“A Bagful of Freedoze”

Frida…Frida…Frida…!”

“What is it, Chucky?” said Mom.

“Frida..Frida…”

“You want something from the next room?”

I nod my head enthusiastically as my short stumpy legs propel me towards the kitchen. Goddamn, these cotton diapers itch…and “sniff”…THEY NEED CHANGING TOO!”

“Well, what does Chucky want?”

I point my figure towards a cluttered shelf of cereal, chips, and cookies by the ancient refrigerator 

“Frida…Frido!”

“That’s the Fridge. Can you say REE-FRIDG-ER-RATOR, my little Angel?”

I shake my head and point to the shelf again.

“Frido..Frido”

“Let’s see…I spy with my eye…” 

Oh God No! Not this sadistic game where she points to every freakin’ thing around her and names it S-L-O-W-L-Y. It’s obvious what I want woman!

“Does little Chucky want…French Bread? Or Frenchy Fries? Or…?

“Fer Chrissake, Barbara! He wants some DAMN FRITOS…GIVE THE BOY SOME GODDAMN CHIPS, ALREADY! bellows my Old Man.

“Do you want Fritos?”

My head nods like a jackhammer. “Frida…Frido…Free-doze.

“Say…PLEAZZZE!”

I close my eyes and mentally count to ten.