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I picture a threadbare stuffed panda covered in dried blue paint, its fur unpleasantly stiff and its grin widened unnaturally by torn stitches. A crank that activates an internal phonograph protrudes from its back and its singsong growl, which issues from a damaged wax record, is mostly obscured by scratches. Every time the crank is wound, something unfortunate happens.
And yes, I owned this toy (in my imagination, anyway).
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