Les Waas, 1921-2016

“It was born in Philadelphia but is as much a part of New York’s aural landscape as taxi horns, ‘that heavenly coffee’ and ‘watch the closing doors.’ An annual herald of summer for more than half a century, it is exquisitely Pavlovian, triggering salivation or shrieking — sometimes both at once. It is the textbook embodiment of an earworm: once heard, never forgotten. It is the Mister Softee jingle, which for generations has sprung from ice cream trucks throughout the metropolitan area and beyond after first springing from the mind of Les Waas, a Philadelphia adman who died on April 19 at 94.”
 — This is very sad news for everyone who is unable to imagine summer without this tune going through their heads. Margalit Fox’s Times obituary offers a few of the song’s words, but neglects to acknowledge the alternate lyrics we revealed here three years ago:

I am the fucking ice cream man, the man who sells the fucking ice cream
I am the fucking ice cream man, I sell you fucking ice cream
You want some fucking ice cream? Well, I’ll tell you what to do
Come by my fucking ice cream truck, I’ll sell that shit to you
I am the fucking ice cream man, the man who sells the fucking ice cream
I am the fucking ice cream man, I sell you fucking ice cream
Bitch shit cock piss dick ass balls, fucking ice cream

Whichever version you prefer let’s all have a moment to reflect on the passing of the jingle’s creator. A silent moment, because that song is going to be in my head all day now.