“Ma! Where My Cheetos?”: A Photo Essay For The Ages

Harken unto the soul’s voice and seek out thine Cheetos! (And check out these scandalous shades! I found them under a picnic bench!)

I was picnicking on the beach of Devil’s Lake, crowded among hundreds of other bologna al fresco enthusiasts, when I was suddenly reminded of these words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “The human voice is the organ of the soul.”  I heard so many souls that balmy July afternoon:  souls laughing, souls commenting on the weather, souls engaging in vicious gossip.  But one soul rang out above the din, the soul of a husky young man in his late teens clad in an improbably thuggish-looking Mickey Mouse tank top and trunks ensemble.  The soul of this young man boomed with a compelling urgency that spoke for all souls.  “Ma!” cried the soul, “Where my Cheetos?”  And in that moment, I was thunderstruck by the realization that I had NO IDEA “where my Cheetos”, either.  The thought of  those Cheetos– rightfully mine, exiled to parts unknown by my own negligence like so many pathetic, crunchy, orange orphans– was frankly unbearable.  Inspired in a way that borders on religious awakening,  I have taken on this young man’s quest for his Cheetos as my own.   I am humbled to say I found my Cheetos everywhere I went.  The bounty was endless.  Please enjoy this spiritual journey.  I hope that you, too, find the answer to your soul’s question: where your Cheetos?

So, so many campers pass this rock on the way to the shower house. And in their hurry, they invariably miss their Cheetos. It’s tragic, really.

Some brave the treacherous and rocky Ice Age Trail for a view of Balanced Rock. I did it for my Cheetos.

This site has unique natural features, to say nothing of YOUR CHEETOS.

Choppy waters ahead. Don’t forget your life jacket. Or your Cheetos.

The Merrimac Ferry boards about 15 vehicles and (for those who know where to look) their Cheetos. Simply amazing.

The pilgrim humbled near the zenith of the quest. I cried beautiful tears.

Mabel found her very first Cheetos… all by herself! I really couldn’t be prouder of my daughter than I was at that moment, there, in the basement of the National Mustard Museum.

And finally– in the vernacular of that Disney-clad man-child of Devil’s Lake: home where your Cheetos at.

Tags: Cheetos, The National Mustard Museum