We demand the presence of Marge Simpson—no family, no security—this Friday, 10am, at the Mt. Splashmore front entrance, right when they open the gates. A day of thrill and adventure for Marge and whichever suitor she will choose, her one true Husband and her, culminating in a weekend at Rancho Relaxo—any Marge fan worth their salt remembers Marge’s spa getaway. But the irresponsibilities of Homer brought her back to the rags of the household.
This server, once the Husband’s chosen, will self-destruct—no rubbing it in, no rushing to screenshot what’s different about this hotel breakfast from their morning before. Those blue plastic beepers, which every chat member was mailed last month and must never not be wearing, will explode promptly at 10am, taking us all in a fiery ball before the awestruck eyes of Marge. All of us except myself.
When I kill every one of us, ‘me’ becomes ‘we.’ Does that make sense? All our collective memories, fantasies, boredoms, doldrums, conundrums, million deaths a day at the hands of powers greater than us, these amount to power received, recycled, reanimated. Not dissimilarly, the CIA has done numerous studies on ancient Qigong ideas of collective energy rays. So ‘I’ was a bit facetious when mentioning one suitor, one true Husband. Her one true Husband, all forty-three of our souls, united by my own two hands, two feet, four digits on each, two eyes, yellow skin, a mind of many, Biblical Legion, a people, a nation, a Springfield of our hearts, collective blood disappearing inside Marge’s body and becoming her soul.
Not like we all haven’t gotten close to fucking Marge to some extent. Wigs on wives. Rasps replicated. Not my thing personally. Tried it one time, said immediately, “nope.” Sex off-puts me in general, though; I want, I dunno, the warmth of oneness, surrender of everything. Maybe I’m asexual if the real thing’s too real. Maybe that’s why the videos of her blowing kisses at us work so wonderfully.
And yet it’s not enough that there’s video of her. We want the real thing, for Marge to fuck each and every one of us. Kiss our noses like she would her husband. To be her Husband, all of us in me, capital H. Let the credits roll with their kooky music in the black of bedroom night and feel her hair fall to our shoulders. So much hair to be felt and played with as we fall asleep, all forty-three, at once—not like we’re sickos and want her one after another, though some might dream it. That can’t be what Marge wants, so collective sacrifice is necessary. My body will deliver our passions well, rest peacefully.
Us, Marge and the spectacular Splashmore flags, fluttering in light winds like excited arms. I’ll have buttered noodles in tupperware, apples, and bottles of water in a lunchbox prepped the night before. Her favorite.
I’ll have quit my job the day before that—at the time of writing this, tomorrow.
At my old-old job, I gave a month’s notice even though I was part-time. Because I loved and respected the place. I met my wife there and truly did love it. It wore me down, though. Children’s Museum Supervisor, Mr. Decision Man, Mr. Conflict Resolution of Parents’ Pettiest Problems, Head Servant at Every Guest and Staff Member’s Beck and Call. Real bitter towards the end, Spring Break, no rest, not on the couch, staring at The Simpsons on pins and needles from accidents and arguments. Marge a portal to a desperate painlessness. What’s that one book? You were my mother. Jesus’ Son. I was Marge’s Son. Marge’s Husband, chat blowing up with the rest of us ogling over her, her Saintliness.
Tomorrow this textbook publishing office will know I’m done. This isn’t for me. Forty-three souls will be transferred into me for my multi-millionaire beloved, elegant in her spa resort. Who thinks the Simpsons are actually poor? That was only in the early years. FOX has them loaded, dollar signs spewing out their ears. Quiet as kept, of course. Must maintain the illusion of a humble Reaganworld family, nuclear in occupation and (dys)function. Homer’s a drunken mess, Maggie’s gone missing while Marge takes a load off in the bath, an extra-fingered God shows Homer the errors of his life, and sharply-written, culturally-biting hilarity ensues. Kiss goodnight, repeat. That’s the red-white-and-blue collar script, but we know better. We’ve seen Marge’s messages. How she wants more. We review her every video.
We demand that NEXT Friday be the day, not yesterday Friday, ‘cause Marge’s people did not respond to the request for our recently scheduled meet-and-greet so I had to deactivate the detonation of my fellow Husbands’ brains and souls. It’s a fortunate thing, then, that I did not quit my job like I had proudly intended to do. Still proud, but they are getting busy at the museum with one of the other supes on family leave.
That’s right: I lied about having a different job. What I meant was: I APPLIED, sent an application. I have not heard back about my application to a publishing office. I also applied to a non-profit that helps refugee kids find homes, a talent agency, a university. Various editorial roles, nothing supervisory though I want to be supervisor of Nothing, Killer of Killers, Master of Marge’s Insides where I mind every gap, physical, spiritual, making her know only love, my fingers, my licking—you know, how much can I belabor. My love will be her love, her love will be my love.
How I want to be in the dark with only her.
We will be in the dark with only her.
Marge, the murders would’ve been swift and sweet, but I’m at the museum now, in my cubicle. Lunch ended a few minutes ago and I don’t want to get up to face the Kids’ Free Day crowds, the unending radio emergencies. I want to be in the dark with only you and the powers of my electrified many.
I would’ve asked if she’d like to hear a poem as the Sun bloomed soft in its dying minutes over the treetops and the lake’s face and our faces, goosebump-numb, springtime betraying us to the wolves. Poem, for us hot-blooded angels, like wool.
And she’d have said, That’s beautiful, my special little guy—eyes looking at me for real, in the flesh, rushing back to the car. No. No, in real life, I would’ve read the poem in the car. Heat on, hearing every word without the pain of cold in her temples. We would’ve forever remembered the red-gold of the sky, that picture we took out by the lake, the way the light flared across her mouth, her teeth. We’d have later forgotten the day. The details. The poem, even. But we’d have remembered that I read it, there as she listened while warming my hands on her lap before the dark drive to Rancho Relaxo.
I review my sonnet on the shitter:
For Marge
The beads ‘round your neck are eyes from another dimension,
one in which eyes stay alive, stay smiling
even after they’re removed from the original body.
You became their body—a million viewers at home
see the lawns and their perfect boring foreverness
through your sunset-colored orbs. Foreverness is false, though.
An illusion of suburbia, of Springfields, of the way
you look at me when I sit at the dining room table
with a plate of pork chops and applesauce. You look at me,
and I believe we’ll never be foreclosed. You look at me
like life is worth dying over. Good thing
we’re immune, season after season. Leaves fall,
budding back. Eyeballs like fruits from foreign worlds
live as long as you do, seeing me as long as I’m seeing you.
I FUCKED IT UP!
It’s always a crisis here. Always a lost grown-up, always Repeat Last Call on the radio, and I never have time to finish my poem and make it sound right. I need to make clear why I need to have her. Why we need to take her from her life. Have her take us from ours. Why I sit in these sentences, writing manifestos for Marge. Here, I can say: Marge will suck our toes and we will suck hers back and we will prioritize each other’s pleasure like it’s the only light in the twilight of our bedroom—because it is. There’s a God, and it’s a We. There’s a place where all this hatred becomes something warm and worshipful and fills me up the way it feels.
I’ll kill them all if I have to right now. Reactivate! No meet-and-greet. I’ll do it. The Husbands, their kids, their wives. I’ll kill myself along with them. King of Nothing, where all of us live like Nothing’s a town and I’m the face of business, the show that runs forever.
I’m scared she won’t show.
I mean, if I kill all the Husbands, and Marge picks me and still decides to leave, will my wife take me back?
Would she? Why me? I hate me so much. I don’t do enough around the home. I’m sad and lazy and let the garbage rot on the floor around the garbage can. I’m going nowhere but hell, and that’s before the murders I’m waiting to call back on. Dinner is ready and I’m ignoring her to write my Marge manifesto. But I’ll miss her. This isn’t what she thought it’d be when she married me. Maybe I’ll miss her and this lazy, overworked life of ours more than I imagine. She’s in the living room, waiting so we can watch Simpsons. And here I am wasting the minutes. I haven’t even told you about her curly hair and her dimples. Her name’s Rebecca, and breaking her heart will suck. But she’ll find someone, I’m sure. She is capable and worthy of the fullness that must come from a deep-feeling love.
Julián Martinez loves The Simpsons so much. Why not just marry it? His wife wouldn’t mind, maybe. Find him online @martinezfjulian or martinezfjulian.com.