by Joshua Perrett
So I was walking to the Kwik-E-Mart, looking for a veggie snack, and now I’m stood in a stranger’s living room. And this stranger is really strange. He’s not margarine yellow like me with ping pong ball eyes and a fine, black outline – he’s pastry colour with wiry hair and eyebrows. He’s staring at me like I’m a mammoth defrosting from a block of ice, stretching my legs for the first time in thousands of years.
I guess I beat Groening to it – he couldn’t finish drawing the Mart before I got to the door. Instead of opening up automatically, the door remained shut, and then everything smashed. Now my hair looks like a bowl of glassy nachos, shards like crumbled minced meat. But the glass isn’t from the door – I can no longer see it, let alone the rest of Springfield.
The stranger’s leaning to the side, bum sunken into the couch, looking around me. His face is crumpled with confusion. I’ve turned around, too, and can see the damage. The TV screen is broken. It’s as if something has smashed through sheet ice, whole chunks missing with fractures and fissures veining out to the sides. It’s as if something has come out of the TV.