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.