The father robot kneels down at the foot of the bed, where the son robot, baseball cap turned sideways, is sitting, gently kicking his feet.
“You know I’ll always love you,” the father robot says with its hand on its knee, a synthesized chirping coming from its vocal box. “Even if you strike out in baseball, you’re still my son.”
“Even if I don’t bring home a trophy?” the son robot asks.
“No trophy matters more to me than you.”
“Even a solid gold trophy?”
“Even a solid platinum trophy.”
“Even a trophy covered in sexy ladies?”
The father robot turns its head to the camera, which slightly zooms in on its face as it shakes its head. The studio audience erupts into laughter. A fanciful soft jazz tune plays, and the image fades out.