The Simpsons : Simpsley

There are two types of people in this modern world of ours.

The admirable hardworking movers and shakers and the poor.

How I pity them.

They just lack that killer instinct.

The unmoneyed, lack initiative, discipline.

They just aren't shrewd.

The poor are content to file our toenails and bleach our mustaches

because they are too lazy to reach for a better life.

Ambition is the sole province of the rich.

Oh, hogwash. Take my son Seymour, the bum.

Majored in nepotism at Ditherton College.

All set to take over the family prune canning business.

And where is he now?

Living off his trust on the coast of Italy like some pope.

Ugh, Italians are so European.

I'd give a suitcase full of simoleons to anyone

who could bring that pampered popinjay back home.

Can I box that up for you, Mrs. Van Houten?

It's missus. And no. I'll wear it out.

Darling, bring me one of these in polar bear.

Mrs. Skinner, as I live and breathe.

I'm sorry. Do I know you?

Marjorie Bouvier.

I'm an old friend of Seymour's.

We met at your charity ball for…

Oh, what was it?

The Policemen's Malevolent Association.

Yes, police violence is such an important cause.

How is dear Seymour?

Ironing out the wrinkles at the prune cannery?

I raised my little boy to be a henpecked business wuss,

but look at him now.

No socks?

Seymour has changed.

He says he's trying to be an artist if you can believe it.

I was just summering in Italy. If I'd known, I would have looked him up.

Marjorie, this is probably too much to ask,

but what if I sent you

to Italy to find my wayward son and convince him to come home?

All expenses paid of course.

Oh, my.

What an unexpected offer.

I'm desperate, dearie. What do you say?

Seymour Skinner?

What are you doing on a beach in Bella Truffa?

Hmm? I'd ask you the same if I had the slightest clue who you are.

Marge Bouvier.

We met at Ditherton. We were in the same econ class.

I never took econ.

Maybe I'm thinking of statistics with Professor…

Needlemeyer.

Yes, I was a few rows behind you.

I didn't take him. I had Gopnik.

We had Gopnik, of course.

As a private tutor.

Um, me too. I had him right after you.

Oh, of course.

But Ditherton's a men's college.

Yes. Which is why I dressed up as a man in order to attend.

To prove a point to the sexist dean.

Ah, that explains it. Nice to meet you again.

Pull up some sand.

Looks like I've made another American friend.

Another?

Seymour, did you see me do a headstand? Did you see? D… Who's this?

Marge Bouvier, meet Homer Simpsley.

Another well-to-do friend I made in Napoli.

He's become my travel companion, food taster and, uh, temporary house guest,

Permanent roommate.

Come up to the house and have some wine with us. You simply must.

Uh, no, she mustn't.

I'd love to.

Great Gatsby! You live like this?

But you don't even have a job.

I mean, uh, nice place.

Eh, it'll do.

Now, let me take you to my studio.

You're, uh, quite the prodigious painter.

Yes, and Homer's quite the muse.

The prominent curves.

The shadowy folds.

And he can hold absolutely still for hours.

Oh, my.

How bold of you to paint him in the nude.

Actually, um, he insisted.

Painting time!

Ugh. She's still here?

Dear Mrs. Skinner.

Good news. I found Seymour.

Now, the hard work of convincing him to come home can begin.

I start most days on his beloved boat, which he named in your honor.

Then, grab a light lunch at a cafe.

Some days Seymour takes us on a day trip to see a Caravaggio in all its glory.

Your son's even taken on a young pupil. Hoping to pass on his talent.

Although Seymour lives quite the dolce vita here,

I'm sure I can get him back to America in no time.

A toast to never going back to America.

Time for a refill.

Seymour said you came from money.

Remind me what does your family do again?

Uh, my wealthy family owns a lucrative skull factory.

Can't get ahead without a Simpsley skull.

Hey, that's a pretty good lie.

No, it wasn't.

You're not rich.

You're just a low-class mooch.

At least there's honor in mooching.

You're nothing but a two-tit con man.

As soon as Skinner sees you for what you are,

he's gonna toss you out like yesterday's meatballs,

but I'm not going anywhere.

I'm his muse.

Hmm.

Holy cannoli.

Marge, you're an absolute vision.

The light, the hair, the discernible waistline.

I must commit you to canvas.

Hey. I was musing there.

Um, why don't you go eat, Homer?

There's still some of yesterday's meatballs.

Mm-mmm.

The mushrooms were super, Mario.

Seymour, darling, now that we're living together,

I think it's time Homer moved out.

Mmm. He has been acting a bit queer to use the parlance of our time.

Plus, all those broken Vespas are really a drain on your trust fund.

It happened again.

Here's your laundry, Skinner.

What's for lunch? Oh, and don't say Italian.

We ate.

Go put Seymour's clothes away.

We're gonna go lie on the beach that stinks of fish.

Stupid Marge.

Before she showed up, things around here were a lot more gay

to use the parlance of our time.

Ooh, when did he get this?

"Uh, do you like it, Homer?

Marge finds it garish."

That face is garish.

"You're incorrigible.

Hmm. You know, I've been thinking of ending things with her."

Really? Why?

"Well, I have my eye on someone else.

Someone more full figured."

What? "Just go with it."

"Oh, yes, Homer." Oh, Skinner.

What the hell's going on here?

Seymour, it's not what you think!

I mean nothing to me!

- Take my clothes off this instant. - Ooh.

Then get out of my villa.

Oh.

But-But we're best friends.

I only tolerated your zaftig buffoonery because you were easy to paint.

You're just one circle on top of another. Any idiot could draw you.

Marge was right.

You're dumb as an ox, unbelievably fat and charmlessly clingy.

You're the most repulsive person I've ever met.

Guess we can add clumsy to the list too.

Whoa.

No, no, no, no, no. Seymour, please.

Dear God.

I didn't do this. He slapsticked himself to death.

Looks like our meal ticket just got a big hole punched into it.

Is that all you can think about, you greedy shrew? You never loved him!

I call dibs on his room.

Don't you get it? We're out on our ass.

I guess it's back to filing down corns and forging checks for me.

Unless I was to fake Seymour's signature on his monthly trust checks.

But you can't pass for Skinner.

You're a… …woman.

I can't, but you can.