Strange rumblings from the Thermos grille...

I don't like iced cream in a bowl, I haven't since I was a boy. I remember eating a tin roof on a warm Sunday evening and splitting a tooth on one of the bastard peanuts. I've sworn off the traditional sundae ever since. For my money, the iced cream cone, store bought or home made, is one of natures few perfect delivery systems. You have the sweet taste treat, smothered in the toppings of your choice, all in an edible vessel. What more do you need?..
I know that there are places, in the deep south, where I would be beaten on the kidneys with a lead pipe 'till I pissed blood for a week, if I even uttered such heresy. Places like Savannah and Gainesville, where the de rigeur is mint juleps and all day sundaes that really do last all day. Places where men are ugly and mean and the women are tough and complacent. But we are not savages Gus, not us. If we want to eat salty frozen milk from a sugar frosted, dried up piece of rolled dough, then by god, I shouldn't risk physical violence for my wont to do so.
There are the old timey remedies, for curing nasty inflammations in the nether regions, that involve elevating dairy products to a position they were never meant to be. But are these, licentious yogurt hacks becoming the pariahs of the modern world? Absolutely not. Stick yogurt up your snatch and it's all primrose and peaches but ask for a double scoop waffle cone at the 31 flavours and it's " Fuck off, " from the acne ridden mid-pubescent girl serving it and run the gauntlet to your car, trying to avoid her boyfriend and his cronies who want to kick your teeth down your throat for being just too different...
We bought a new grille, the missus and I. 550,000 BTU's. I was assured by Clive, the heroin addled teen ager, who sold it to me, that if I was inclined to throw an entire pig, skin, hair and all on some manner of flame in the hope of eating at a decent hour, then this was the baby for me. And why not, eh? Who has time to wait for roast beast in this day and age? I have deadlines and things to do, my wife has the gardens of this palatial estate to maintain. And they need constant maintenance. 25 minutes is all the time we can spare to roast up the wild Russian boar and guinea hens that find there way into the leg wires and trip snares that surround the grounds of our house.
The neighbours don't care for our new grille. They claim the flame that erupts, at regular intervals, from the cremator 2000, is killing the vegetation. I feel for them, but boar fat and open flame is a powerful combination. Napalm has nothing on my grille when we hoist a fine fat black Russian boar up to it's waiting maw. Dianthus was just not designed to withstand the 350 degrees Kelvin that my grill throws. But there troubles are there own, Gus. Plants don't worry me. And as long as there complaining about the death of the verge, the less they are concerned about what's really going on around here...Hell, I might even run for office.