Sugar-free ice pops are an invention of God. They hardly have any

Host:
The afternoon sun beat down on the quiet edges of Los Angeles, where heat shimmered above the asphalt and the city hummed with that lazy, electric rhythm of summer. Somewhere between the sound of distant traffic and the buzz of a cicada, there was laughter — the kind that comes from small joys, like melting popsicles and bad jokes told at the right moment.

In the back lot of a small film studio, a folding table sat under a cheap umbrella, covered in a styrofoam cooler, empty bottles of sparkling water, and a pile of colorful ice pop wrappers. The air smelled faintly of sugar substitute and sunscreen.

Jack sat in a creaky metal chair, chewing thoughtfully on the wooden stick of what used to be a lime ice pop. His shirt clung to him with the sticky warmth of a long day, and his grey eyes reflected both the heat and something gentler — the quiet acceptance of a man learning to enjoy simplicity.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her seat, legs stretched out, a half-finished cherry pop melting between her fingers. She laughed, wiping her hands with a napkin as if the act itself could erase the fatigue of the week.

Jeeny: “Gene Simmons once said — ‘Sugar-free ice pops are an invention of God. They hardly have any calories since they’re mostly water. I eat about 15 pops every two days.’”
Jack: [smirking] “Fifteen ice pops every two days? That’s devotion. Or addiction.”
Jeeny: “Maybe both. But you know what? I get it. There’s something divine about cold sweetness in unbearable heat.”
Jack: “Divine? That’s a stretch. More like… low-calorie self-deception.”
Jeeny: “You think God doesn’t work through frozen snacks?”
Jack: [laughs] “If He does, He’s got a strange sense of humor.”

Host:
A gust of warm wind passed through, rustling the paper cups and napkins. A few bright wrappers fluttered across the lot like fallen feathers. Somewhere nearby, the sound of a radio played faintly, a DJ announcing tomorrow’s forecast: “hotter than hell.”

Jeeny: “See, that’s the thing I love about that quote. Simmons isn’t just talking about ice pops. He’s talking about joy — that small, guiltless pleasure that doesn’t pretend to be deep but somehow still is.”
Jack: “You think joy needs depth?”
Jeeny: “No. But people act like it does. Like if you’re not learning a lesson, you’re wasting time.”
Jack: “Maybe that’s just guilt dressed as maturity.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve forgotten how to enjoy something without analyzing it to death. Maybe that’s why he calls it divine — because it’s so rare to just enjoy.”
Jack: “You mean grace in the shape of a popsicle.”
Jeeny: “Now you’re catching on.”

Host:
Jack unwrapped another pop, this time grape, the plastic tearing with that crisp sound that belongs only to summer. Purple ice glistened in the light, already soft at the edges. He bit into it, winced at the cold, and smiled like a kid.

Jack: “You know, when I was little, summers meant two things: mosquito bites and freezer-burned popsicles. My mom used to ration them — one a day, like it was medicine.”
Jeeny: “Maybe it was. Sugar as therapy.”
Jack: “Or placebo for boredom.”
Jeeny: “Either way, it worked. It’s strange — something so simple can hold the memory of childhood better than photographs.”
Jack: “Because it’s sensory. Taste, temperature, color. Memory with flavor.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Simmons understands — nostalgia disguised as diet food.”
Jack: “So what you’re saying is, the sugar-free part is a lie.”
Jeeny: “Oh, absolutely. The sweetness is real — it just doesn’t come from the ingredients.”

Host:
The sun slipped lower, throwing long shadows across the lot. The air began to cool, though only slightly. Somewhere, a generator clicked off, and the sudden quiet made everything — the hum of bees, the rustle of wrappers — sound almost sacred.

Jack: “You think people today are too obsessed with guilt to really enjoy small things?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Everything has to be justified — even happiness. You can’t just eat an ice pop. You have to call it self-care, or mindfulness, or low-calorie indulgence.”
Jack: “Because admitting it’s just pleasure feels irresponsible.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve moralized joy. Even our relaxation has a purpose.”
Jack: “And that’s why Simmons’ comment hits — because it’s almost scandalously simple.”
Jeeny: [laughs] “Right. He’s a rock legend talking about popsicles like they’re holy relics.”
Jack: “Maybe they are — relics of a time when pleasure didn’t need permission.”
Jeeny: “Amen to that.”

Host:
The ice in the cooler melted, the water sloshing softly around the last few plastic-wrapped treasures. Jeeny reached in, pulling one out — a neon orange one this time — and offered it to Jack. He hesitated, then took it.

Jack: “You know, when you think about it, sugar-free ice pops are a perfect metaphor for modern happiness.”
Jeeny: “How so?”
Jack: “All the sweetness, none of the risk.”
Jeeny: “You mean artificial joy.”
Jack: “Exactly. Controlled pleasure — designed not to hurt, not to linger, not to make a mess.”
Jeeny: “That’s not joy, Jack. That’s management.”
Jack: [smiling] “You sound like a philosopher who licks popsicles.”
Jeeny: “Only when they melt faster than my patience.”

Host:
They both laughed, the kind of laughter that releases the tension of days too heavy with purpose. The sky turned coral, the air softening. A passing cloud shadowed them briefly, then let the light back through — warm, forgiving.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”
Jack: “What?”
Jeeny: “That the divine part isn’t in the ice pop. It’s in the permission. The decision to stop counting, stop justifying, and just enjoy the cold sweetness for what it is.”
Jack: “So divinity is the absence of guilt.”
Jeeny: “Or the presence of gratitude.”
Jack: “For artificial cherry flavor?”
Jeeny: [grinning] “For anything that reminds you you’re alive.”
Jack: “Fair enough.”
Jeeny: “Besides, God probably doesn’t care what we eat. Only that we taste it fully.”

Host:
The first crickets began to sing, their rhythm merging with the faint city noise beyond the walls. Jack leaned back, eyes closed, savoring the last cold bite of the ice pop as it dripped down his wrist.

The moment stretched — simple, perfect, absurdly human.

Jack: “You know, Simmons might be onto something. Maybe holiness isn’t about sacrifice. Maybe it’s about appreciation.”
Jeeny: “I agree. Heaven probably feels a lot like a freezer full of small joys.”
Jack: “So, fifteen ice pops in two days isn’t gluttony?”
Jeeny: “Not if they remind you how beautiful it is to be here.”
Jack: [quietly] “To taste anything at all.”
Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
The sun dipped behind the skyline, leaving the lot bathed in soft amber twilight. The wrappers fluttered across the ground, catching the light like stained glass. Jeeny threw her stick into the cooler, then looked at Jack, smiling — a small, knowing smile that didn’t need words.

And as the evening settled into stillness,
the truth of Gene Simmons’ words melted sweetly in the air —

that holiness might not live in temples or songs,
but in the small mercies of taste and laughter,
in the sacred absurdity of delighting in something simple.

That perhaps God hides
not in sermons or self-denial,
but in moments where joy asks for nothing —
no reason, no justification, no calorie count.

For even the smallest pleasures —
the cold bite of an ice pop on a hot day,
the laughter that follows,
the pause that remembers to feel —

are proof that existence,
in all its strange sweetness,
is already enough.