Waitaminute

“During the fight.” / “Waitaminute, waitaminute.” Eddie waved both hands in front of his face to contest his father’s last statement. “There was no ‘fight,’ okay? I don’t care what those witnesses say. All we had was . . . an exchange of words.” […] “Waitaminute, waitaminute,” Big Joe said. “What happened before that?” […] “Waitaminute. Where are you going with that?” […] “Waitaminute, waitaminute,” I broke in. “I think you two are forgetting something, aren’t you? This was supposed to be Vlade’s book, remember?” […] “Tuesday morning? Now, waitaminute,” Murphy said, shaking his head. “I didn’t say anything about working under a deadline.”

We happily set to our task, creaming our presoftened butter and mixing in our dry ingredients, feeling like a couple of Ms. Clauses, when . . . oh no, waitaminute—we have baking soda, not baking powder!

Now, surely you must be saying, “Waitaminute! You can’t fit a house under a sign! Just how big is this sign anyway?” […] Ah, but surely you must now be saying, “Waitaminute, tuna fish would go bad if you kept it in your pocket for weeks and weeks without refrigerating it.” […] Now, surely you must be saying, “Waitaminute! How could they live for so many years inside the fact globe?”