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.