The first day of 'official' striking for TV had pretty much ended and the Simpsons were yet again eating at their house. Again, they were eating their TV dinners in front of the now-motionless purple box – though as to why, don't ask me. They were once more seated on the couch; amazingly enough, the pets had returned sometime that afternoon, when Homer and co. had been out picketing in front of the power plant. They were now – after being fed generous doses of cat and dog food by Marge – sleeping peacefully against the wall. SLH's fur had been ravaged by fleas and ticks, as had Snowball II's; now clean, the soft sounds of their snoring floated up to the Simpsons' ears.

"It's time to watch TV." Homer eagerly grabbed the dinner on his lap in one hand and reached for the remote with the other, only to remember the ban. With a grudging sigh, he put it back down and allowed himself to slide down into the rust-red couch. "I forgot. No TV."

"We need to plan some more." Lisa, who had disappeared briefly to her room, now returned, arms burdened by her laptop. "There," she declared as she delicately balanced the heavy apparatus on a side table. "I brought it down here so we could easier access. "Now," she continued, picking up a TV dinner from where it was lying on the armrest of the couch and lying on the floor beside Bart, "We still need more planning. Obviously, striking outside the power plant wasn't exactly the right approach."

"Yeah, but how?" Bart, now having ditched the superhero suit, was viciously bouncing his blue foam ball against the still and silent TV screen with apparently no regard for the rules set down by Marge as he turned to sister. "I can't think of any other ways."

"Well, we could hold a Springfield Council Meeting," was her answer as Lisa scrawled down on a notepad that would soon become ever-present in this time of crisis. "I'm pretty sure Mayor Quimby is riled up about this."

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Joe Quimby was angrily flipping through the blank channels on his TV. Amazing that he could actually get the darn thing on – pretty much all of Springfield couldn't. Mayor of any city is an amazing job to withhold, he thought, but...

"It's hard to be run a city when there's no TV." Without even dressing into his blue bathrobe, the angry mayor collapsed into the soft folds of his luxurious bed.

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"I can't think of anything else, though," Lisa confessed, staring hard at the pad in her hands. "I guess it'll have to do."

"I'll start making appointments." After having said this, Marge got up from where she had been sitting on the couch beside her husband and headed into the kitchen. Homer stared after her receding figure, feeling her sigh of subdued acceptance vibrating in his ears and fordcing a surge of guilt to darken his heart.

"What have I done?" He put his head in his hands so that only his bulbous eyes and somewhat long nose peeped out from between his crossed arms, facing the floor. "I don't want to make Marge do something she doesn't want to."

He looked up in surprise at the sudden touch of a hand on his back.

"I'm sure we'll find some way, Dad." It was Lisa; she comfortingly rubbed Homer's shoulder blade. "All we have to do is try."

"I'm with you, Homer." Bart voiced his opinion, equally standing at the bent Homer's other side. "Anything to bring TV back. Ain't that right, Homer?"

"Yeah…" The father trailed off as he watched his son produce the blue foam ball from his pocket and began whacking it exuberantly against the carpeted floor. "But whatever happened to that superhero suit?"

"Um…"