My proposition today: the idea of a Cornetto is far better than the reality.
Or should I say, the ideal of a Cornetto is something that cannot be matched by the faint, 4D shadows that our universe’s Cornettos exist within.
It’s hot. You imagine a Cornetto. You imagine unpeeling it, hoping the little chocolatey end bit won’t break off. You imagine biting into the creamy top, the crunchy little bits of chocolate and peanuts, the crisp, delightfully frangible wafer.
You buy a real Cornetto. It’s a bit squished on top. No worries. You unwrap it and half the chocolatey bits are stuck to the foil at the top. You try to lick them off. They fall on your clothing and melt immediately into what looks like a catshit stain. The peanut bits – they’re gone. Were they every really there?
The cone itself is… squishy. Like a piece of cardboard that you forgot to put in your bin and now it’s been out there a fortnight and you know you have to pick it up but you know when you do it’s gonna be major ick as it’s all squishy now. It has the floppiness of a newly dead corpse, before rigor sets in.
You attack the head of the cone. As the result melts in your mouth, you realise it’s not the premier gelato you imagined but some frozen white foam that tastes of late stage capitalism and diabetes. It evaporates from your tongue leaving no trace, like the promises of teenage romance.
Well, you’ve started it now, you have to eat it quickly or it’ll just melt all down you, then you’ll look like you’ve jizzed on catshit. You wolf it down, chasing entropy like a greyhound chasing a tachyon. Inevitably, your fingers end up covered with sugary slime and you lick them clean but not in a savouring way, in a sad way. Reflecting on all the bad choices you’ve ever made in your life, you slurp at your fingertips.
You swear to never buy another Cornetto.
You buy a packet of six soft Cornettos. No, but these ones, these ones are soft? Do you see?