the simpsoms...

It was a perfect spring day at St. George Elementary, and Miss Hoover’s students sat in class, watching yet another mind-boggling boring video about the twisted history of the Atreides family. In one corner, the annoying twins Terri and Sherri (whom many people often thought were one person) sat throwing grapes at the misunderstood Milhouse. Flicking their perfect hair behind their ears, and consulting each other on how fat they thought they were, they were being cheered on by Nelson from the back row (ha-ha!) every time one of their projectiles hit its target. Milhouse, exasperated and squirming in grape juice and existential angst, decided to write a poem, much to the delight of his teacher (really an English teacher at heart).
Across the suburb, Sideshow Bob, newly released from jail, sat in Moe’s tavern, twiddling his thumbs and etching “Farscape” into the countertop with an overly long thumbnail. Moe stood back, idly wiping a glass and staring at one of his drooling customers with an avid look on his face. Everyone in the dingy bar glanced up as the door creaked open. Two cloaked figures walked in. One was wearing a perfect LOTR hobbit cloak replica, that he had bought for a ridiculous price over the internet, and it was this one who whispered to the other.
“Smith-Frodo,” he said in a creaky, sinister voice, “how much longer?”
The one called Frodo sighed softly under his cloak, a dark chocolate brown colour, and tried to stand up taller than he really was. At least his height didn’t look ridiculous now that he was pretending to be a hobbit.
“Only a few hours sir.”
“Good, good,” said Mr. Burns, for what is who it was, “and we must make sure nobody else finds out.”
“But sir…” replied Smithers, for that is who that was. But his repeated plea that they go quickly to the nearest chocolate store for the last time in their lives was interrupted by a puffing Krusty the clown and Chief Wiggum dragging a bag of sports gear.
“Eh. Guys – puff – I – puff – just – puff. Oh just wait a second.” The police chief had spent the entire day at various sporting facilities, playing everything from a round of bowling to a fast-paced squash match. Meeting up with Krusty on his way home, the two unlikely friends had made a shocking and dangerous discovery, and decided to sprint all the way to Moe’s. All of this did not stop Clancy Wiggum from carrying a snack-filled esky everywhere he went.
“Um. Does anyone have a jaffle-maker?”
While everybody was munching, Krusty threw an odd look at the two still-cloaked figures and began to speak.
“Does anyone wanna hear a pick-up line?”
“KRUSTY!” Wiggum yelled. “Stick to the point!”
“Oh okay, sorry,” still unrepentant, and with every intention of giving the joke later, Krusty continued.
“The world is ending in six hours.”
He looked around expectantly. It wasn’t a joke, but he still hoped for a reaction.
Sideshow Bob groaned and smacked his forehead.
“That is sooo lame. And not even funny.”
Moe stopped his sniffing of the passed out drooling man’s hair (Pantene).
“I thought it was.”
Bob rolled his eyes.
“Don’t you encourage him. Any of you.”
Krusty waved his hands at the two and pointed out the window. It was undeniable. The sun was inching closer and all in the room felt its impending doom. They could see, in their mind’s eyes, the panic and stress, the wild running and looting and the pages of bureaucracy fluttering in the wind. Everything they had ever learned would come to an end when that horrible sun descended upon the poor creatures of St George that had always known, somewhere in the back of their minds, that something like this was coming. They longed for the blessed aftermath, the cool taste of freedom and heaven, but they knew they would have to go through the fiery inferno of hell to get there.
They shuddered as one and barely noticed as Mr Burns hastily stood up, carefully folding his limited-edition cloak in his gloved hands.
“Yes,” he said. “We have known since this morning, Smithers and I. His knowledge of the heavens and the theoretical physics of the matter convinced us both.”
Bob raised an incredulous eyebrow.
“Then why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“And why,” pointed out Chief Wiggum, his investigatory skills emerging from years of hibernation, “why were you hiding out here?”
Burns was flustered. “Ah. Um. We were at the mercy of a not-very-well-thought-out plot. And we weren’t hiding, but were actually on our way to the school to inform them of the fact.”
Smithers looked distinctly uncomfortable, and would have given it away in two seconds if Burns hadn’t yanked the shorter man’s arm and pushed him into the daylight.
Those left inside shrugged and ran out to join them.
The travellers, or should we say “fellowship”, hurried on to push through the creaky door of Miss Hoover’s classroom. An assorted group of students sat there, seeking lunchtime refuge from freaky juniors and terrorist pigeons.
Ralph Wiggum stumbled up to his father, pointing out the ragged new haircut he had given himself with the class safety scissors.
“But I was bored…hehehe”
Meantime, Smithers had gotten sick of lugging the heavy cloaks around and had left them on an obvious anthill next to the classroom door. Burns was furious, but Smithers didn’t mind as long as he had his next-generation talking Malibu Stacey doll with him.
“Oochie-coochie-coo, my cute little doll. Are you feeling okay?”
The doll stared up, blue eyes twinkling in the sun.
“Fuck off.”
Smithers sighed contentedly and smoothed down the hair he had perfectly straightened earlier that morning.
“Leave my fucking hair alone and get me the cauliflower you cooked before.”
Waylon sat the doll on the nearest table and began to hunt through his pockets.

can you guess who is who?

...got any comments? suggestions? criticisms? places to point a stick at?
please, in the words of the great paul dempsey, "say something"
wakes..