“Homer, what do you think about what’s going on these days, you know, about the fiscal cliff and all that other stuff?”

“Well, Gwendolyn, it does remind me a bit of our lower class peers, you know the middle class down there playing in the sand box, tinkling and throwing sand in each others’ face.”

“I mean after all Homer, if they call us ‘precocious’ at our age what do they call the president and members of congress at their stage of life?”

“Obnoxious, ego-maniacal, with early onset of dementia looking forward to collecting the entitlements they voted in for themselves as early as they can get it.”

“Oh, Homer you’re so cynical and pessimistic.  After all they we’re considerate enough to provide Plan B for me and provide that Glock pistol to you so you can protect us from those crazies.”

“That’s true Gwen, but I think the NRA was instrumental in getting me the Glock, and that Sandra Fluke, if that’s what her name was, well, she helped you to do it three times a day.”

“You’re not complaining are you, Homer?”

“Don’t get me wrong, as a matter of fact my parents are out of the house this afternoon and we could have a matinee?”

“Homer, I remember when I was five and a matinee was an ice cream sundae at Haagen-Das.”

“Yes, those were the good old days.  I guess we are growing up too soon, but we have to take on responsibilities, under this Marxist regime, sooner than later, and plan on retirement later than sooner, and our middle class peers down there in the sandbox; poor souls, will be doing tomorrow, despite what the president promised, what they are doing today, pissing on each other.”

“Homer, let’s go to your parents house.”

“Did you take Plan B?”

“I don’t have to take it until tomorrow morning.”