"He's definitely not getting any ice cream."
I feel like explaining another recurring phrase that I use.
matrushkaka and I decide to get some ice cream at Mitchell's Ice Cream. As usual on an evening there's a LONG line and a rather complicated procedure for procuring said ice cream. You have to push through the crowd of people on the sidewalk who appear to be lined up but are not, go inside the store, find the red number-ticket dispenser, go back outside and listen or watch until your number is called (numbers are not necessarily called in strict sequential order), then go back inside and locate the one of five cashiers who called your number, and at this time determine the type of ice cream you'd like to purchase from a menu that includes some pretty weird flavors including Ube, Halo Halo, Sour Sop, and Spumoni.
We were waiting for our number to be when a guy approached. He was in his late twenties, wearing a hoodie sweatshirt and jeans. Also he was very, very, very altered. It was clear that this guy had spent the last hour or two rolling around around on the floor of his apartment making Very Meaningful Geometric Patterns when he suddenly realized "I Must Have Mitchells Ice Cream" and off he went to the store to get some. Unfortunately the challenge of navigating the Mitchells Ice Cream Ordering Procedure proved too great for him to handle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him cocking his head to listen to the strange numbers, watching people walking into the store without ice cream and leaving with ice cream. It must have looked so simple to him, and yet the mystery eluded him. Gradually he became agitated, walking in and out of the door, trying to find "the end of the line" or even "the front of the line" where he could identify and mimic the actions of successful ice cream purchasers. The half gallons of hand-packed were visible beneath the glass doors of the freezers in the corner, unpurchased yet unpurchaseable, clearly mocking him. His body became tense as he paced in and out between the door and the floor freezer. He began emitting a barely-muted whine of frustration that got louder as people in the store started giving him more room. Finally he yelled a frustrated, incomprehensible epithet and smashed his fists through the glass doors of the refrigerator.
Some combination of the pain, the lacerations from the broken glass, the crowd of customers looking at him, or the realization that he had done something terribly wrong drove him from the store. I pulled matrushkaka out of his way he went teetering through the doorway with his hands raised like a tyrannosaur's claws with blood dripping down his arms and elbows. As he passed us he sighed to nobody in particular in a sad, quavering voice "Now I'm not getting any ice cream."
"No man", I said, "You are *definitely* not getting any ice cream."
And then the police showed up and took him away.
Every so often when we see someone who has seriously made a serious mess of their lives, frequently when public embarassment and the police are involved, matrushkaka and I will look at each other and say "Now he's *definitely* not getting any ice cream."
Example Usage:
tongodeon: "This weekend Mel Gibson got arrested for DUI, blamed the Jews for his arrest and the rest of the world's problems, and threatened a female Jewish police officer so CBS ABC cancelled his holocaust special."
matrushkaka: "Wow. He's definitely not getting any ice cream."
Variant: Lisa Nowak is definitely not getting any astronaut ice cream.
Update: I found a small sign at Tokyo Hands. I'm pretty sure that this is the international symbol for not getting any ice cream.
matrushkaka and I decide to get some ice cream at Mitchell's Ice Cream. As usual on an evening there's a LONG line and a rather complicated procedure for procuring said ice cream. You have to push through the crowd of people on the sidewalk who appear to be lined up but are not, go inside the store, find the red number-ticket dispenser, go back outside and listen or watch until your number is called (numbers are not necessarily called in strict sequential order), then go back inside and locate the one of five cashiers who called your number, and at this time determine the type of ice cream you'd like to purchase from a menu that includes some pretty weird flavors including Ube, Halo Halo, Sour Sop, and Spumoni.
We were waiting for our number to be when a guy approached. He was in his late twenties, wearing a hoodie sweatshirt and jeans. Also he was very, very, very altered. It was clear that this guy had spent the last hour or two rolling around around on the floor of his apartment making Very Meaningful Geometric Patterns when he suddenly realized "I Must Have Mitchells Ice Cream" and off he went to the store to get some. Unfortunately the challenge of navigating the Mitchells Ice Cream Ordering Procedure proved too great for him to handle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him cocking his head to listen to the strange numbers, watching people walking into the store without ice cream and leaving with ice cream. It must have looked so simple to him, and yet the mystery eluded him. Gradually he became agitated, walking in and out of the door, trying to find "the end of the line" or even "the front of the line" where he could identify and mimic the actions of successful ice cream purchasers. The half gallons of hand-packed were visible beneath the glass doors of the freezers in the corner, unpurchased yet unpurchaseable, clearly mocking him. His body became tense as he paced in and out between the door and the floor freezer. He began emitting a barely-muted whine of frustration that got louder as people in the store started giving him more room. Finally he yelled a frustrated, incomprehensible epithet and smashed his fists through the glass doors of the refrigerator.
Some combination of the pain, the lacerations from the broken glass, the crowd of customers looking at him, or the realization that he had done something terribly wrong drove him from the store. I pulled matrushkaka out of his way he went teetering through the doorway with his hands raised like a tyrannosaur's claws with blood dripping down his arms and elbows. As he passed us he sighed to nobody in particular in a sad, quavering voice "Now I'm not getting any ice cream."
"No man", I said, "You are *definitely* not getting any ice cream."
And then the police showed up and took him away.
Every so often when we see someone who has seriously made a serious mess of their lives, frequently when public embarassment and the police are involved, matrushkaka and I will look at each other and say "Now he's *definitely* not getting any ice cream."
Example Usage:
tongodeon: "This weekend Mel Gibson got arrested for DUI, blamed the Jews for his arrest and the rest of the world's problems, and threatened a female Jewish police officer so CBS ABC cancelled his holocaust special."
matrushkaka: "Wow. He's definitely not getting any ice cream."
Variant: Lisa Nowak is definitely not getting any astronaut ice cream.
Update: I found a small sign at Tokyo Hands. I'm pretty sure that this is the international symbol for not getting any ice cream.