Each weekday thousands of UCLA’s academia sit in front of
their TV sets, winding down from their horribly gruesome lives in
order to watch all three re-runs of “The Simpsons.”
That’s right ““ for many of us, 6, 7:30 and 11 p.m. are
not just excuses for not finishing that Defoe novel; they have
become moments of prayer for the pop-culture junkies of the
Southland.
I am one of those junkies. And I know many others out there who
would risk their own lives defending that holy time. Shrinks might
be tempted to call it “therapeutic,” but I know that
when all of the latest trends are over and politicians are gone,
the four-fingered prophets will remain. “The Simpsons”
is holy.
So you can imagine my seething rage when at 6:05 p.m. Tuesday,
all I could find on the FOX network was the goofy smile of a
man-child president ““ not the mellow-yellow glare of good ole
Springfield.
Ah yes, it was the State of the Union address. The day, always
slightly after the Super Bowl but surreptitiously placed before
President’s Day, our beloved fearless leader speaks at us
about how great things have gotten in the last two years.
“This could be good,” I said to my roommates,
turning up the Sony Trinitron. “It’s FOX.”
I could see their angle immediately. Of course! This was the
next step in reality television. Screw “Joe
Millionaire.” Move over “Bachelorette.” Forget
“Fear Factor.” Adios, “American Idol 2.”
Dubya’s address was going to be all of them rolled into one
and more.
I spent the rest of the hour trying to figure out who Dubya was
going to give his rose to. Would it be faithful Donny Rumsfeld? Or
maybe dashing Tom Ridge? I was hoping it would be Gen. Tommy
Franks. I’ve never been able to resist a man in uniform.
One of my roommates kicked me sharply in the ribs.
“You rube!” he howled. “This is the most
unreal, over-rehearsed garbage I’ve ever seen. This is the
antithesis to reality TV! He’s been rehearsing this for
weeks. Look how his beady eyes scan those teleprompters. It’s
a setup!”
“Yeah, but I hear he did well with test audiences,”
I reminded him. “They found him “˜comfortably
familiar.'”
There was something familiar. And then I remembered, this was
not the first time a Bush had faced-off against “The
Simpsons.”
The year was 1992, back when “The Simpsons” was
still only one season old. Vying for re-election, George Bush Sr.
told the American people that he hoped America should be
“more like “˜The Waltons’ and a lot less like
“˜The Simpsons.'”
I remember that videotaped moment well. But I guess “The
Simpsons” didn’t stand for it, because months later
Daddy Bush was no longer the leader of the free world. I like to
think those poorly chosen words had a lot to do with it.
That’s when I realized that “The Simpsons” is
a force to be reckoned with. And now over a decade later, another
Bush, a cross-eyed clone of the first, has begun to elbow into the
Simpsons’ personal space.
I offer this warning, Dubya: Beware the ides of Springfield. If
you bad-mouth them, “The Simpsons” will stomp you with
a degree of mercilessness that your over-protected hide has never
seen. And if you have any doubts, go ask your daddy. He’s
still licking his own wounds.
Having signed on for two more seasons, I can’t help but
wonder, will “The Simpsons” find themselves outlasting
another Bush? I would bet on it. Whether or not America will be a
smoking pile of Iraqi fallout by then remains to be seen, but
“The Simpsons” will be there to rule over the
cockroaches, mutants and whatever else remains.