It was brought to my attention last week that the wonderfully funny people behind the Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream line are bold enough to capitalize on an SNL hit skit and have now released a new frozen confection called the Schweddy Balls. If you are unfamiliar with this skit then you are probably old, humorless, and will be highly offended by this post. Or, you live in a cave and watch the communal fire instead of television. Either way, here is a link to familiarize yourself: http://www.hulu.com/watch/4156/saturday-night-live-nprs-delicious-dish-schweddy-balls
For days I was tempted by both the hilariousness and the lure of yuminess and eventually set off on a mission to bring home the Schweddy Balls. I first stopped by our local Schnucks, but alas, there was none shelved. Then I headed down the road to Dierbergs to see if maybe they had stock there. I was standing in front of the Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream shelves staring longingly and obviously forlornly when a kindly gentleman in his crisp, clean Dierbergs shirt asked if there was something he could help me find.
I opened my mouth, but in a rare moment of forethought my mind stopped my mouth from speaking. How on earth do I word this?
“I’m looking for some Schweddy Balls please?” **Oh yeah lady, I got ’em right here for you!**
No no, that will never do.
“I’ve really been craving Schweddy Balls, do you have any?” **All you stay-at-home-lonely-moms are the same**
ACK! Not that
“I’m looking for Ben and Jerry’s Schweddy Balls.” **There are no Bens or Jerrys here, but I’m Larry and if you’ll step in back with me…**
Bad, Badder, WORSE!
It reminded me of when I was in college and loved the song, Laid, by the band James. I purchased the album, named after that particular song, and was very proud to share it with my roommates when I returned. I proudly proclaimed to a room full of peers, “I just got Laid by James!” I didn’t think through those words until after they were already out of my mouth, and you can’t suck them back out of people’s brains right back into your vocal chords, you just have to live with them out there, to be used, misused, and repeated against you. I tried to backtrack, “No, at the music store, I got Laid by James at the music store.”
Yeah, I should’ve stopped while I was ahead. That was the start of a reputation that took years, and changing colleges, to diffuse. I don’t need to start the whole west county skuttlebutt factory on fire with stories of my eliciting inappropriate services in the frozen food aisle at Dierbergs.
So, in the manor of a very happily married, stay-at-home-mom of two, I reverted back to the same comfortable treat that I’ve always known and loved: I said, “Chubby Hubby. I’m wanting Chubby Hubby.” The kindly gentleman handed me the not-so-exciting-but-safe flavor of ice-cream and I went home to indulge in my old reliable Chubby Hubby while secretly desiring the naughty flavor and excitement of getting my mouth on those Schweddy Balls.