Willy!


It's all right. I came back.


Why? What happened? Did something happen, Willy?


No, nothing happened. I just came back, that's all.


I hope the website didn't crash again.


No, of course not!


You know how you're always forgetting to close your database connections in your php scripts.


Oh? And what would you know about that, exactly?


Nothing, dear: It's just that you've accidentally brought the site down at least two times in the last week, and each time you yourself placed the blame on your excessive database connections.


Which part of 'Nothing Happened' do you not understand, Linda: the Nothing or the Happened?


All right, all right: You don't have to get surly with me.


Well, nothing happened, okay? End of story -- What is this?


Oh, that's the new cheese that they have on sale in Ramano's Supermarket. Close the fridge, would you, dear? You know what our electricity bills have been like lately.


New cheese, huh?


Yes, it's supposed to be 1/3 the calories of the old one, Willy.


1/3 the calories, huh? Well, imagine that.


Now sit down and have some coffee. I've got a surprise for you.


You've always been so good to me, Linda.


Oh, dear, you look so tired. Sit down, Willy, please, dear.


Oh, jeepers, Linda, it's not easy being a webmaster these days...


I know, dear.


Just when you think you've used all the right keywords and promoted your site in every online directory in cyberspace...


Don't worry about it, dear: You're going to have a big successful website one day, just like you've always said you would.


Yes, but 10 years, Linda: I've been struggling for a halfway decent listing on Google for 10 long years, and all of my articles and parodies are still buried alive by that no-good son-of-a-!#@$ monopoly!


Would you listen to that, Biff?


What?


It's Pops -- he's come home in the middle of the day again, ranting about his difficulty in popularizing his stupid website.


What a goofball.


Listen to him go at it: He's in rare form tonight.


But, darling, all webmasters have these problems. Now eat your low-calorie cheese.


I don't want low-calorie cheese: I want my usual American cheese.


But this IS American cheese, darling.


I said I want my normal American cheese -- this is NOT my normal American cheese.


You've got to relax, dear.


Anyway, what about Charlie?


What ABOUT Charlie, dear?


His site was online for less than a year before he struck it big with that FaceLook-dot-com site of his, or whatever the hell they call it.


That's StumbleFace, dear.


Whatever.


And he still puts on his pants one leg at a time.


Oh, yeah? And how would you know that?


He shouldn't talk that way to Mom.


Oh, this is mild, Biff, believe me. You don't know what you've been missing by living out of town for the last two years.


Why, Willy --


Oh, I'm sorry, Linda. It's just that...


Yes, dear?


It's not just Google, either.


Oh, here we go: Now he's going to start throwing down on DMOZ, the Open Directory Project.


That damn shadowy DMOZ outfit will not list my site correctly for love or for money!


Ha! What did I tell ya, Biff?!


I thought Charlie said he was going to fill out the DMOZ form for you to make sure that they listed you correctly this time.


I... I told Charlie to forget about it.


What? But why, dear? You know that Charlie is a whiz at things like that!


Oh, meaning that I'm NOT such a whiz, myself: Is that it, Linda?


We all have different talents, dear. You're a webmaster: that doesn't mean you're automatically good at filling out online forms.


The old lunk is feeling sorry for himself, that's all.


Oh, go easy on the old duffer, Biff: For all his faults, he's probably the only webmaster in the world who recognizes the fact that Google, for all its innovations, is a philosophically troubling monopoly that's got ya coming and going, controlling both what you see online AND what advertisements you watch while you're seeing it.


Oh, everybody knows that Google is a monopoly, Happy.


Everybody knows that, huh? You wouldn't know that from watching all the 'kids gloves' interviews that Sergey Brin and Larry Page are allowed to breeze through these days thanks to the journalistic abnegation of the favor-currying Charlie Roses of the world.


Quiet: He's talking about DMOZ again.


Besides, Linda, a good listing on DMOZ wouldn't even boost my website's popularity at this point.


But why not, darling? I mean, from what little I know about it, DMOZ reviews are relied on by major search engines such as Google.


Yes, but DMOZ refuses to list my individual articles under any specific categories: they will only list my wildly eclectic site as a whole. If I submit anything more specific, they accuse me of spamming!


So?


So, Linda? So?! Do you know how many websites there are out there today that publish articles in general?


Oh, I don't know: Several thousand?


Try several billion, Linda. And who's going to visit a page that merely informs them that I, Willy B. Webman, have written some funny stuff.


Well --


Everybody and their brother is ostensibly writing funny stuff on the Internet these days.


That's true, dear.


If DMOZ is going to help me, they'd have to list my Mek Tribe parody by itself, or my Hamlet parody by itself, or my Jeopardy! parody by itself, etc.


Don't excite yourself, dear.


The last thing I need is for some self-appointed member of an officious, anonymous, and almost certainly ageist society of worldwide geeks to publish a blurb informing the world that I simply write articles! Yeah, I breathe, too, but there's little point in telling the world that!


Come to bed, dear.


At 2:00 in the afternoon?


Why not, big boy?


Linda, you're too good for me!


And mark my words: You are going to succeed online someday in spite of those apparently self-satisfied behemoths that you're always complaining about.


You really think so, Linda?


Hey, I know: Why don't you call Charlie tomorrow and see if he has any ideas for you?


I am NOT going to call Charlie, okay? I can lick this thing myself!




I'm sorry, Linda. I...


I know, dear: Just finish your cheese and come to bed.


I SAID this is NOT 'my cheese'!


He shouldn't talk to Mom like that.


He's upset, okay: He's taking on Google single-handed, after all. Give him a break.


The big lout.


Oh, I almost forgot: I have a surprise for you, remember?


A surprise? What surprise?


Don't look now, but...


Yes, yes?


Biff has come home!


WHAT?!


He's upstairs right now, shooting the breeze with his brother, Happy.


Biff! Biff! B-b-b-b-b-BIFF?????!




Ah, that lazy bum!


Now, Willy!


I taught him everything I know about being a webmaster.


I know, dear.


And no sooner does he come of age than he skips town to become a doctor!


He's becoming a lawyer, Willy, not a doctor.


Same difference: He didn't want to follow in his poor father's footsteps, that's the point.


Oh, you know how much he loves you.


I don't know what went wrong with that kid.


He's just young, Willy.


21? You call that young?


Well, yes, actually, I do, Willy.


Why, when I was 21, I already had my own website.


Ha! He had his own website, all right -- hosted by some freebie cut-and-paste site factory like Hotmail.com.


Look at Bernard, next-door.


What about him, dear?


He's only 20 and he's already earning a living on eBay.


Maybe Biff doesn't want to be a webmaster, dear.


Oh, and I suppose the job is too good for him, then.


Nonsense. He's just... well, finding himself.


To be finding yourself at age 21 is a disgrace.


Not really, dear. I think you're thinking of age 35, or 40, maybe.


Oh, Ben, my dear brother.


Oh, here he goes again, talking to the ghost of his emphatically successful brother.


How did you do it, Ben?


Willy, when I was 17, I walked into Silicon Valley...


Yes, Ben, yes!


And at age 21, I walked out...


Yes, Ben, yes!


And by God, I was RICH!


The man is a lunatic.


That's what I've been trying to tell you, Biff. That's why ma wanted you to come back.


How can I help? You know the old man hates me.


Are you kidding me, Biff? You're the apple of his eye.


He doesn't even know me: He thinks I want to be a webmaster.


Look, would you talk to the man?


Oh!


You don't have to say anything about websites or Google or DMOZ -- just go down and say 'hello', for Christ's sake.


I don't know why he can't just be happy with YOU -- you're a programmer for Amazon.com, after all, aren't you, Happy? What more does he want?


I'm just a mid-level hack, you know that. The only way I've held my own in the company is by sleeping with everybody that threatened to stand in my way.


Um, Happy, this is probably more information than I need right now.


You've always been the inventive one. If anyone could knock one out of the park on the Internet, it would be you.


I'm a lawyer, remember: Or at least I'm studying to be one.


Be a lawyer then and God be with you: But would you just go down and TALK to the man?!


All right, all right, keep your shirt on.


That's more like it.


By the way, what happened to my green army men?


What? Oh, I cleared them out: I'm using that desk now for writing programs.


Well... um, might one ask what you did with my army men?


Would you listen to yourself? You're a grown man, asking me what I did with your toy army soldiers.


Don't tell me you threw them away, Happy.


Well... I... I may have done --


Happy!!!


Look, I'm sorry, okay? It didn't occur to me that a 21-year-old future lawyer would have a nostalgic hissy-fit over his toy army soldiers.


Oh, Happy!


I'll buy you a new set, okay? Now, go downstairs and talk with Dad.


Jeepers creepers, dude: I'm already sorry that I came home -- and I haven't even locked horns with dad yet!?




Why, look who it is, dear!


Huh?


It's your favorite son: Biff Loman.


Hiya, Dad.


Why, B-b-Biff!


I'll leave you two to get reacquainted.


B-b-b-biff!


I'll be waiting for YOU in the bedroom, mister. (Meow!)


What? Oh, ahem, yes, dear.




Now, where was I, exactly?


You were saying 'B-b-Biff! B-b-Biff!'


Oh, right: B-b-Biff! You've come home!


Give the man a kewpie doll.


Oh, don't tell me, son: You've decided to start your own website, just like your dad!


Actually, Dad --


What am I saying? You've been away two years! You've obviously got your own website by now -- and I dare say it's going strong.


Please, Dad --


What are you selling, Biff? Vintage license plates? Cigarette lighters? Secondhand electronic equipment?


Dad, please!


No, don't tell me: You're raking in the money on site subscriptions.


Dad!


As if it matters what subject you're dealing with: I always told Charlie that you could write a super-popular Web page for a waste disposal company if you needed to. Your online copy has always been second to none!


But, Dad, I'm not a --


What's the domain name, son? Here, let me look it up on my laptop.


Dad, stop!


'Dad-Stop' -- Now, is that Dad-Stop dot-com or Dad-Stop dot-org?


Dad, would you just listen to me for once?!


I'm listening, I'm listening: Don't get all bent out of shape.


I am NOT a webmaster, okay?


But... but of COURSE you're a webmaster. You --


No, Dad: I am studying to be a lawyer at the University of Illinois's College of Law.


I don't believe you.


Why do you think I came home wearing an orange-and-blue cap with a big 'I' on it?


You mean --


That's right, Dad: I've got season tickets to the Fighting Illini! (Go, Illini!)


But...


Go ahead: say it.


Why didn't you tell me you liked football so much?


Well --


Charlie has connections in California: He could have got you season tickets for the Silicon Valley Hawks.


Why do you always assume that I'd want to travel to Silicon Valley, Pop?


Well, wh-where else are you going to master your craft as a great webmaster?


I am NOT a webmaster, Dad: Can't you get that through your head?!


Don't say that, Biff! You are the greatest webmaster the world has ever known.


Dad, look at me: Do I look like a webmaster to you? Open your eyes: I can't even log on to your computer without calling the Dell Help Desk.


Now, Biff --


I'm nothing, Dad, NOTHING!


Biff!


Well, I say 'nothing': I'm a lawyer, of course (or I WILL be in several post-graduate years) -- but I'm NOTHING when it comes to cyber-space. NADA. Zero. The Big Goose Egg.


You're no son of mine, then, because my son is a successful webmaster.


Just like yourself, huh?


And what is THAT supposed to mean?


I've been looking at your online site statistics, Pops.


What about my site statistics?


They're flat-lining, Pops: Even your admittedly in-itself hilarious parody of 'The Mek Tribe' on the Travel Channel is flat-lining!


Well, whose fault is that, huh?


Well, I --


You work your butt off for 10 years promoting your site, and it makes absolutely no difference thanks to the behind-the-scenes machinations of Google and DMOZ.


Pop, you're delusional!


Am not! Now, hush for a minute, son: I think I hear my Brother Ben again....


I sold thousands of dollars' worth of diamonds online on my own shopping-cart-enabled website, Willy.


Of course, you did, Ben. Of course, you did.


There's nothing to it -- you've just got to want it bad enough, Willy.


Yes, Ben! Yes.


Who are you talking to, Dad? There's no one there.


What's that, Ben?


When I was 17, I went into Silicon Valley...


Yes, Ben, yes?


When I was 21, I came out...


Yes, Ben, yes!


And by God, I was RICH!


I can't deal with this man. I'm going out.


Wait for me, Biff: We can paint the town red together -- like in the good old days.


Don't you walk out on me, Biff!


Yeah, whatever!


I'll hit the delete key on the hard drive of my affections!


I'm scared. (Not.)


I'll erase you so thoroughly that the operation will not be undoable.


Biff, say something nice to the old man.


What do you want me to say?


Hey, I know what, Pops: Meet us tonight at Justin's Restaurant on West 21st Street, so we can talk about old times.


What?


6:30 or thereabouts.


You mean...




you boys are... inviting me... to a real live restaurant dinner?!


Sure, we are, aren't we, Biff?




Aren't we, BIFF?!


What? Oh, yeah, sure. Whatever.


They're inviting me to dinner. My boys are inviting me to dinner!


Willy, are you coming to bed?


Did you hear that, Linda? My sons are inviting me to dinner!


I've got on some new lingerie.


Not now, Linda: I've got to go downtown and pick up a decent suitcoat.


What?


My... sons... are... inviting... me... to... DINNER!!!!!


You DID hear the part about my new lingerie, right, darling?


So long, Linda. If I'm not back by 9:00, don't wait up!


Note to self: Go down to municipal courthouse tomorrow morning and officially change name to 'Chopped Liver.' SIGH! What a life!




Well, if it isn't Mr. L. himself. Have a seat, Mr. Loman: Your wish is our command tonight.


Well, it's my old kowtowing waiter friend, bowing and scraping as usual, just like in the old days.


Your sons have been waiting for you.


Have they? Oh, those rogues! Where are they?


Right here in the 'boot' in the back, Willy.


Still pronouncing 'booth' without an 'h,' eh, Henry? Some things never change.


Hey, listen, Willy: In the Bronx dictionary, there is no 'h' in the word in question.


I hear ya, Henry. Now where are these boys of mine?


Ta-da!


Hiya, pops. Sit yourself down.


My two webmasters! My, my!


Here we go again.


Well, don't just sit there, Biff: Move over so that pops can have a seat.


Oh, right.


This is just like the old days -- what a swank place.


Nothing but the best for our Pops.


Oh, I wish Charlie were here tonight: He would eat his heart out to see how my sons worship me!


The Short Ribs are great, Pops.


Only imagine: Three successful webmasters in the family, all going out to eat together!


Dad, I told you I'm --


You told me what, Biff?


Uh, Biff told ME that the Smothered Pork Chops were his favorite, but get whatever you want, Dad: It's on your sons, tonight!


Oh, my, I'm spoiled for choice.


The gentleman would desire...?


I think I'll start with the Chicken Salad, Henry.


Shredded or Jerked?


Uh, jerked, I believe.


It figures.


What's that, Biff?


I said a salad is good for your figure.


Make that three salads, Henry.


Right: Three salads for three jerks. Gotcha.


Oho!


Oh, sorry about that: I mean three jerk salads!


Henry's still a wise guy after all these years. Well, he'd better watch out because there's one other thing that hasn't changed around here.


Oh, yeah? And what would that be, Mr. Loman?


I still have a good right hook and I'm not afraid to use it.


Oh, Willy, you always WERE such a card. Now what about entrees?


I think I'll go with the Smothered Chicken, Henry.


Excellent choice. And it was smothered humanely, too, by the way.


Oh, really?


Yes. In fact, I smothered it myself.


Oh, you!


Seriously. It didn't feel a thing. I was like, "Oh, hey, look at that rooster over there --" and then, before you knew it, I was like, "smother smother smother!" Ha ha!




Ahem. Right, then. I'll take the Short Ribs of Beef with brown gravy on the side.


And you, Sir?


I'll take the disgruntled sirloin with a side order of sour grapes.


What's that, Biff?


On second thought, give me the cooked goose.


Yeah, Henry, you'd better give him the cooked goose, or he might just cook his OWN goose tonight.




My boys, the webmasters!


Now, Dad --


Like father, like sons.


Ooh, look at the babe that just waltzed into the room here! Whoo-hoo! Mama mia! Here I go again!


What?


Where are you going, Happy?


I've got to download some of THAT!


But... but...


Happy, we can't just leave pops here by himself.


Sorry, old man, but here's the money for the bill.


What --


Happy!


Say, Pops, do me a favor and tell Henry that I want my ribs to go.


T-to go?


Yeah. Maybe we can get together again tonight for a midnight snack and polish the babies off together.


Polish... the babies... off... together?


Happy, you come back here!


You're either with me, or you're against me, Biff. What's a nice girl like you doing in a relatively cheap joint like this?


And what's wrong with this place, may I ask?


Well, for starters, it's full of loser dads who have unrealistic expectations regarding the job prospects for their morally challenged sons.


Oh, dear: They really should have marked that on the door somehow.


Well, it would take up a lot of letters.


True.


Never mind that: Me and Biff will show you the town tonight -- ain't that right, Biff?


I -- I suppose so...


Okay, big boys: Show me this 'town' of yours.


Okay, Happy, but Mom is gonna kill us for walking out on Pops like this.


He's a grown man: He can figure out what bus to take home.


Well --


Besides, we're going to have a midnight snack together, just me and him.


I don't know...


Of course you don't know, Biff. That's why I'm the decisive one and you're the introspective worrywart.


Am not.


Are TOO: Now let's get moving. You are gonna love us, babe: I'm a big programmer dude at Amazon.com and my brother here is --


Yeeees?


Well, he's just a college student, basically -- but give him time. Meanwhile, one of us is already a certified success story, videlicit myself.


Thanks a lot, Happy.


What? It's a fact, all right? You're still finding yourself, whereas I've known where I was going since I was 7!


The whole WORLD knows where you're going, Happy, and it's nothing to brag about, believe me.


Don't listen to him, Doll: He's strictly squaresville.


Stop chatting me up and help me get some good expensive food into this shapely but increasingly famished tummy of mine!


You heard the lady, Biff: To the Ritz on the double!


S-sorry about this, Dad.


Come ON, Biff!


S-see you tonight, yes?


Would you get going so that the lady can eat?!


I think the M60 bus will take you back to Brooklyn.


Biff!


Or any bus that says Gravesend.


BIFF!


Except for Sheepshead: Do NOT get on a bus that says Sheepshead.


Come on, lady, we'll let MR. AAA catch us up later.


Oh, I'm coming already, Happy! Jeez!




Well, I hope you're proud of yourselves!


Aw, Ma!


I can't believe you two just walked right out of the room while your poor father sat there waiting for his Short Ribs.


Uh, I think he ordered the Smothered Chicken, Ma.


That's not the point and you know it!


Yes'm.


You know what?


What, Ma?


I disown you! You're no sons of mine!


Now, Ma --


Oh, it's so easy for you to sit up in your room and diss your father sotto voce like you do --


Sotto what?


But he's done everything for you!


Well --


He bought you those iBooks, he put in the 512 RAMs of extra memory, he got you the two-year service contract that gave you free access to the Apple Help line.


I know. It's just that --


And you, Biff: you hardly ever turned on your computer, much less used it to become a webmaster like your poor father.


But, Ma, face it: He himself couldn't cut it as a webmaster.


How DARE you say that?!


He's right, Ma. His site rankings are regularly in the tank.


Yes, because ingrates like yourselves couldn't believe in what he was doing!


Aw, Ma!


I'd expect that kind of thing from money-drunk Google and the anonymous self-important cowards at DMOZ --


Ma!


But it breaks my heart to think that your father's own two sons don't believe in his website.


Ma!


Ma!




Oh, God: NO!


What was THAT?!!!


You don't think that Dad just....


Ma, stay right here: Don't move: I'm going to go downstairs and check on him in his office. I'm sure he's okay!




Oh, Dad! Why did you do it, Dad? WHY?!


Why did I do WHAT, Willy?


WHAT? D-Dad! You're not dead!


Of course I'm not DEAD!


But -- we heard the big bang upstairs and... well, we thought you had topped yourself on account of the crass ingratitude of your own flesh and blood: aka Biff and myself.


What? No! If I were to kill myself every time my two boys let me down, I would have been dead ages ago.


But who fired the gun, then?


No one fired a gun, Happy. MY #@$#$ iBook G4 just freakin' blew up on me!


Oh, poor Dad!


When will Steve Jobs learn that he's got to put decent-sized fans in these damn iBooks of his?!


What a shame.


I don't care if he DOES have to take a hit on aesthetics, I want a product that lasts!


I hear ya, boss.


It figures, of course: I think I had finally just figured out how I could get my pages listed adequately by Google and co.


After all these years?


That's right. I tell you, son, you know how I'm always blaming DMOZ and Google for my lack of findability on line?


Right?


Well, between you and me, I think the conspiracy runs even deeper.


Oh, yeah?


I'm beginning to think that God Himself is an unindicted co-conspirator in this Willy-Bashing business.


Uh, you sure you wouldn't like to rephrase that last sentence of yours, Pops?




Oh, darling: So you didn't kill yourself after all!


Of course not, darling! No thanks to my ingrate sons, however.


Sorry, Pops. We never should have walked out on you in that restaurant.


Tell me something I DON'T know.


We're just glad you didn't top yourself, that's all.


Now, Son, I wouldn't kill myself when I had so much to look forward to.


Like what, Pops?


I couldn't wait till you guys got home so I could send you on the mother of all guilt trips for your latest random of act of unkindness toward me.





We're sorry, Dad.


Yeah. And what's more, Biff here has decided that he wants to become a webmaster, too -- just like his dear old dad!




Happy!


Biff! I knew it.


But --


Me and my boys, we are going to take on Google now and win -- I can feel it!


You betcha, Pops.


I tell you, boys, we are going to OUT the entire volunteer staff of the busybody DMOZ syndicate to let poorly listed webmasters such as myself see whose cockamamie, unappealable and no-doubt ageist so-called 'reviews' are sending them to search engine purgatory.


That's the spirit! That's my old Willy talking!


You sure YOU wouldn't want to rephrase that, Ma?


And here I thought I was going to end this play by walking through a shadowy cemetery, screaming at my sons for bringing about their father's suicide.


Oh, pussyfoot: I guess I'll be a webmaster after all.


Oh, son!


Just like my dear old dad. (Always assuming I can get a half-decent refund on the not insignificant wad of tuition money that I've already put down for my upcoming year at the University of Illinois: Go, Illini!)


But what about your computer, Pops?


OH, son, I am so happy now that...


Yes?


Yes?


Yes?


We're all going out together right now and we're buying three brand-new 13-inch MacBooks, complete with Core 2 Duo processors.


And extra ram -- he asked, somewhat warily?


You know it, son.


And a two-year service contract so that we can phone Apple if we have problems?


Of course.


Wait a minute, you said THREE MacBooks, Willy?


What am I saying? We'll buy FOUR MacBooks -- and then the whole family will be successful webmasters -- just like their dear old successful dad!


"Successful," dad?


Okay, okay: Maybe I was a major flop in the past -- but, boys, Google will be FORCED to list us on top when they see how slick we are as a family team!


William? Oh, William?


Oh, wait a minute, guys: I think I have some unfinished business here.


Oh, William?


Yes, what is it now, Ben?


William, when I was 17, I went into Silicon Valley...


Yes, yes, yes?


When I was 21, I came out...


Uh-huh.


And by God, I was RICH!




Oh, yeah? Well, ask me if I even CARE anymore, MR. Grade-A Showoff! Ha ha!


Willy, who on earth are you talking to?


Oh, no one, dear. I was just thinking of some old loser from my past.


Can we go now, Dad?


Yeah, Dad, can we go to the Apple Store?


I don't see why not. We're all winners here, after all: We need decent computers, don't we?


I call shotgun!


Oh, Happy!


This is so wonderful of you, dear, especially after the way the boys skipped out on you last night.


Yeah. PLUS, Biff told me the wrong bus to get on.


What? I told you to take the M60 to Brooklyn!


Earth to Biff: The M60 doesn't go to Brooklyn: It goes to LaGuardia freakin' airport, already!


No. Really?


Good work, Mr. Helpful.


I could have sworn the M60 came straight down here to Gravesend. Huh. Maybe I'm thinking of the B60.


Last one to the car is a rotten Loman!


Oh, Willy, this is so nice of you!


Yeah, Dad, this is swell.


How can I ever repay you?


Well, now that you ask...


Yeeees, Willy?


You had said something earlier about some new lingerie that you wanted to show me...?


Father, please: My virgin ears!




Well, hello, folks: Going out for a ride?


Oh, hi, Charlie!


Nice day for it.


Hey, Charlie!


Say hello to Bernard for us!


Listen, Willy, if you need any help with that website of yours --


Mind your own business, Charlie.


Well, I'm just trying to help.


Something tells me that the Loman household will not be needing webmaster tutoring from the likes of you ever again.


All right, already. Sheesh!


And that goes double for your son, Bernard, too.


Fine. Whatever.


Oh, boys, this is almost too good to be true. It's like the old grumpy version of your father has finally disappeared!


Oh, and by the way, kids: Remind me to stop at Ramano's Supermarket on the way back.


Okay, dear: but why?


I'm going to pick up some normal American cheese!


What?


I don't know what that low-calorie stuff is that you've been trying to foist off on me, Linda. You KNOW I always eat normal American cheese. Mumble, mumble...


See, boys: I TOLD you it was at least a LITTLE too good to be true.