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It was a normal Tuesday in Springfield. Well, as normal as it ever gets. Homer Simpson was at the Kwik-E-Mart, trying to buy a six-pack of Buzz Cola and a giant bag of pork rinds. His son, Bart, was there too, being a menace.
“Eat my shorts, Dad!” Bart yelled, after he “accidentally” knocked over a pyramid of cans of Squishees. They fizzed everywhere.
Homer’s face turned a weird shade of purple, like a giant angry grape. “Why you little…!” he growled. All he wanted was his sugary drinks and salty snacks. Was that too much to ask?
He reached out. It wasn’t a thinking move. It was a pure Homer Simpson reaction. His big, meaty hands wrapped around Bart’s scrawny neck. Bart’s eyes bugged out. His tongue flopped out like a party favor.
“I’m choking the future out of you, boy!” Homer yelled.
Apu, the clerk, gasped. “Sir! Please! This is not a reasonable response to spilled beverages!”
Just then, Chief Wiggum waddled in for his daily donut fix. He saw Homer choking Bart. A jelly-filled donut fell from his mouth. “Hey! That’s a crime!” Wiggum said with his mouth full. He radioed for backup. “Uh, we got a Code um... Man vs. Child. The man is winning.”
Homer let go. Bart coughed and gasped. “Not cool, man,” Bart wheezed.
The trial was fast. Too fast. The judge, who looked a lot like Marge’s sisters combined, slammed her gavel. “Homer Simpson, for the crime of attempted un-fathering, I sentence you to six months in the Springfield Minimum Security Prison.”
Marge cried, “WOO-HOO!” then covered her mouth. “I mean, oh, Homer!” Lisa looked disappointed, which was her normal face. Bart just smirked. Maggie sucked her pacifier. It sounded like, “You’re an idiot.”
Springfield Prison wasn’t like on TV. There were no cool tunnels or fancy gangs. It was mostly just boring. And the food was just awful.
Homer’s cellmate was a guy named Clyde. Clyde was big and bald and had a tattoo of a kitten on his bicep. The kitten was holding a knife.
“What are you in for?” Clyde asked, his voice like rocks in a dryer.
“I choked my son,” Homer mumbled, staring at the floor.
Clyde was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “Huh. I’m in for choking a guy who was mean to his son.”
Homer looked up. “Really?”
“Yeah. The guy was yelling at his kid in the park. Called him a loser. I couldn’t take it. So I… taught him a lesson about using nice words.” Clyde flexed his kitten tattoo. “The judge called it ‘assault.’ I call it ‘community service.’”
Days turned into weeks. Homer was miserable. He missed his couch. He missed TV. He even missed Bart’s prank calls to Moe.
Clyde watched him mope. One day during rec time, he finally spoke up. “You’re sad because you miss your kid, right?”
“Duh,” Homer said, kicking a rock.
“But you tried to turn your kid into a pretzel,” Clyde said. “You gotta get your story straight, Simpson. Do you love him or hate him?”
Homer thought hard. His brain made a squeaky noise, like a hamster wheel. “I love him,” he finally said. “But he’s so… annoying. He’s like a mosquito that knows my name.”
Clyde nodded like a wise guru, if gurus had knife-wielding kitten tattoos. “Love is annoying, man. Kids are supposed to test you. It’s their job. Your job is to not fail the test.”
“But how?” Homer whined. “All I know is eating, sleeping, and yelling.”
Clyde started Dad School. Lesson One was Listening. “Next time your kid talks, don’t just wait for your turn to yell. Actually hear the words.”
“But his words are dumb,” Homer complained.
“Your face is dumb,” Clyde replied. “See? Doesn’t feel good, does it?”
Homer had to admit, it did not.
Lesson Two was Patience. Clyde made Homer count to ten before reacting to anything. One day, a bird pooped on Homer’s head during rec time. Homer started to rage. “ONE… TWO…” he counted. By the time he got to ten, the rage was gone. Mostly. He was just sticky.
“See?” Clyde said. “Patience. Now you’re not mad at the bird. You’re just a guy with bird poop on him. Big difference.”
After two months, Homer got a visitor. It was Bart. They sat at a plastic table.
“Hey, man,” Bart said, not looking at him.
“Hey, son,” Homer said, trying to use his Listening skills. “How’s… stuff?”
“Okay. I glued Principal Skinner’s phone to his head. It was awesome.”
Homer’s first instinct was to yell, “That’s my boy!” But then he remembered Clyde’s Lesson Three: Guidance. Yelling wasn’t guidance. He took a deep breath. “Bart… did you, uh, think about the consequences? Like, what if he needed to call for food delivery?”
Bart stared. His dad had never asked a question like that. “Whoa. Deep.”
“I’m trying this new thing,” Homer said. “Not choking. It’s called… talking.”
Bart almost smiled. Then he didn’t. “You really scared me, Dad. At the Kwik-E-Mart.”
Homer’s heart, which was mostly filled with nacho cheese, actually hurt. He used his Listening skills again. He heard the words. His kid was scared. Of him. It was the worst feeling ever, worse than running out of donuts.
“I’m sorry, Bart,” Homer said. The words felt weird in his mouth, like a new flavor. “I was a bad father. A really, really bad one. Like, ‘recall the father’ bad.”
Bart shrugged, but his eyes were a little shiny. “It’s okay. I’ve done worse. Remember when I set the school on fire?”
“That was a good day,” Homer said, forgetting his lessons for a second. Then he coughed. “I mean, no! Bad! Very bad! But… I love you, son. Even when you’re a menace.”
Bart was quiet. Then he said, “I love you too, Dad. Even when you’re a big, choking jerk-face.”
It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to Homer in prison.
The day Homer got out, Clyde shook his hand. The kitten tattoo seemed to smile. “Remember,” Clyde said. “Patience. Listening. And if you really wanna choke someone, choke them with love. It’s a metaphor. Don’t actually do it.”
“I won’t!” Homer promised.
Marge picked him up in the Canyonero. The family was all there. Even Bart.
That night, Homer was back on the couch. Bart skateboarded through the living room, knocking over a lamp.
Homer’s face started to turn purple. His hands twitched. He took a deep, crazy breath.
“ONE… TWO… THREE…”
Bart stopped, staring. “You counting, Dad?”
“FOUR… FIVE… SIX…” Homer growled.
Bart braced himself.
“SEVEN… EIGHT… NINE… TEN!” Homer finished. He stood up. He didn’t yell. He didn’t choke. He walked over to Bart and wrapped him in a huge, bear-like hug. It was a hug so tight it was almost a choke, but a good one.
Bart’s face was smushed into Homer’s big belly. “Can’t… breathe…” he mumbled.
“That’s the sound of love, boy!” Homer said, finally letting go. “Now go fix that lamp. And by fix, I mean hide it so Mom doesn’t see.”
Bart smiled a real smile. “You got it, Dad.”