In Australia, we call them “Hundreds and Thousands”, to Bostonites, they’re “Jimmies”, and to the kind people of the Netherlands, they’re “Hagelslag”.
I’m talking about sprinkles—those sweet rainbow flicks of sugar, corn syrup and food colouring that illuminated your childhood parties and your intestinal tract X-ray. For most, they live atop of sweets and desserts—scattered over ice creams, frosted cakes and glazed donuts. But, to a sheepish flock of full-grown humans, they belong to a wonder deprived travelling circus of uninspired Instagram photo ops, otherwise known as The Museum of Ice Cream.
Maybe you saw it in person when it brought its sprinkle pit of narcissism to Los Angeles, perhaps you contributed to the fattening of its smug, 25-year-old creator’s wallet in San Francisco, or maybe you took a piece of the exhibition home with you in a sock from Miami. Whether you saw it in the flesh or not, one thing’s for certain: you fucking saw it on Instagram.
And as if the made-for-Instagram museum and all its branded selfie-themed rooms weren’t bad enough (30 corporate sponsors were behind the NYC pop up, including Tinder, who had its own room ingeniously named ‘Tinderland’), it’s now polluting the streets, birdlife and waterways of Miami. This week, The Miami Times reported that the sprinkle replicas that fill the sprinkle pool—which are made of coloured plastic—are getting stuck in visitor’s clothes and crevices, and are then being carried out with them into the same world that good, honest people like you and I have been unethically forced to share with them. Once shaken from their person, the plastic sprinkle hits the floor, where it is then discovered and eaten by the local birdlife, or else it is swept down a storm drain and carried out to sea by the rain, where innocent fish swallow them whole.
Since opening its doors in Florida last month, the museum has received three fines from Miami Beach’s Code Department, collectively totalling $5,000. In return, The Museum of Ice Cream has hired extra staff to clean their perimeters and be on high alert for sprinkle escapees yearning for a better life. Apparently, their plan beyond that is to install huge hand dryers (look out for the Dyson themed room, ‘Dysonland’, coming soon) at the exits in an attempt to blow out any sprinkles handed the unfortunate fate of getting stuck in an aspiring influencer’s natal cleft.
Honestly, it’s time we, as a human race, take the sprinkles out of our ass crack and ask ourselves: what we are doing? We were granted free reign on this Earth, at liberty to do, say, think, and most importantly, create whatever we desire. And this is what we’ve come up with: a made for Instagram museum.
Of course, if you’re a parent who took a child under the age of say, 14, to the museum, you’re excused, and I hope you all had a wonderful time. Unless you took that child there for the sole purpose of getting a good shot of them for your—or god forbid—their own social media account, in which case please kindly return their childhood to them.
The museum currently boasts 313K followers on Instagram which is, most alarmingly, only 30K less than actual art museum, the Museum of Contemporary Art, in downtown Los Angeles. And while Instagram doesn’t tell you how many people have posted under a specific geotag, ticket sales suggest upwards of 600,000 people have visited in various locations. That’s one big tablespoon of vanilla.