(scene opens in crowded mini-van, poppy music on the radio, when obligatory rap solo kicks in)
Husband: (listens for a moment, decides lyrics bending in questionable suggestive topics, changes station)
Gamma: (outraged) Why did you change the station, I was listening!
Husband: It didn’t speak to my soul.
Gamma: You don’t have a soul. The soul-eater doesn’t have a soul!
Me: She has a point.
Husband: (fist bumps daughter)