I’ll admit it. We go to Dairy Queen. Occasionally. Yes, we’re ashamed of the fact that we’re not eating healthy barley oats and organic flake-chunks every minute of every day.

We’ve discovered that there is one very close to our townhouse (and even closer to our new house) and we’ve gone a few times. Sometimes, you don’t want regular ice cream - you want the silky goodness that is the ice milk-like substance that Dairy Queen makes. Is it ice cream? Heavens no. Is it dangerous? Probably… like “Velveeta Cheese-type Spread” is dangerous. I’m quite sure that shit can kill laboratory rats on contact.

Let me tell you about our local Dairy Queen.

Imagine, if you will, a world where a small shop in strip mall can be run by children. Heavily medicated children. I’m quite reasonably sure they punch their time cards when they come in, take a quaalude, and “go to work”.

If you ever stumble upon my little Dairy Queen oddessy, you’re in for a treat. You’ll go in and stand in a very, very long line. It’s not that it’s incredibly popular. It’s that the quite young employees are probably strung out on those ‘ludes I mentioned.

After an hour, you’ll get up close enough to place your order. The mere waif standing behind the counter is probably only 12 or 13 years old. When you open your mouth to tell him what you want, he’ll push his glasses up on his nose and explain he needs to go to the bathroom. Really. And he will. You’ll wait for another 20 minutes until he comes back.

As you wait for your ice milk-type substance, you’ll notice that he’s not the only child working there. In fact, you don’t see a single person over 14 years old in the entire building. Because there isn’t one. Really. This place must be breaking some type of child labor laws when they’re open past 8 o’clock.

When your kid comes back to the register to take your order, you tell him you want a chocolate sundae and… he’s gone. He starts making it for you. Apparently he makes your order one item at a time, because… he might forget. Quaaludes can do that to you. He turns and asks you, “You wanted what again?” as the ice milk-type substance overflows from the machine onto his hand. “Chocolate,” you remind him as you try not to smile.

18 minutes later, he returns with your strawberry sundae. And he tells you that will be three dollars and…. “Wait a minute. I’ve still got a few more things to order,” you say. Now, he looks confused. Is that possible? Can one person really order more than one thing? Maybe. I’d better check with my manager, he thinks. Oh, wait. His manager is only 10 years old and probably doesn’t know either.

So, he makes you pay for the one item before you order the next one. Laughing, you agree to this. Most people would be pissed off at this point, but you are a forgiving soul.

Now, you order a vanilla ice cream cone and…. he’s gone! Ah, but you’re smart! You make him come back and you tell him you’d also like to get the chocolate sundae you ordered the first time. Luckily for him, you were going to order a strawberry sundae next anyway.

He pushes his glasses up again and starts to shake a little bit. You’re not sure if he’s going to flip out and leap over the counter at you or if he’s peeing his pants. But everything you’ve just told him finally computes and he takes off to get your order. You look back at your patient spouse who has been managing your children at the table since last Tuesday.

After you get a Banana fruit smoothie, you decide to fight. You open your mouth again, but your child cashier excuses himself because he needs to go refill the sugar cones. In the middle of your order. Not after your done, but in the middle of it. And there’s not even anyone waiting behind you — they all left in frustration around midnight.

But you give up. It’s too late. Your kids will be going off to college soon and you want to spend time with them. You leave the exact change on the counter and go to your table.

This is what our experience is like every time we go there. Why do we continue to go back? Ha! Are you kidding?! We love it. We get front row seats as close as we can to the counter so we can watch all the action. It’s so much fun. It’s like watching a reality TV show where they mess with people on purpose. Except… they’re not doing it on purpose.

I blame the quaaludes.