You don't walk into Henry's Ice Cream in Plano by accident. Plano is far. You're here on purpose. On a mission. And because you made the pilgrimage all the way out here, your expectations are stupid high.
Your toddler stares at neon signage of Henry's Ice Cream and thinks to herself, "This better be good. I rode in that piece-of-vegetables car for, I dunno, some amount of time I can't even process right now because none of you losers taught me how to tell time yet, just for the promise of ice cream. Then, when the car stopped, you took me inside a sadass Fuddruckers because 'We're sorry, sweetie. Your mom doesn't understand Plano,' and then you told me some lie about how people have to eat dinner before dessert. Whoever made up that rule should be made to chug an entire sippy cup full of She Ra farts. That's right. They should have to chug farts. And then, we should all be allowed to point at them and call them a bunch of fart chuggers. Because screw eating dinner. Ice cream. We all want ice cream. There's even a song about it. I'd sing it for you, but I left my plastic microphone at home, which I'm pretty sure you remember is stupid far away from here. I'm ready for this dang ice cream. I swear, if this is like the time you told me Fraggle Rock would blow my mind and it turns out that you've just over-hyped the shit out of Henry's Ice Cream, I'm gonna five-point-harness the ice cream man in the junk."
The cardboard cow out front consoles her, "Oh, this shit is delicious. If you don't like it, you're wrong."