Problems at the ice cream counter.

Last night after the concert I got to play in -- more about that later -- I went home and I convinced my mom to go out for ice cream, so we went down to the small town near us and got a couple of cones. Only, even though it was almost ten, the place was packed with retirees from downstate in their polo shirts and tans and all the shit like that, and they were really annoying; there was six of them, but they were all talking together, and there was a ton of people behind them, but they had one person order and then another and another, only the first person and the third person were paying together but the second one was paying with someone else, and one lady had the girls behind the counter bring out a size of bowl for ice cream to show her, and then a larger one, only to say that the second was too large and have her go back again to bring out the first and only then get her some ice cream, and a ton of shit like that. I was getting pretty ticked -- my mom didn't even notice -- and then, when I decide to settle myself down and start thinking about ice cream flavors, the last of the pack of retirees, this old dude with this big old gut, has his gut resting against the cooler, and it was big enough to cover four ice cream labels (the counter was two deep, so his gut covered two labels over towards its left side and another two over towards its right; the place only had the ice cream labelled in the cooler, and didn't have a big list hung up above or off to the side or something). I had to exaggerate my motions and pretend to try to look around under his gut from both sides and then cough a couple times until he even noticed that he was blocking my view, and then he pretended to move as if that was what he was going to do all along. What a cockrag.