My Dad used to love ice cream. I remember, oh I must have been 10 or 11, but anyway Dad came home after being gone on the truck for a couple weeks. He'd had 8 or 9 black mollys and a quart of W.L. Weller everyday and would head straight for the freezer and eat a half gallon of Borden's then crash for a day or two.
Anyway, this one time I ate some of his ice cream a couple days before he got home. So he shows up about 3am, heads to the freezer and I ate his ice cream. Oh it was a hoot, he kicked open the bedroom door and beaned me with the 1/2 full carton. It was a riot. There I was curled up in the corner of the room, Dad screaming at the top of his lungs, knocking all my stuff on the floor. Ah, good times. I think vanilla was his favorite.