to touch, taste, or devour the vulnerable dessert.
I slumped down in the front seat and thought about how unfair it was that I couldn’t even taste the, now unguarded, chocolate malt beverage because, when the other kids (aka vultures) got to the car, there was certainly not going to be any left. At least not enough to satisfy me.
I continued eying the frosty and, with each passing second, it became harder and harder to restrain myself.
That’s it––she had simply forgotten about the frosty (I told myself) and it would be a shame letting something so delicious go to waste.
Although I loved me some candy and dinosaurs; a chocolate frosty would taste mighty fine on a hot Texas summer afternoon.
I couldn’t resist it any longer and what seemed like me blacking out I attacked the cold beverage with full force. It was delicious.
After eating just about an inch below the rim of the cup, I put it back and burst out of the car with a chocolate frosty stain on my mouth and growing feelings of guilt sprouting from within. I wiped my dirty mouth on the sleeve of my shirt and nervously went up to where the adults were standing and chatting.
Their conversation bounced around all sorts of topics, most of which I couldn’t care less about, but then something caught my attention. Mom’s friend asked her if she was able to grab some lunch [while she was out] to which mother replied: “Well, I was just going to wait to get something when I got back to the house, but I gave into the idea of a chocolate frosty.”
“Oh but get this, ––she continued––while I was waiting for the cashier at the drive-thru window, I happened to look into the kitchen and see one of the workers, a middle-aged, scruffy-looking man, making the frosty and you know what he did? As the chocolate frosty mix poured out of the dispenser and into the cup, he ran his fingers through it and got himself multiple tastes…of my frosty!
Mom’s friend gasped, mom gasped while shaking her head in agreement and I died a little bit inside. I was too disgusted and shocked to move.
Mom, being ridiculously nice and not wanting to be involved in any kind of confrontation, explained that she had been too shocked and disgusted and just drove off after he handed the frosty to her.
She then added, “Oh and, after he was done making it, he took one last swipe of it with two fingers. I don’t understand how he gets away with that kind of behavior!”
The rest of their conversation was a blur and I managed to stagger my way to the car and curl up in the back seat. I was disgusted, not only with my gluttonous behavior, but with God only knows what I had ingested.
It being the early 90′s (even for little kids), we all had heard about the terrifying new disease called AIDS (thanks to the media) and I was certain I had just ingested it, via a chocolate frosty. And yes, I was a somewhat dramatic little child.
I never got in trouble for stealing a portion of mom’s frosty and I never told anyone (until now) about this story, but you can guarantee that I was most definitely punished for it.
That night, as I was laying in bed, I cried myself to sleep; vying to never again be so insatiable and that I deserved the AIDS that was certainly coming to me.
Thankfully, we all now know that you don’t get AIDS from gross food industry workers…well, at least not from finger-to-frosty contact with them.
**Little note I needed to add: My mother says she has no memory of this and, even though I distinctly remember it being just the way it was written above, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night without letting my readers know that the accuracy of this story is debatable. But regardless…the next time you get a frosty, watch who’s putting their fingers in it!
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