When I was growing up, mom thought I was picky about certain foods. I wasn’t. I was a connoisseur. And there’s a big difference. I’m Dan Hansen and this is a Minute at RepcoLite.
One example will get me where I want to go today: Mom would buy for some unknown reason, a frozen concoction called Ice Milk. I’m assuming you can still get it–I refuse to even look because I hated ice milk with a passion.
See, I would go to the freezer on a given night and scoop out what I thought was a big bowl of vanilla ice cream. I’d lather it in chocolate and then sit down to enjoy it while watching X-Files or something. After a single, chalky, tasteless bite, I’d realize I’d been duped yet again and that Mom was once more trying to foist ice milk on the family in place of ice cream.
She insisted the two were exactly the same–that there was no difference. She thought I was ridiculous and I thought she was crazy. Ice Milk is not and never will be ice cream. It’s a distant cousin–the kind of cousin nobody wants to talk about. I said it then and I’ll say it again. Ice Milk is an abomination.
So what does that have to do with paint? I’ll explain tomorrow. I’m Dan Hansen and that’s a Minute at RepcoLite.