Most people will tell you The Simpsons got stale decades ago, but I’ve been watching this whole time. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve got their four-fingered hands on the pulse of culture. They’ve been here since Reagan and they know what’s gonna happen next. They predicted Trump’s presidency, Siegfried and Roy’s tiger attack, and that the 20th of the month would eventually fall on a Thursday. Little did I know that they were predicting my life, too: I’ve got jaundice and I’m as yellow as Homer.
I’m surprised that the writers were able to see this coming, considering I’ve never met them, but that shows the genius of the writing team! Heck, they had a bunch of Harvard guys like Conan O’Brian — the king of TBS! — on staff. They’ve put so much effort into making the show believable; it’s no wonder they’ve built a world that’s basically exactly the real world. I find some solace in knowing I can believe what those eggheads put on screen. As soon as I realized I had bulging eyes, three strands of hair, and neon-yellow skin, I knew where I could find representation on TV.
My doctor (who is kind of like real-life Dr. Hibbert) says that my habit of drinking Miller High Life (which is kind of like real-life Duff Beer) every day made health consequences inevitable. That seems pretty suspect to me. We live in reality. Just because Homer and I both go to a bar every day and are filled with hairpin rage doesn’t mean I’m going to turn out exactly like him. Doctors shouldn’t make diagnoses based on a sitcom. What’s next? Telling me I’m gonna turn out like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory just because I have an annoying roommate and I used to be young?
In spite of my doctor trying to scare me, I’m not worried. The prognosis is good. If I’m anything like my heroes, I’ve got 35 more happy years of progressive decline ahead of me.
