Driving home from Wenatchee tonight on a dark and desolate Hwy 2, we (the wife, the daughter, and myself) stopped in Davenport and procured some Cheetos to snack on. We tore into them with abandon and had half the bag consumed before the lights of the town had disappeared from the rearview mirror.
Daughter (two and a half years old, mind you, and quite orange-handed at this point): Daddy, I want the whole bag of Cheetos.
Myself: You can have three more and that’s it. We’re putting the Cheetos away and saving the rest for later.
I reach back and hand her three Cheetos.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Silence.
Daughter: Daddy, I want some more Cheetos. I don’t want the whole bag, I just want plenty of them.
Myself: Good job on anticipating my objection to taking the whole bag, but we’re going to put away the Cheetos for now.
The Wife: Plenty? Nice vocabulary!
Daughter (singing melodiously): I — wa-ant — mo-ore — Chee-ee-ee-tos!
Can’t hide your orange fingers from God, either.
Your orange fingers are too short to box w/God.
“Plenty” still hasn’t been emptied out as of your posting.
It is now though. Plenty,plenty,plenty,plenty,plen-tious plenetiary eating plentanes.
Would Trader Joe’s brand work?