What lies beyond the mysterious AQ ice cream machines?

One student falls down a very slippery, neapolitan-flavoured slope

PHOTO: Amy Shamblen / Unsplash

By: Zedd Strangelove, SFU Student

There I was on a rare sunny fall day — socks up to my knees, Chucks on my feet, and a moustache thick enough to make Tom Selleck question his masculinity. My shorts were especially short, my tank top tucked into the waistband. The craving for old frostbitten ice cream hit me, filling my lactose intolerant heart with dreadful desire.

With Yung Gravy and bbno$’s “Welcome to Chilis” pumping, I strutted over to the local AQ snack station, my whiskers wet in freezer-burning anticipation. After a solid five minutes of rummaging through my fanny pack for change, I finally fished out $2.75, the exact amount to purchase the coveted Klondike ice cream sandwich. It’s the freakin’ gold rush, baby. Until . . .

Suddenly, disaster struck when the machine ate my change and left me standing there like a chump. Well, I wasn’t gonna have any of it. I did what any 2007 Peewee hockey champion would when faced with adversity. I threw the biggest hip check I could muster into that son of a bitch. To my own surprise, the machine opened right up. 

It seemed like the vending machine was a door that led into a narrow passageway. Doing what any smart character in a horror movie would do, I slunk down the passage just to see where it went. I eventually got to an elevator covered in drawings of ice cream cones. I was totally stoked. I thought I had found SFU’s secret ice cream vault — after all, if I had a bunch of students paying me thousands a semester, the first thing I’d do is make an ice cream vault. 

The elevator dinged as the doors opened. I expected ice cream as far as the eye could see. Instead, I got endless sausage. 

I was greeted by a colony of nudists, bodies splattered head to toe with ice cream. They moved pretty quickly as they swarmed me, picking me up over their heads and carrying me further into their subterranean lair, all while chanting the names of their gods: Ben, Jerry, and The Great Sundae in the Sky.

I was made to be their king, and as such I gifted them all the French Rap music I had on my phone. They explained their theology to me; we all live to serve the Great Sundae in the Sky and its sons, Ben and Jerry. In death, they told me of how the best of us are chosen to be toppings for the Great Sundae in the Sky, and how I was to be the next sacrifice. It was a great honour.

After several sticky happy-ending massages, I was ready. These are to be my last recorded words, as somehow the crap SFU WiFi is stronger down here. So long, my friends.