2+2=5?

Psssst... you.  Yeah, you...  "Why are you whispering?"  Well, I have this little secret...  I need to share this secret with somebody -- anybody.  If I don't, I'll probably burst.  "You mean it'll be our little secret?"  Yes, that's right.  But you can't tell anybody, okay?  "Fine, but the whispering, I can barely hear you..."  Sorry.  Okay, here's my deep, dark secret: I... I... I can't help my kids with math homework  anymore!  And I feel really, really bad about it.  "Oh, you shouldn't feel bad."  I know I shouldn't feel bad, but I just feel plain... bad.  Really, really bad...  "That bad, huh?  That's too bad."  I don't know but, since when did counting on my fingers become obsolete?  I remember when the kids were little and I took great pleasure in helping them with their math when I got home from work.  "Daddy's so smart!"  Yeah well... Now, I get the shakes just thinking about getting home (and no, it has nothing to do with my wife's cooking).  "Dad, can you help me with this problem?"  That's become a problem.  "Pops, what's an anti-derivative?"  (Great, how 'bout an anti-depressant, instead?) One day, I simply froze.  "Dad, can you help me with this convex polyhedron?"  Huh?  I didn't know how to tell the kids that I didn't understand their math.  "What's wrong, Dad?  You used to help us all the time."  Then, I came up with a solution -- at least I thought I did.  I began to lie.  I came up with excuses to avoid the nightmarish math.  "I can't find my glasses." (I don't wear glasses.) "I'm a Peruvian spy --- and Peruvian spies don't do simple math..." (where is Peruvia, anyway?) Finally,  "Figure it out yourself, kids -- it builds character."  How sad...  I better tell them the truth.  In the meantime, I have to go to the market, buy a couple of items.  "Hey kids, you know how to figure out the sales tax...?"