The Simpson who Ate ChristmasMore Like This
The year was approaching its end. Already a chill was forming in the air, ensuring that the Springfield tyre fire not just smoked but also steamed its harmful emissions into the air and over Shelbyville. At 742 Evergreen Terrace, wrapped up to fight the freezing temperature, Homer and his son looked at the pink car.
“Face it Homer,” The behemoth Bart stated, “it’s frozen over. You’re just going to have to get the ice scraper.”
“I would try that boy, but there’s one giant your butt sized problem…” The father mentioned, nodding to the obese teens wide, sweatpant covered rear. He then grabbed the plastic handle and yanked hard on it. “The scraper’s inside and THE DOOR’S FROZEN!”
Bart watched his dad fruitlessly struggle against nature, the boy’s torso filling up the winter jacket so much it exposed his fat flesh where it hung over the waistline. Eventually, with Homer panting on the ground, the young