THE SIMPSONS (1989—present) is an animated sitcom about a fictional American family; it was also made into a film in 2007.
12/01/09 | Television

The Simpsons

by Jimmy Chen

I am a bald overweight alcoholic suffering from jaundice. Also, I have no eyelids. My entire family has jaundice. We live in Springfield, in a house made up of flat planes of color. I have a moderate vocabulary, though I am keen on using the phrase “D’oh” to demonstrate an overwhelming portion of my sentiments. My wife has blue hair, uninspiring breasts, and one awful voice. My son is a delinquent; my youngest daughter is stuck in her oral phase; and my oldest daughter is growing into a sad spiteful woman. My father lives in a nursing home; his head looks like cauliflower. I associate with losers and immigrants. I’m fucking two-dimensional. These are my problems and I want to die.

One may as well begin with Homer’s suicide note, set in italics to suggest cursive, though it was never written by hand—for the man in mention was only ever rendered; a simulacra on screen. You may now think it odd that I contemplate my own life as I write this. You will question my identity and authority concerning this conceit. You will remove your finger from a crevice and consider its redolence to imply that smelling one’s finger is more meaningful than this story. You will openly guffaw with smugness at the artifice of this narrative enterprise.

Let me tell you now: I am a bald overweight alcoholic suffering from jaundice. (I have eyelids though.) The rest of the details—the color of my wife’s hair, the names of my children, my favorite phrase—are not important. What is important for you to comprehend is I am the human Homer, in the sense that I am a bald overweight alcoholic suffering from jaundice. And all my friends are immigrants. These are my problems and I want to die.

Ted Kostrzewa committed suicide on Thursday May, 29. The year, while not explicit, can be deduced by employing some basic elementary astrological calculations; as there are a limited number of years in which the twenty-ninth day of May is a Thursday. In order to surmise the century, simply locate the century in which people were especially bald, overweight, alcoholic, and suffering from jaundice. This is also the century wherein people wrote insincere stories full of references to popular culture as a way to both distance and cloy themselves to the reader, simultaneously.

One may as well end with Ted Kostrzewa’s letter to Matt Groening:

I am a bald overweight alcoholic suffering from jaundice. This Homer of yours looks just like me, and I cannot help but think some fateful encounter you had with me—in a parking lot or at the mall—inspired you to create one of the most compelling characters in American fiction. I’m not asking for royalties, or even credit. I just want you to know that you ruined my life. People see me and they think “D’oh.” This is what my life has become—an absurd sound byte; and I don’t want to hear about the Tao of D’oh; it’s only Zen on paper. Right here—in this slow-motion aneurism we call real life—I’m just a guy named Ted who is bald, overweight, an alcoholic, and suffering from jaundice. These are my problems and I want to die. I’m going to kill myself, right after dinner. Mmm.