In a slow-moving line outside an arena. Behind me there's a Southern Baptist American nuclear family; Mum'n'Dad talk about church, plus a little gossip. Their youngest boy - a four-year old, perhaps - becomes enraptured, intoxicated by the power of television. He begins parroting the catchphrase of his fave cartoon...

"suffering... FUCKotash... suffering... FUCKotash..."

He calmed down after a few minutes, but the parental unit had turned several shades of plaid.

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