A Day In The Life of Bart Simpson Aged 33

Had he not been injected with some yellow anti-ageing solution by Matt Groening, Bart Simpson would now be 33, and a life of wrong turns have left him down and out in Springfield...
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Had he not been injected with some yellow anti-ageing solution by Matt Groening, Bart Simpson would now be 33, and a life of wrong turns have left him down and out in Springfield...

'Shit, Terri, I'm sorry. I'll pay the alimony, just put down the gun...'

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I open my eyes and see Sherri, or is it Terri, walking naked to the bathroom. They like to play this trick on me. I have two kids with Terri but occasionally fuck Sherri. Every now and again Sherri feels guilty and swaps with Terri when I'm drunk. If she walks out of the bathroom smoking and winking, I'm in luck. If not, that last ten dollars from my wallet is going with her.

Anyway, fuck it, whatever, I can't concentrate, all I can hear are those fucking cats. Every morning those fucking cats. That old lady is so crazy that I'm sick of telling her. I'd poison them but I'm on parole and I can't face another stint in County. It's the guilt of seeing Milhouse in there, doing twenty-to-life after Nelson and I framed him for the robbery on Mr Burns house shortly after he died. It was an easy job. Smithers was a mess at the time. We left Milhouse there, drugged and asleep. Poor Milhouse. Me and Nelson introduced him to Crank one day. The poor bastard had just found out that Lisa was leaving to move to New York to join the UN and was as low as a polecat. He only wanted a drink.

The shower starts to run and I reckon I should sneak in and see if I can get some before I have to see my parole officer. I look down at my stomach. Huge and bloated, with a FTW tattoo spread across it. 16 years I'd had that tattoo. I got it the day Skinner finally snapped and expelled me. I look next to my left ankle, turned inwards from the auto-wreck. I hadn't spoken to anyone in my family, except for Homer, since that day. I still don't want to talk about it.

I light a cigarette and down the warm can of Duff next to my bed. The place is a fucking tip. I consider cleaning it but remember what Krusty told me, shortly before they carted him off to the nuthouse. "A dirty house means a dirty mind, kid."

When I come to it is dark again. A warm sensation laps at the wound on my head. It’s one of those cats. Those fucking cats. I look down and see my dick rise above my belly. ‘Great,’ I think, ‘I can’t get it up for a woman but let a cat lick my head and I’m a freakin’ porn star.’

33, who'd have thunk it? The great Bart Simpson, the Peter Pan of Springfield, fat, broke and 33. I really should've listened to Lisa. I should've made a go of it with Terri. I probably should've taken the apprenticeship at the power plant. But who cares now? If they hadn’t caught me spiking Tony Hawks’ drink then I’d have been the greatest skateboarder in the world, immortalised in video games. Instead I’m remembered as Dirty Bart, Homer’s son. Marge’s boy. Lisa's wayward brother. The kid who killed his sister.

I walk to the bathroom waggling my dick in my hand. ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘just do it, for Christ's sake.’ Nothing. So I walk in thinking how it will surely stiffen if I sidle up behind Sherri in the shower. It has to be Sherri. Terri would have been out by now, telling me how little Fred is going off the rails, how his sister is a genius, how she should’ve stayed with Milhouse. How I only fucked her properly once.

It’s steamy in the bathroom as I walk in, the only good thing about this hovel is the shower, and Christ do I need it. The last thing I remember of my party last night is smoking a huge bucket with Mo in the back of the tavern and hoovering a couple of lines of angel dust with Lenny. I never could get away from those lines. It’s as the steam starts to dissipate that I realise no-one is in the shower, then bang, something smashes into my skull, I fall and hit my head on the sink. Then nothing.

When I come to it is dark again. A warm sensation laps at the wound on my head. It’s one of those cats. Those fucking cats. I look down and see my dick rise above my belly. ‘Great,’ I think, ‘I can’t get it up for a woman but let a cat lick my head and I’m a freakin’ porn star.’

I rise gingerly waiting for the pain in my ankle and think of Maggie as it shoots up my leg. It was an accident, I tell myself. Hadn’t been drinking. But no-one believes me. My jaw was wired for two days and they couldn’t breathalyse me.

I walk into my lounge-cum-bedroom and sigh. It’s all gone. The TV, sofa, bed, everything. It was definitely Terri. There is a note. ‘Cunt,’ it says, ‘you will never see me or the children again.’

I limp into the kitchen, the fridge is still there. Inside a bottle of frozen Jaeger and half a can of pink salmon. I sit on the scarred linoleum, light a cigarette, open the jaeger and drink. The cats walk over and begin to miaow.

I open the salmon and let them eat.

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