Glad I can still get this one.
Homer The Smithers
Smithers goes on vacation, and Homer fills in as Mr Burns’ assistant.
Pull yourself together, man. I daresay you’re in need of a long vacation.
No! Don’t make me take a vacation! Without you I’ll wither and die!
That’s a risk I’m willing to take.
I’ve got to find a replacement that won’t outshine me. Perhaps if I searched the employee evaluations for the word “Incompetent”…
714 matches found.
714 names? Better be more specific. “lazy”, “clumsy”, “dim-witted”, “monstrously ugly”
714 matches found.
Oh, nuts to this! I’ll just go get Homer Simpson.
Really Smithers, I’ll be fine. I’m sure your replacement will be able to handle everything. Who is he, anyway?
Uh, Homer Simpson, sir. One of your organ banks from sector 7-G. All the recent events of your life have revolved around him in some way.
Simpson, eh?
Um, can you repeat the part of the stuff where you said all about the… things. Uh… the things?
Doughnuts? I told you I don’t like ethnic food!
Here are your messages:
“You have 30 minutes to move your car”,
“You have 10 minutes”,
“Your car has been impounded”,
“Your car has been crushed into a cube”,
“You have 30 minutes to move your cube”.
[phone rings] Yello, Mr. Burns’ office.
Is it about my cube?
Is there something wrong, Homie?
No.
Except?
Except… I killed Mr. Burns!
Stay back Homer, approach no further, coffee’s already made. I stomped the beans myself.
Uh, well, can I at least drive you home, Mr. Burns? It’s 5:00.
No! I thought, uh, I thought I’d chauffeur myself this evening. Yes, that’s what I thought. How difficult could it be? I’m sure the manual will indicate which lever is the velocitator and which the deceleratrix, hmm?
Ah, welcome back Smithers. Say, do you know Homer Simpson, he pitched in around the office while you were away. Bang-up job, Simpson, but I guess it’s back to your trusty post in sector 7-G.
You heard the man, Simpson.
Ah, and my dear dear Smithers. You’re no longer needed at all. You’re fired. Ta!
You shouldn’t have gone away in vacation.
Cheer up, Homie.
I just feel terrible about getting Mr. Smithers fired. That job was all he had. Imagine how you’d feel Marge if you got fired from the… those… things that… you do.
Quick Mom, whip up a cake before Dad fires ya!
Mrs. Burns is 122 years old, so try to sound more dessicated. And she doesn’t call her son “Mr. Burns”!
What did you get that for?
For knocking Mr. Burns out of a 3rd story window.
Makes sense to me.
Did he die?
What am I, a doctor?