Welcome back to the deep dive. I want you to
picture a scenario that I guarantee happens to
you. I mean, probably at least once a week. OK,
I'm listening. You are standing in line at the
grocery store. You've got your cart, maybe some
almond milk, bag of apples. You know, you're
trying to be healthy. The usual Sunday afternoon.
Exactly. But you're stuck. You're behind someone
with a massive order and you have nowhere to
look. And they're right at eye level, practically
screaming at you in this like. neon yellow font
is a headline oh i know exactly where this is
going it's about a celebrity marriage exploding
or an alien baby or uh some politician caught
in a love nest the dreaded checkout gauntlet
it's it's effectively a trap and it's designed
to capture your attention in those three minutes
of sheer boredom it is a trap and we all do the
same thing we look we scoff maybe we chuckle
and we tell ourselves oh i am way too smart for
this trash you know we just dismiss it It's the
jump food of the news world. Right. It's easy
to feel superior to it. But today, we are going
to challenge that dismissal. Because when you
actually dig into the stack of research we have,
and we have a mountain of it today, you realize
that those trashy papers, they have a history
that is wilder, darker, and frankly more influential
than most serious newspapers. It's a history
that's... surprisingly central to how our society
functions. We're not just talking about gossip
here. Yeah. We're talking about a lineage that
goes from blackmailing the aristocracy in 1700s
London. Which is just an amazing concept on its
own. To a fundamentalist crusader in a, you know,
a grit filled mining town in Minnesota who essentially
saved the First Amendment. All the way to modern
political catch and kill schemes that are literally
shaping presidential elections. Yeah, that's
the part that's so stunning. That's the part
that blew. my mind. You just don't associate
the National Enquirer with the Supreme Court
or with the fundamental pillars of democracy.
But the connection is there. It absolutely is.
The margins of journalism, what we call the scandal
sheets, that's often where the boundaries of
free speech are actually tested. If you want
to understand the limits of what you can say
in public, you don't look at the New York Times.
You look at the tabloids. They're the ones pushing
the envelope. So that's our mission today. We're
going to trace this entire evolution from the
coffee houses of London to the supermarket checkout
line. And finally, to the phone that's probably
in your pocket right now. It's a heck of a journey.
It is. But before we get into the blackmail and
the lawsuits, we have to do a little housekeeping.
We need to define our terms because the word
tabloid is actually a bit of a trap. It is. It's
a very misunderstood term. When you say tabloid
to most people, they immediately think of the
content. Yeah, the sleaze, the sensationalism.
Right, paparazzi photos, alien babies, all of
it. But strictly speaking, in the printing industry,
tabloid refers to nothing more than a paper size.
It's just a measurement. That's it. That's it.
A traditional newspaper, think of the old school
Wall Street Journal or the New York Times, is
a broadsheet. It's huge. You have to fold it
in half and then half again just to read it on
the train without hitting your neighbor. I remember
those days. It's like wrestling an octopus. Exactly.
A tabloid is roughly half that size. It usually
opens like a book. It's more compact. So wait,
if the New York Times decided tomorrow that they
wanted to save money on paper and just print
it on smaller sheets. Technically, the New York
Times would become a tabloid. Technically, yes.
And in fact, this has already happened. Really?
Yeah. Since around the year 2000, many very respectable
highbrow newspapers, especially in the UK and
Europe, switched to the tabloid size. They usually
call it the compact format to avoid the stigma.
Of course they do. Compact. But they did it for
practicality. It's just easier for commuters
to handle. So the point is, you can't judge a
paper's quality solely by its dimensions anymore.
Fair enough. But for the sake of our deep dive
today, when we use the word tabloid, we aren't
talking about paper stock. We are talking about
the style. Yes. We're talking about tabloid journalism
as a genre. The red tops, the rags, the scandal
sheets. This is a specific editorial philosophy
that prioritizes sensation over nuance, emotion
over dry facts, and usually the private lives
of the famous suliner over public policy. It's
the stuff that makes you gasp. It is the stuff
that taps into our basest instincts. And while
we associate this with modern supermarkets, the
DNA of this industry is actually ancient. To
really understand it, we have to go back to a
time before supermarkets, before the United States
even existed as a country. Where are we going?
We're going back to London in the 1770s. This
was my favorite part of the research. I always
pictured the 1700s as very polite, you know,
people in powdered wigs bowing to each other.
But the media landscape was vicious. It was the
Wild West. Yeah. Absolutely. Literacy was rising,
coffee houses were booming, and there was this
insatiable hunger for news. But people didn't
just want to know about the king or the wars.
They wanted the dirt. They wanted the dirt. They
wanted to know who was sleeping with whom, who
was gambling away their fortune, who had a secret
child. They wanted society gossip. And stepping
into this void is a character who I feel needs
his own Netflix series, Reverend Henry Bate Dudley.
The fighting parson. What a name. He's an ordained
priest, but he's also a brawler, a man about
town, and the editor of the Morning Post, which
was one of the earliest what we'd call scandal
sheets. He was a fascinating contradiction. And
he understood the economics of reputation better
than anyone. He realized that a newspaper could
make money in two ways. OK. The first way is
obvious. You print a scandalous story about a
duchess. People buy the paper to read about it.
You make a penny. Simple supply and demand. Pretty
straightforward. But the second revenue stream
was far more lucrative and far more sinister.
It was the suppression fee. This is such a polite
term for what is essentially extortion. It is
absolutely extortion. Dudley and his contemporaries
would draft a story, let's say a rumor, that
a prominent lord was having an affair with an
actress. They would set the type. It's ready
to go. But before they printed the paper, they
would send a message to the lord. A little note
arrives. We have this story. It would be a real
shame if everyone in London read it tomorrow
over their morning tea. But for a fee, a suppression
fee, we can make sure this little story just...
And you have to understand the context of the
1770s. There was no PR crisis management. There
was no Instagram to post an apology video. If
your reputation was ruined in the morning post,
you were done, socially finished. You could be
ostracized from society completely. So people
paid. They had to. They paid fortunes. It became
a standard line item in the budget of the aristocracy.
You paid your servants, you paid for your horses,
and you paid your suppression fees to the scandal
sheets. Dudley essentially turned silence into
a commodity. It's the monetization of secrets.
And what strikes me is how formalized it was.
I mean, this wasn't just some back alley deal.
It was part of the actual business model. It
was an open secret. Sometimes they would even
print what was called a blind item. Oh, I've
heard of those. They still do that today. They
do. They print all the juicy details of the scandal,
but leave the name blank or use a very, very
obvious pseudonym. This was a signal to the target.
A warning shot. Exactly. It says, we know. Everyone
who matters knows who this is about. Pay up or
next week we print the real name. That is psychologically
diabolical. It is. And this model, this idea
that you can profit from the threat of publishing
just as much as from the publishing itself is
the foundational DNA of tabloid journalism. It's
the core concept. And it travels across the Atlantic
and lands in the United States, where it finds
a very fertile ground in the Gilded Age. Right.
So this brings us to the mid to late 1800s in
America. And in our research, we have the National
Police Gazette, which the notes mentioned was
huge in barbershops. The Gazette was interesting
because it mixed crime and sex. It had stories
about, you know, famous murders, but also drawings
of burlesque dancers. It was kind of the men's
magazine of its day. A little something for everyone.
But for the direct lineage of that blackmail
model we were just talking about, we have to
look at a publication called Town Topics. Run
by a man named William Dalton Mann. And if Dudley
was a brawling priest, Mann was the ultimate
hypocrite. Colonel Mann. He insisted on the title.
He was a Civil War veteran, a wealthy entrepreneur,
and a man who claimed to be on a moral crusade.
A crusade against who? He looked at the 400,
the absolute elite of New York society, the Astors,
the Vanderbilts, and he publicly declared that
they were rotting from the inside. He said they
were decadent and corrupt. He said he wanted
to reform them, right? That was his stated mission.
That was his public mission. He wrote that his
goal was to make them too deeply disgusted with
themselves to continue their silly, empty way
of life. He positioned town topics as a mirror
to show the rich how ugly their behavior was.
So the defense was, I'm only printing this gossip
about your mistress to save your soul. Exactly.
This hurts me more than it hurts you. But behind
the scenes, Mann had perfected Dudley's system.
He had a vast network of spies. Who were the
spies? Butlers, maids, carriage drivers, the
invisible staff who saw and heard everything.
They fed him the dirt, and he fed the wealthy
a choice. Pay for a subscription, maybe pay for
some advertising in his paper, or simply make
a loan to Colonel Mann. Or you read about your
sins on Friday when the paper comes out. And
these loans were never repaid, I assume. Almost
never. It was a protection racket, plain and
simple, just wrapped in this moral lecture. And
it worked for decades because the wealthy had
everything to lose. But as we move into the 20th
century, the dynamic starts to shift a little
bit. We leave the ballrooms of New York and head
to the Midwest. And this is where the story stops
being about money and starts being about the
law. A huge shift. We are going to Duluth, Minnesota,
the 1920s. A very different setting. Duluth in
the 20s was a rough, booming port city. Iron
ore, shipping, timber. It was gritty. It was
tough. It was also, according to some observers,
a den of vice. So prohibition was in effect,
but that didn't matter. Not at all. Speakeasies
were everywhere. Gambling, prostitution. It was
a wide open town. And looking down on all this
supposed sin is a man named John L. Morrison.
The editor of a paper called The Ripsaw. I love
that name, The Ripsaw. It sounds like a horror
movie or maybe a wrestling move. It's aggressive.
It implies violence. It implies cutting through
the veneer of respectability to expose the rot
underneath. And Morrison was different from Mann.
Very different. Morrison was a fundamentalist.
He wasn't looking for hush money like Colonel
Mann. He was looking for purification. He truly
believed he was doing God's work by exposing
the corruption of Duluth. So he starts printing
names, real names of powerful people. He goes
nuclear. He accuses the police chief of turning
a blind eye to gambling dens. He claims public
officials are hanging out in brothels. He writes
about drunkenness and debauchery among the city
leaders. And he wasn't using polite euphemisms.
He was direct. And this wasn't just society gossip.
This was impacting careers and reputations in
a very serious way. It was destroying them. Morrison
was actually convicted of criminal libel at one
point. But he kept publishing. He didn't care.
He felt he was on a divine mission. But then
he made a tactical error. He went after a state
senator named Mike Boylan. And this is where
the story takes a turn that affects every single
person listening to this right now, whether they
know it or not. It really does. It's incredible.
So Morrison published a story claiming that Senator
Boylan had threatened to kill him. It was a sensational
headline. Boylan was furious. But he knew that
suing for libel was slow, expensive, and often
difficult to win. Right, because you had to prove
the story was false, and a trial would just drag
all the rumors out into the public eye even more.
Exactly. It could backfire. So he decided to
change the rules of the game entirely. He used
his political power. He went to the Minnesota
legislature, and he helped pass the Public Nuisance
Bill of 1925. History remembers it as the Minnesota
gag law. Okay, gag law sounds bad, but what did
it actually allow the government to do? It was
a weapon of mass silence. The law stated that
any newspaper or magazine that was engaged in
the business of publishing malicious, scandalous
and defamatory material could be declared a public
nuisance. Like a noisy factory or a chemical
spill? Precisely. And what's the remedy for a
public nuisance? You shut it down. You shut it
down. The law allowed a single judge, no jury.
just a judge, to issue a permanent injunction.
They could padlock the doors of the printing
press. They could legally forbid the publisher
from ever producing a newspaper again. That is
huge. I mean, that's not just punishing you for
a specific story. That is taking away your voice
forever. It's a concept in law called prior restraint,
and it's the most dangerous form of censorship.
Why is it so much more dangerous? Because punishing
someone after they lie is one thing. That's libel
law. but stopping them from speaking before they
even opened their mouth. That's tyranny. And
they used this law. They did. Not only if Saul
Morrison actually died before they could get
him, but on another scandal sheet called the
Saturday Press in Minneapolis. And that case
went all the way to the top. It did. The publisher
of the Saturday Press, a man named Jay Neer,
appealed. Now... We have to be clear. He was
an unsavory character. His paper was anti -Semitic.
It was racist. It was deeply sensationalist.
He was not a hero in the traditional sense. Not
a champion of the people. Not at all. But his
lawyer argued that if the government could shut
down a scandal sheet just because they didn't
like the tone or because the articles were offensive,
then no newspaper was safe. The logic being,
if they can silence the Saturday Press today,
they can silence the New York Times tomorrow.
That was the entire argument. The case, near
v. Minnesota, reached the U .S. Supreme Court
in 1931. And in a very, very close 5 -4 decision,
the court ruled in favor of the scandal sheet.
They struck down the Minnesota gag law as unconstitutional.
Wow. So we owe our modern press freedom. I mean,
the ability of The Washington Post to investigate
the president or The Times to publish the Pentagon
Papers. We owe that to a racist, trashy tabloid
in Minnesota. In a very real way, we do. The
Supreme Court established a precedent that the
government generally cannot engage in prior restraint.
They can sue you for libel later, but they cannot
stop the presses beforehand. It's the great paradox
of the First Amendment. What's the paradox? To
protect the high -minded, serious journalism,
you have to tolerate the ripsaws and the Saturday
presses. You have to protect the speech you hate
to ensure that the speech you value is safe.
You protect the margins to ensure the center
holds. That is a heavy legacy for a format that
we mostly associate with batboys and celebrity
diets these days. It is. But speaking of diets
and celebrities, we have to move to the next
major evolution. We've covered the legal landscape.
But the business landscape changed radically
in the 1960s. This is the birth of the supermarket
tabloid, as we know it. Right. This is the era
of the National Enquirer. And this is where the
physical location of the news really changes.
It changes everything. Up until the 1950s, if
you wanted a paper, you went to a newsstand or
a kiosk. You made a deliberate choice to buy
news. But post -war America was a different place.
The suburbs exploded. The car culture. The daily
commute changed. And the center of community
life. for many people, became the supermarket.
And one man saw a massive opportunity there,
a guy named Generoso Pope Jr. He bought the National
Enquirer when it was struggling, and he looked
at the supermarket checkout line, and he saw
a gold mine. It was a captive audience. People
standing there for three to five minutes. bored,
waiting to pay. It was a perfect place to sell
something. But there was a problem. Supermarkets
aren't, you know, they're family places. They're
conservative. They didn't want the old school
scandal sheets, which were pretty gruesome. Oh,
the early Inquirer was bloody. It was full of
car wrecks, severed heads, stories about torture.
It was pure. If it bleeds, it leads. Yeah, that's
not going to sit well next to the lifesavers.
Pope knew that. He knew the managers at Safeway
and A &P would never let that sit next to the
candy bars. So he pivoted. He cleaned it up.
He swapped the gore for gossip. He traded the
car crashes for medical miracles, UFOs, and celebrity
secrets. He made it safe. Sensationalism. But
his real genius wasn't the content. It was the
distribution model. He invented the buyback.
OK, explain that, because on the surface, it
sounds like a bad deal for the publisher. It
sounds incredibly risky, but it was brilliant.
Supermarkets operate on very thin margins. Every
single inch of shelf space has to make money.
They hate dead stock. Right. Unsold product.
Exactly. If they buy a stack of magazines and
nobody buys them, the store loses money. So they're
hesitant to take on new products. Pope went to
the grocers and said, look, I will pay for the
rack space. You put my papers by the register,
and if the papers don't sell by the end of the
week, I will buy them back from you at full price.
You, the grocer, have zero risk. That removes
the barrier to entry completely. It's a no -brainer
for the store. It made the tabloid a pure profit
center for the store. Why wouldn't you stock
it? And that is why, almost overnight, the Inquirer,
the Globe, the Star, they were everywhere. They
weren't distributed like newspapers anymore.
They were distributed like chewing gum. They
became impulse buys. That's the key. And being
an impulse buy changes how you write the headlines,
doesn't it? It has to, completely. You're not
writing for a loyal subscriber who trusts you.
You're writing to grab someone's eye in the three
seconds before they put their milk on the conveyor
belt. So the headlines have to be shorter, punchier,
more emotional. And the covers became glossy
and colorful. This is where the modern visual
identity of the supermarket tabloid was born.
It was all about that point of sale impact. And
for a long time, this machine just printed money.
And the celebrities they covered, they just took
it. There was this idea that you shouldn't fight
back, right? The conventional wisdom was don't
wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty and the
pig likes it. I've heard that one. Celebrities
felt that suing just drew more attention to the
lie. It would be a headline for weeks. So the
tabloids operated with a sense of impunity. They
felt they could print almost anything. Until
Carol Burnett. 1976. This is the turning point.
The big one. Carol Burnett was America's sweetheart.
She was funny. She was kind. She was universally
beloved. An icon. And the National Enquirer ran
a small item, just a few sentences in a gossip
column, claiming she'd been drunk and boisterous
in a restaurant in Washington, D .C., and had
a loud argument with Henry Kissinger. Which,
knowing her comedy, sounds like a sketch she
might do. But as a news report, that's incredibly
damaging. It was devastating to her. And not
just professionally. Her parents had both suffered
from severe alcoholism. It was the great tragedy
of her childhood. So being accused of public
drunkenness wasn't just an embarrassing lie for
a celebrity. It was a deep, deep personal insult.
It attacked the core of her character. So she
broke the rule. She decided to wrestle the pig.
She sued. And the Inquirer was arrogant. They
were cocky. They relied on a legal standard called
actual malice. OK, quick refresher on actual
malice. That's the Supreme Court rule from New
York Times v. Sullivan that makes it really hard
for famous people to win libel suits, right?
Correct. If you were a public figure, you can't
just prove the story was wrong. That's not enough.
You have to prove the newspaper knew it was wrong
and printed it anyway, or that they acted with
reckless disregard for the truth. It is a very,
very high bar to clear. And the Inquirer assumes
she can never prove that. They thought it was
impossible. But she did. Her lawyers took them
apart on a witness stand. They showed that the
writer had based the entire story on hearsay
from a tipster, had never bothered to verify
it, and had essentially fabricated the details,
like the argument with Kissinger, to make it
juicier. So it was Rex's disregard. The jury
found that it was. They were furious at the inquirer.
They awarded Burnett a significant settlement.
And that must have sent a chill through the entire
checkout aisle industry. It ended the era of
total impunity. It didn't stop the tabloids,
obviously. They're still here. But it professionalized
them in a weird way. After Burnett, the Inquirer,
and others beefed up their legal departments,
they learned how to write in code. Code? What
do you mean by code? Well, they learned how to
use qualifying language. Sources say. Insiders
speculate. Friends are worried that... All these
phrases give them plausible deniability. They
learned how to walk right up to the line of defamation
without actually crossing it. They became much
more sophisticated about the legal side of lying.
So they got smarter. They got more careful. But
recently, we've seen a shift that is, I think,
even more disturbing. It's not about printing
lies anymore. It's about not printing anything
at all. The era of catch and kill. This sounds
like something from a spy movie, but it is a
real business practice. And it brings us right
back to the very beginning, to the suppression
fees of the 1700s. But now it's on a massive
corporate scale. It is the industrialization
of blackmail. That's what it is. Catch and kill
is a tactic where a tabloid publisher buys the
exclusive rights to a damaging story about a
celebrity or a politician, but with no intention
of ever publishing it. Let's break down the mechanics
of that because it's devilishly clever. OK, here's
the scenario. A person comes to American Media
Inc. or AMI, which for decades owned the Inquirer,
and says, I have proof, photos, texts, whatever,
that a famous politician is having an affair.
Right. A huge scoop. That's the catch. Yeah.
AMI says, we want this scoop. It's incredible.
Here's a contract. We will pay you, say, $150
,000 for the exclusive rights to your story.
And part of this contract says you are now legally
forbidden from telling anyone else. So the source
takes the money, thinking their story is about
to be on the cover. Exactly. But then comes the
kill. AMI takes the contract and all the evidence.
They put it in assays. And they never, ever run
the story. They bury it. Why on earth would you
spend $150 ,000 for content you don't use? That's
the part that seems crazy from a business perspective.
To protect the subject of the story, usually
the politician or celebrity is a friend of the
publisher or someone the publisher wants to gain
favor with. By killing the story, the publisher
gains massive leverage over that powerful person.
It stops being journalism completely. It becomes
a political contribution or a favor. Precisely.
And the examples in our notes are incredibly
high profile. It has been reported that AMI used
this tactic for years to protect Arnold Schwarzenegger
during his run for governor of California. I
remember hearing about that. They allegedly protected
Harvey Weinstein for years, buying and burying
stories about his behavior. And of course, the
most famous case involves Donald Trump and the
2016 election. The Kara McDougal case. Yes. The
former Playboy model who alleged an affair. AMI
paid her for her story specifically to silence
her during the final months of the campaign.
This moves the tabloid from being a chaotic,
neutral observer of trash culture to being an
active participant in political manipulation.
It's basically Reverend Dudley's suppression
fee. But instead of protecting a duke's reputation
for a few pounds, they're protecting a presidential
candidate for political influence. The stale
is different, but the mechanism is identical.
It proves that information is a weapon. You can
use it to inform the public, or you can use it
to control the powerful. Tabloids have always
understood that the second option is often more
profitable. Now, we've been very U .S.-centric
for the last few minutes, but we have to mention
the British tabloids. Because if you think the
National Enquirer is aggressive, the British
Red Tops are. They're a different species entirely.
Oh, the U .K. tabloid culture is ferocious. It's
on another level. We're talking about papers
like The Sun, The Daily Mirror, The Daily Star.
They are called red tops because they're distinctive
red mastheads. And in the UK, these aren't just
supermarket curiosities, right? They're major
players. They are dominant national newspapers.
They drive the national conversation. And they
cover actual news. Really? Like hard news? It's
a chaotic mix. You will see a giant headline
about a massive economic crisis or war. And then
right next to it, a story about a footballer's
affair or some reality TV star's beach body.
They blend the high and the low in a way that
U .S. tabloids don't. And they have immense political
power. Huge. It used to be said that no one could
become prime minister without the support of
the Sun newspaper. They could make or break political
careers. And that immense power led to immense
corruption. It did. The phone hacking scandal.
This was the moment the British public realized
just how far the Red Tops would go to get a story.
This is the news of the world, right? Yes. Journalists
and investigators hired by the paper were systematically
hacking into the voicemails of royal aides, celebrities,
politicians, and even the victims of crime and
terrorism. That's truly dark. That's not just
chasing celebrities. That's invading the privacy
of grieving families to get a scoop. It was repugnant.
They hacked the voicemail of a murdered schoolgirl,
giving her parents false hope that she was still
alive because the voicemails were being deleted.
It was a national disgrace. And what happened?
It led to the closure of the News of the World,
a paper that had been in print for 168 years.
It just shut down overnight. It showed that the
drive for sensation, if left completely unchecked,
will eventually eat itself. So bringing it to
the present day, I feel like the era of the printed
tabloid is fading. I mean, I see them at the
checkout, but I rarely see anyone under 50 actually
buying one. The print market is dying. There's
no question. The demographics are aging out.
But the spirit of the tabloid hasn't died. It
has just migrated. It went online. It's the Daily
Mail online. It's TMZ. It's all these celebrity
gossip sites. The Daily Mail is the perfect example.
It's a British paper, but its website, Mail Online,
became the most read English language newspaper
website in the world for a while. How did they
manage that? They did it by pioneering the sidebar
of shame. Ah, yes, that endless scroll on the
right side of the page with just pictures. Infinite
scroll. Thousands of photos, celebrity oops moments,
beach bodies, scandals, wardrobe malfunctions.
They realize that on the Internet, tabloid isn't
defined by the size of the paper. It is defined
by the speed and the stickiness of the click.
And the economics are different, too. We don't
pay suppression fees or buyback fees. We pay
with our attention. We pay with our clicks. The
currency is engagement. And what drives engagement
online? Outrage. Shock. Scandal. The exact same
commodities that Reverend Henry Bate Dudley was
selling in 1770 are the commodities that drive
the algorithms of today. Which brings me to a
final thought, a final question, really. We started
this deep dive talking about how we look down
on tabloids. We treat them as other. I'm smart.
I read the Times. They are dumb. They read the
Inquirer. It's a very comforting delusion, isn't
it? It is. But look at your phone. Just open
Instagram or X or TikTok. What do you see? You
see short, punchy text. Highly visual content.
Sensational headlines designed to make you react.
A mix of serious politics and completely frivolous
gossip all in the same feed. It fits the definition
of tabloid journalism perfectly. It does, doesn't
it? Every single point. So my question is this.
Have we effectively killed the tabloid newspaper
simply because we turned our entire media consumption
into one giant global 247 digital tabloid? That
is the provocative question. If the format is
defined as quick, emotional, and visual, then
social media is the ultimate tabloid. We are
all subscribers now. And we're not just reading
it. No. In a way, we are all editors, too. We're
the ones deciding which scandals to share, which
rumors to amplify, and which stories to suppress
with our silence. We are all written in Dudley
now. That is a terrifying thought. Someone to
think about the next time you're doom -scrolling
in the checkout line. Thanks for listening to
this deep dive. Thank you. We'll see you next
time.