The Dangers of DQ Cherry-dipped Cones

Por: Jamie | |

So, Jess was having a hard day and I offered to get her a Dairy Queen cherry dipped cone. Her stomach wasn't feeling well, so she took a raincheck. The next day as we drove to Phoenix to catch a flight to DC, she wanted to redeem her delicious sweet treat, so we stopped at a DQ in Mesa and went through the drive thru. I ate the tip of my cone off and realized that the cherry shell was hard and thick enough to act as a rather large straw. I began to suck and the cool, creamy vanilla soft serve just flowed into my mouth. It was wonderful! CRACK* It sounded like a tree falling in the forest and I wanted to shout "TIMBER". I examined my cone to determine what could have caused such a catastrophic sound. My review turned up a crack that formed where the base of the cherry shell melded with the top of the cone. I assessed it was not a serious structual flaw and continued siphoning the delicious chilled cow goo out of the top. The next thing I know, the cone ejected it's cherry flavored half like an expended stage in a Saturn V rocket, right into my lap. I picked up the top to my cone and felt as if I had a live grenade in my hand with the pin pulled, and I had no where to throw it. What else was there to do but keep on sucking?



Jessie watched in hilarious horror as I attempted to minimalize the dairy casualties whilst knee driving on city streets.



Much to my surprise and dismay, the little cherry ravines were flooded with melted ice cream, so the slightest movement on my part resulted in streams and drips of liquified soft-serve.

My only option was to devour the cherry treat as fast as I could between my girlish cries of fright.

Still knee driving...

So we get to my parents house after 2 nail-biting right turns and one left, and I look to my lap to survey the aftermath of the attack of the cone. I was not pleased that the only pair of shorts I had for my 3 day trip was covered in dead, absorbed droplets of sweet goodness and crimson stains from the MIA cherry shell flakes. I got in the house, gave my mom the cone stub, and ran to the bathroom to get the sticky off my hands and clean off my shorts. I felt refreshed and victorious until I saw that one entire leg of my shorts was now soaked and it looked suspiciously as if my accident involved liquids other than water and ice cream. My mind raced for a solution since we had to leave immediately if we wanted to catch our flight. DING* went the lightbulb in my head
and I raced to my mother's bathroom in search of her hair dryer.

Originally I was pointing the hair dryer at the wet spot from the outside, but Jess informed me that it would never dry because there was no where for the air to flow.

Well, my pants dried and we made our flight, but Saturday morning, that craving for the succulant cherry-dipped cone surfaced once more. This time, I had to have a large. We were across the country in Virginia, and the DQ didn't have a drive thru because it was in a strip mall. Obviously they didn't know how to run things, but I had faith their cones would taste the same. As we waited for our orders, I struck up conversation with the employees on which flavor of dipped cones was their favorite. I knew they were amatures when cherry wasn't listed because it "tasted artifical". My judgement was correct when I got my cone and it looked like the leaning tower of Pisa covered in cherry shell. I knew I was in for trouble when I saw a half dozen cracks in my shell. The structual integrity was compromised from the start; I was in for the fight of my life. I didn't have the option to stay because my cousin, Sejal, and I drove there and we promised Jessie we'd get her a cone. 2 people, 3 unstable cones, 1 car.

We floored it all the way back to Sejal's apartment with the A/C on high. Sejal almost lost a couple toes to frostbite, but our efforts were in vain. It was like a soft-serve blitzkreig.


In the end, it was worth it. Jessie got her ice cream, I got this story, and you got these pictures.