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Farmer Bob first met “that woman” at an event last year, 4^thof July on the waterfront.  Sidling up to the serving window, glassy eyed from too much beer, she beckoned him to lean down.  “I loooooove your ice cream (big pause) … I looooove your ice cream, man.” She started working her shirt up her torso; “See?”  And Farmer Bob did, indeed, see.  Freshly tattooed on her back, the Sisters of Anarchy Ice Cream logo.

“Are we rocket scientists?” Farmer Bob, standing there looking at fresh, permanent body art memorializing a small farm ice cream brand, wonders about this, and not for the first time.  Is the face of Ben, or of Jerry, being sported about on a beefy arm or shapely calf as the ultimate expression of obsessive brand loyalty? Is Jeni’s Splendid featured on someone’s backside?  Is making unbelievably great ice cream really this rare?

The Mother of All Anarchy is convinced “that woman” regretted her choice the next day.  She is also adamant that we are not rocket scientists: “We are meticulous, carefully grow our own flavor ingredients, and we actually care about what we are doing every step of the way.  It’s not complicated.”  Farmer Bob, well, he keeps his eyes open whenever he is out and about. He’s seen her several more times over the past 18 months, mostly sober, always seemingly happy with her life choices. She doesn’t make any effort to cover up her bold, graphic statement, and always lines up when the Sisters are slinging ice cream.  Maybe the Sisters are rocket scientists after all.