In my mind, to be a Simpson is not just transforming a two dimensional picture into a funny looking cartoon character, it is to actually transform your “Self” into a Simpson. 

Let’s take some situational examples:

Simpson LA Club Life 

I arrive to Area and crowd is spilling out of the parking lot it’s so busy.  I bring this new hot date that I’m so stoked to have out with me.  She is the flyest thing I’ve seen since last week.  I walk up and wave down Sanny to the long rope separating the people who are buying table service from the normal village folk. 

She walks up and looks at my date and says, “Luis, you know we don’t let in ‘Blue Hairs’.” 

Oh well, later Marge.  Inside I go.  Immediately I see this fine blonde shakin her ass to Wreckx-n-Effect’s “Rump Shaker”.  Her long blonde hair almost matches her yellow skin.  Her big round eyes and rounded nose have me mesmerized.  I walk over with a drop of drool hanging from my lip carrying my Duff Scotch on the rocks (it’s a fancy club, c’mon).  In slow motion I weave through the bodies flailing themselves about the dance floor. 

I walk up to her and in a drunken mumble spit out “HI!” 

She gives me the cold shoulder but my false sense of courage given to me through the wonders of Duff urges me on.  I start grindin her on the dance floor ignoring the fact that I have very little motor coordination.  I slam my pelvis into her which sends her Duff Vokda and Diet Rockstar all over the front of her girlfriend’s bright white dress leaving a red stain where it looks as if…yeah, you get the picture. 

The blonde slaps me in the face and walks to the bathroom with her friend…”DOH!!!!!”

Simpson LA Dining 

I’m pulling up to Katana.  It’s 10pm and the parking garage is full but people still try to pull in thinking their status is above mine.  The nerve!!  The traffic at Sunset is cluttered with tourists driving rental Mustang convertibles with no idea where they’re going.  I decide to show my date the VIP treatment and pull into the back lot behind Pink Dot.  We can walk to Katana, it’s just down the street a bit!

“$10 but I have to be out by 2.  No problemo!!”  My fellow Mexicans love when I speak Spanish to them!

We walk into Katana and our reserved table is not ready.  I slip the Hostess a dollar bill and pinch her ass, and she agrees to give us a patio table as long as I leave her alone.  Works every time!  The patio is packed with celebrities like Kent Brockman chillin eatin the tender sushi….ooooooooh the sweet sweet tender sushi *drool*. 

Dinner comes and I start shoveling the sushi in my mouth.  Before my date can eat 4 pieces, I devour the whole platter and look at her with a smile, “Don’t worry the dessert is excellent!”

After dessert, we have a couple cocktails and close out the bill.  As we are exiting towards the stairs, I turn and point at Kent as if I really know him (Trying to impress the babe).  In my drunken state, I fail to properly calculate the distance that I am from the first step.  I tumble down the first flight and smash into the DJ table sending his equipment over the edge smashing on the sidewalk next to Sunset Blvd.  I stand up only to slip on a broken piece of the turntable and tumble down the long flight of stairs to the sidewalk….”DOH!!!”

Simpson LA Pool Party

It’s noon, the sun is just burning off the last of the marine layer from the morning.  The high is going to be in the 90s.  Perfect day for Duff’s and Bikinis.  Spider Gus comes in hacking a lung, blowing his nose and licking it clean with his tongue…I love pugs.  He needs to go out of course.  Bobby has the air cranked to 55° so all you see from underneatht the blanket is my one little blood shot eye open up and squint to see the sky above.  It’s clear and blue.  It’s time. 

As I walk to the kitchen, scratching my nuts, I open the fridge…yep, still empty.  So I crack the ice out and poor myself a nice luke warm glass of quality LA tap water.  Mmmmm!  

I turn to Bob’s door, “Bob, get up, pool party time.”

We both fight thru our hangovers as we shower and put on our bathing suits.  Little words are exchanged, our brains not quite warmed up yet.  We arrive to the party.  The crowd is light, and we’re an hour and a half late. 

Someone comes over and hands me a shot of Patron, “You look like you need this.”

It baffles me that in my hung over state, with a deep look of pain on my face as I shy from the sun as if I am a vampire melting in it’s rays, why someone could possibly think I needed a shot of Patron as if it will remedy my symptoms.  

Down the hatch it goes.  Five minutes pass and a warm smile slowly breaks its way on my face.  Yes, that is exactly what I needed.  As the day goes on, LA’s finest alcoholics and drug addicts arrive to the party to partake in yet another debauchle we all know and love as “Sunday Funday.”   There are so many fake boobs around the pool, that we don’t need to hire a life guard since most of the girls there will float and can be used as life preservers.  Of course all of the alcohol is free do to a con man convincing Duff to sponsor the private pool party for great “exposure.” 

I walk over to my friend who is partaking in a deep conversation about absolutely nothing.  She smiles at me and proceeds to push me in the pool.  The crowd roars as the DJ cranks up “One More Time (Pool Party Remix).”  Of course being completely obliterated I get out of the pool and chase her down to throw her in.  In the madness a bag filled with Blackberry’s get caught on my foot and I drag her and the phones into the pool like an idiot!!!…..DOH!!!