Skip to main content

The Simpsons

 "The Simpsons" has been voted the greatest American TV show of all time (see the works of Alan Sepinwall), which makes "Rosebud" (a classic "Simpsons" script) one of the smartest half-hours available to you via Amazon Video. You literally cannot find more than a handful of worthy rivals -- at least in the American TV landscape.


The writer is John Swartzwelder. The subject is power. Monty Burns yearns for the stuffed teddy he abandoned in his childhood -- but Homer, a schlub, has gained possession of the bear.

Homer seeks advice from friends. "Just reject the first offer that Burns puts on the table."

When Homer sees Burns, Burns makes his offer: "Would you like a soft drink?" After Homer storms off, Burns says, "Ah, he's just playing hardball....."

Next, Burns offers millions of dollars and three Hawaiian islands ("not the shitty ones"). Homer resists -- so Burns drains all of Springfield of its beer and its TV programming. Cue the deus ex machina. Ultimately, all is well.

I feel for both Monty and Homer here, although one is cold and greedy and the other is chaotic, dim-witted. It's fun to consider how -- in this capitalist world -- Homer might ever gain authority over Monty (and how Homer might waste that authority). Then there are the grace notes. Homer invents a witty parody of his boss; Homer paints two eyes on his buttocks and shouts, "I'm Montgomery! Look at me. I'm so important. Look at me!" Springfield residents sacrifice their lives in an effort to bring back cubes of ice from the South Pole. (Apu: "If you know of a better way of obtaining ice, I'd like to hear it.") Even Marge -- acting as a proxy for the scriptwriter -- finds startling ways of using the spotlight (more than once).

Swartzwelder earned immortality via "Whacking Day," "The Cartridge Family," "Itchy and Scratchy Land." I'm an ardent fan.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more