Down the street, a short ways from the bar, a little boy sat at the kitchen table, coloring a sketch of a muscle car.

His parents were in the living room, watching old frog-face on the screen.  Five year old Willie didn't say that within his parent's earshot; "Son, that's no way to talk about your President," his mother had gently chided him, a few days ago.  The boy turned his eyes to a certain ceramic jar, sitting on the counter, alongside a large plastic coffee can.  His folks' voices drifted to his ear.  Grown up talk was boring, but it gave Willie time.

Time to snatch and savour one, maybe two, of those yummy cookies - mom had baked real cookies, peanut butter ones.  Sometimes, she baked those boring grown up ones, like oatmeal raisin, or ones with dried fruit - yuk!  

The little larceny was a success;  in Willie's hand, was one of the baked delights - the other, secured in his front pocket ... just in case.  He returned to his coloring, looked around.  Coast was clear.  He took a bite.  As he was just about to take a bite from the second one, a bbbzzzzing sound flew past his ear.  The little bug landed somewhere on top of the refrigerator, then headed into the livingroom.  

Uh-o, his eyes bulged out, he was in big trouble now.  He wolfed down the remaining evidence.