“Well, Dylan, I’m glad you asked me. Let me just say that I consider myself a bit of an expert at electronics.”
“Dear,” Rose tried to interject, “I think Dylan meant. . .”
“What was that console, Rose? The big one with the walnut cabinet? It was Magnavox, I think. Then they started makin’ em in, where was it? Mexico. Do you remember that LP of the Tijuana Brass? Hats Off it was called.”
“George, you stared at that album sleeve all the time wishing the beautiful brunette would take the hat off of her bosoms.” Rose half-accused, half-blushed.
“Now them Sonys are pretty dependable for somethin’ made in Japan, but I’ll take an RCA anyday. American-made, that’s the best.”
“Dad, they don’t make those any more. Besides, Dylan asked you about ‘sterotypes’ not types of stereos.”
“Stereotypes? Whatcha mean?” asked George.
“Like old people being forgetful and not hearing well.” Dylan shouted.
“Ridiculous. I remember every stereo I ever owned, and stop shouting. That iPod is making you deaf.”