"Okay", you say. You can do this. It is time to delve deep into the dirty depths of DORAH! You can learn, you can cope, you can BECOME THE EXPLORAH IN ALL OF US! It is possible. You take deep breaths, you reach for the detritus encrusted remote, and you depress the play button once again. Dear god it is awful. Unfortunately you have slept 78 out of the last 90 hours of your life, so it seems virtually impossible to even mercifully pass out again. Your mind is awake, and as attentive as you are capable of being. This is what you have to deal with now, and there is no escape. She is bathing dogs, and.... they are talking, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish. But... she doesn't even have a Spanish accent. It sort of sounds like some American actress reading a script in Spanish, her enunciation is terrible, ugh. What will this even teach children? How to stick out as an easy target for Mexican criminals while on a shitty spring break jaunt south of the border? You can't take it, you race to the refrigerator and whip out a can of whipping cream. Fuck your Big Granny's fast approaching birthday cake, you NEED the Nitrous Oxide contained therein, and you need it NOW! You huff to your heart's content, and the world blurs around you. The brightly coloured screen breathes in and exhales, the sound layers itself into your brain as the map sings a song. You realize you have been here before. You have seen this episode, maybe you have ALWAYS been here, inside this very moment... with Dorah... with the map... with that fucking monkey. Perhaps you've been infinitely procreating, and all your lined up lineage wait with you on the couch to digest another episode of Dorah before you are forced to go back to work and stop collecting mat-pat leave. You don't want to. Maybe you can procreate again and keep this cycle of infinite Dorah replication going on into the infinity that lies beneath the freshly turned grave dirt. You can do this, "Oley!" you shout in an unconvincing accent. When your mother returns home to find you naked, slathered in whipping cream whilst humping your couch, eyes glued to an episode of Dorah, she immediately telephones les polices. They come, and trepidatiously drape you in a blanket before mercilessly tazering you. You are shipped off to Fat Annie's Funny Farm. Tales of your Dorah fetish travel far and wide, suffice it to say, you don't get too many visitors. You continuously ask Map where the tunnel to get out of this institution is, but the mass of screen-glued toddlers are depressingly silent.