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"Another one," whispered Season One.
The box sighed.
And as Leo laughed at a joke about a 1980s TV commercial he didn't understand, the seasons settled back into their scratched plastic trays, content. They were not a story with a beginning, middle, or end. They were a noise. A long, stupid, glorious, endless noise. And for now, someone was listening.
Season Three, sandwiched between the earnestness of the early years and the chaos of the revival, felt a bit forgotten. It was the quiet intellectual, the one who remembered being cancelled and then resurrected by the faithful. It had a melancholy wisdom. "We are not a show," it once said to Season Five, who was too busy doing a musical number about diarrhea to listen. "We are a broadcast aneurysm."
Season Four was the middle child, but not the quiet one. Season Four was the steroid-pumped teenager who discovered sugar and rage. It was bloated, brilliant, and completely unhinged. It was the season where Peter fought the giant chicken for the first time. It was the season of "PTV" and "Petarded." It spoke in a loud, rapid-fire staccato, cutting away from reality every twelve seconds. "REMEMBER WHEN I DID THAT THING?" it would bellow. "THAT WAS LIKE THAT OTHER THING! BECAUSE OF THE THING!"