Well, I caved. In exchange for two late-night cheese quesadillas, I agreed to watch “The Simpsons” with Andy. I have been vocal in the past about my dislike for “The Simpsons”, which has always been a sore spot for Andy because it is his all-time favorite show.
Why do/did I dislike “The Simpsons”? Well, you can put it down to character flaws: sometimes I like to be contrary, I’m stubborn in my opinions until given proper evidence, I enjoy making Andy unhappy (that last part is only sometimes). But mostly it’s because I had never seen an episode of The Simpsons that made me laugh out loud – not even the famed Monorail episode, written by everyone’s favorite ginger: Conan O’Brien. Sure, it had GREAT plot structure but it didn’t make me fall off the couch.
So what did we start off with last night? The “X-Files” episode, since I’ve been on an “X-Files” kick lately, and it was definitely a good choice. I especially liked how Mulder’s I.D. had a picture of him mostly naked. It was actually funny! But I was not ready to admit that to Andy, because he can’t be right too often or he’ll get a big head.
Next up was the episode with Mr. Scorpio, aka Steve Jobs if he had lived long enough to make an aesthetically pleasing supervillian laser. (“It comes up out of the roof!” “That’s how it’s DONE!”) Hilarious mainly because Homer was oblivious and things got ridiculous really fast. At this point, I’m willing to concede that maybe there is something to this Simpsons hoopla that’s been going on for the last two decades or so. Also, discovered I do a great Marge impression but it hurts my throat.
Finally, an episode where they join a cult. You have to know, cults scare the living crap out of me. The idea that someone can worm their way into brains like that, take advantage of lost souls looking for a home… it makes my skin crawl. But this one managed to be funny because it 1) showed the healing power of beer and 2) had a great ending.
My final analysis: Story structure counts for a lot, and “The Simpsons” is wonderfully well-written. But (of course there’s a but), I still prefer “South Park” because it makes me laugh out loud.
Bonus! A piece of flash fiction I thought of this morning on the way to work, after reading a piece yesterday about the whitewashing of American literary fiction:
The streets of Marrakesh were narrow and dusty, filled with people and baskets and goats and every fruit in every color you could imagine. They twisted through the city, narrow rivers of life that fed into pools of houses, businesses, bathing centers and temples. Joe navigated them less swiftly than the natives, a pebble carried along by the current – directed, not in control of its actions. He didn’t mind though, the scenery was well worth it. Compared to the bleak Wisconsin winters, December in Marrakesh was vibrant and warm. The women, not up to the Western aesthetic for beauty, had an exotic flavor that still lingered on his tastebuds. He liked them frightened and poor, which was most of them in this city, but occasionally a shopkeeper’s wife – chubby by Marrakesh standards – would wave her arms and his heart would leap. This city had so much life in it that he was swept blissfully away from any memory of winter, of home, of her.
Bonus bonus! A piece that I might turn into a short story at some point, but for right now it’s what I would call flash fiction.
Akhmed was camped by the pyramids, the crumbling ruins of a bygone empire whose blood coursed through his veins. Like his ancestors, those ravagers of Kush and Mesopotamia, he was a pillager. In between the ancient monuments he waited, crouched, for the French guards to pass out from their drinking. They were using the ancient wise Sphinx for target practice, shouting encouragement to each other in a language he could not understand. Eventually, their lamps faded. He snuck past their camp, not minding the stink for he smelled far worse. Down the passage in the dark, ancient portraits guiding his fingertips until he caught the snag in the wall. A hexagonal shape, though Akhmed would not have been able to tell you that, signaled the room that the invaders could never have found. He pressed his finger into the center and the wall opened. Inside the moonlight flooded from a hexagon in the ceiling, illuminating the ancient’s ship. He cradled the craft in his hands – it was small and oblong, perfectly smooth and glittering silver in the moonlight. “Open” he whispered to it in his ancestor’s language, and he disappeared in a thousand shimmering atoms. The craft powered on with a gentle hum as Akhmed sat behind the controls and heralded the home craft, which was out near the gas giant that would be named after a boisterous Roman god. “We must leave,” he told them. “I have seen enough.”
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