INT. KITCHEN. DAY. Helen and Morty Meister are staying with their novelist/professional wiseass daughter, Ellen, and her family. It is 8:00 a.m., and Helen is seated at the kitchen table eating her breakfast of black coffee and 22 carefully-measured calories of bran flakes. She is slightly thinner than Nancy Reagan.
Her husband, MORTY, shuffles in from the guest bedroom, wearing his new slippers, which he insists are suitable for indoor wear and occasional trips to Starbucks. He stops at the doorway, waiting for his wife to look up. When she does, he speaks.
MORTY: Today is Wednesday.
HELEN: I know today is Wednesday.
MORTY: Yesterday you said it was Wednesday.
HELEN: Yesterday I said it was Tuesday.
MORTY: I said, 'Is today Wednesday?' and you said, 'Yes.'
HELEN: You said, 'Is today Tuesday?'
MORTY: Wednesday. I said, 'Is today Wednesday?'
MORTY: Yes, you told me yesterday was Wednesday.
HELEN: Why would I say that? Yesterday was Tuesday.
MORTY: Then how come I took Wednesday's medicine?
HELEN: I don't know. Yesterday was Tuesday.
ELLEN: Can you guys talk a little slower?
ELLEN: I'm taking notes for my blog.