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I have a life. Every morning I get up and put on old, shitty television, take a shower in my sink and start cooking dinner in the bathroom. And that’s maybe why I enjoy the comedic stylings of one Matt Groening through his, his “Dead Bart.” I am unique, like a fork with three prongs or a crooked bicycle wheel that forces you to do unique kickflips with yourself naked in the garage.

As tor that, that. That “Dead Bart.” Well, you know what they say, Rome wasn’t built for the gays. It takes a lot of time, and effort, and elbow grease, and I’m not talking about putting grease on my elbows, to understand the genius, the quality, the prestige- the importance, of Matt Groening’s work on society. The free mason would often enter my garage and root through old newpapers and receipts from a tonsillectomy I’d gotten twenty years ago when finally I had enough and threw him in the garbage, I put him in the garbage. A man- the man, matt groening.

I was an intern for the Simpsons from 1995-1997, and I don’t mean the year. See, matt used to walk around the Simpsons office and place sticky notes numbered from 1-2000 and in each room he would place candy, a highly stylized drawing of homer Simpson or various pretzels laced with sedatives to knock out cast members so he could leave their bodies in the lounge rooms with their heads shaved and their bodies in funny positions. He was an eccentric guy to say the least, and my first day at the office I had to walk a long way to reach room 1995 to find a delicious Twix Candy bar attached to a string and a cardboard cut out of bart simpson with a man’s lips poking out from the front of it. “Cowabunga dude!” He started puling the candy bar, leading me over to the window.

“I’m bart simpson.” The man said. “Don’t have a cowman.” It was suipposed to be cow, man, with a comma, but he said cowman. It was bad grammar for an employee. I started walking through the window and he pulled the candy bar away at the last minute, forcing me to fall out the window. Now keep in mind this was a ten story building, and 1800-2000 were a good 100 feet from the ground. I fell, screaming as I saw the man behind the carboard cut out…it was Matt. Matt Groening, was smiling, or maybe it was just someone who looked like Matt Groening. He had a tape recording, and he was recording my groans of pain from my broken pelvis. “Ow!” I heaved, and he said “Ow!” as if to mock me, shook the bart simpson cutout, and vanishe din the studio.

Another prank by Matt Groening. After I got out of the hospital I went into the lunchroom to enjoy my lunch of very spicy tacos that I ate almost every day, keep in mind this was 1997 the year and tacos that spicy were considered borderline illegal due to human rights spice violation laws at the time, but these were even spicier. I found the bag ripped and something was sprinkled in there. There was a homer simpson mug in the lunch room, and it looked like the eye was moving, like there was a camera in there… was someone watching me? I turned the mug 180 degrees to force homer to face the unwashed dishes (Simpsons employees were forced by Fox to wash their own dishes, and if we refused they would fine us up to $300 for each soiled plate.) I heard someone stumbling around and coughing in the other room as I turned the mug, and someone mumbled “Turn the homer Simpson mug back around!” it sounded like Matt Groening “I mean- your pants are in the lost and found!”. I hadn’t seen Matt yet, he was an enigmatic figure who hid in the shadows. A fat man in a Hawaiian t-shirt came in with a Bart Simpson mask on, came in and began eating a ham sandwich. Except he had the mask on, so he wasn’t actually chewing the sandwich. He just pushed the ham sandwich into the mask and mumbled onomatopoeia by coughing the words “delicious ham” under his breath, which smelled slightly of alcohol.

The tacos… the tacos were too spicy. I fell over, coughing, screaming as the man in the bart simpson mask danced around me. “Too spicy, I’m-“ I coughed. “I’m dyinghhhh-“ I coughed, and wheezed the hot taco chunks getting stuck in my throat. I was choking on these tacos because they were too spicy!

Someone came in and began to draw me. My head was shaved to resemble yellow spiked tips, and they began painting my body lemon and gold, the shades of a banana. The animators were very serious about sketching me, while I was crying, choking on a taco. I rolled over on my side and they drew me in the fetal position, taco crumbs surrounding my body. A taco womb, If you will, and my Freudian father, the creator, Matt Groening: Giver of Life.

I woke up strapped to a table as they surgically injected silicon into my skin. They were giving me breast implants. “Help!” I screamed. “What if Bart was the transgender?” Matt Groening laughed. “WHAT IF BART WAS THE TRANSGENDER!?” I screamed, coughed, kicked, wheezed, until The man finally removed his Bart Simpson mask, REVEALING, it was Matt Groening: Creator of the Simpsons.

He was recording my screams, and the animators were animating them. And then he picked me up, with godlike strength of some kind of Samson of cartoon sitcoms, and threw me out the window. Into a shallow grave. He was laughing as I saw a tombstone for a man named “Barts Impson” a plastic, shitty Halloween tombstone, and all of the other tombstones of previous workers, in a neat row. “I’m not bart simpson!” I screamed. “I am intern man!” The breast implants were surgically implanted into my elbow, back and spine, so the shallow grave was actually quite comfortable.

I woke up at home, covered in dirt, but otherwise unscathed. Was this a dream? I received a terse letter from Fox informing me my internship would be abruptly terminated pending an investigation into my dirtying of the employee lunch room. And the VHS was there- Dead Bart. What on earth? I put it in, and they were lowering Bart into a coffin, and those screams, those screams sounded so familiar…

I decided to go to bed. There was an owl outside my window. I highly realistic owl, in this part of California, at this time of year, holding what looked like a dart gun. I walked over to the window, and the owl smiled. I know what you’re thinking- how can an owl smile. Well this owl smiled, and I saw it lick its lips. “Bed Dart.” The owl whispered, speaking perfect English. And then it shot me in the head. I fell unconscious and woke up in a different country, with a different name, a different family that didn’t even look like me, and strange, Hispanic features. In short, I was now a Hispanic immigrant. I tried entering America but they kept deporting me, and for some reason I was speaking English but all the words came out as Spanglish, a combination of Spanish and English. “Ay Carumba!” I screamed, which was Spanish for Oh Carumba. Matt Groening sprouted in the wings of an owl and flew off into the sunset. 

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