I’m at this cocktail party. It’s OK as far as cocktail parties go. This isn’t where I want to be but for whatever reason I’m compelled to be here and am sucking it up for the sake of that motivation. Plus there’s an open bar, which helps. Maybe I’m made most uncomfortable by the fact that this is a pretty formal affair. For the most part I’m trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I just don’t want to. But this guy won’t leave me alone. He just won’t let the lack of eye contact ruin his evening. So I look up. And it’s Mr. Burns — owner of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. Translated from cartoon form to flesh exactly – – right down to the nose and the liver spots. He’s looking sharp though, with just the finest tuxedo I’ve seen. He’s really excited about the coming dessert. It’s a cheesecake. A 42-pound cheesecake. Just as sweet as can be. It’s going to be so good. With a graham cracker crust. And the most delightful strawberry compote topping. Forty-two pounds of it! Mr. Burns just won’t shut up about it. And he’s annoying the shit out of me.