Looking at that tired old freak has made me realize I’m no spring chicken myself. I can feel death’s clammy hand on my shoulder... wait, that’s my hand.— Grampa
Moe: All right, tell me when I hit the sweet spot. (puts the crayon up his nose)
Homer: Deeper, you pusillanimous pilsner pusher!
Moe: All right, all right. (hammers the crayon in)
Homer: De-fense, uh-uh! De-fense, uh-uh!
Moe: Eh, that's pretty dumb. But uh... (hammers the crayon more)
Homer: Extended warranty? How can I lose?
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