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There are two types of people
in this modern world of ours.

The admirable hardworking
movers and shakers and the poor.

How I pity them.

They just lack that killer instinct.

The unmoneyed,
lack initiative, discipline.

They just aren't shrewd.

The poor are content to file our
toenails and bleach our mustaches

because they are too lazy
to reach for a better life.

Ambition is the sole province of the rich.

Oh, hogwash. Take my son Seymour, the bum.

Majored in nepotism at Ditherton College.

All set to take over
the family prune canning business.

And where is he now?

Living off his trust on
the coast of Italy like some pope.

Ugh, Italians are so European.

I'd give a suitcase
full of simoleons to anyone

who could bring that
pampered popinjay back home.

Can I box that up for you,
Mrs. Van Houten?

It's missus. And no. I'll wear it out.

Darling,
bring me one of these in polar bear.

Mrs. Skinner, as I live and breathe.

I'm sorry. Do I know you?

Marjorie Bouvier.

I'm an old friend of Seymour's.

We met at your charity ball for…

Oh, what was it?

The Policemen's Malevolent Association.

Yes, police violence is
such an important cause.

How is dear Seymour?

Ironing out
the wrinkles at the prune cannery?

I raised my little boy to
be a henpecked business wuss,

but look at him now.

No socks?

Seymour has changed.

He says he's trying to be an
artist if you can believe it.

I was just summering in Italy.
If I'd known, I would have looked him up.

Marjorie,
this is probably too much to ask,

but what if I sent you

to Italy to find my wayward son
and convince him to come home?

All expenses paid of course.

Oh, my.

What an unexpected offer.

I'm desperate, dearie. What do you say?

Seymour Skinner?

What are you
doing on a beach in Bella Truffa?

Hmm? I'd ask you the same if I had
the slightest clue who you are.

Marge Bouvier.

We met at Ditherton.
We were in the same econ class.

I never took econ.

Maybe I'm thinking of
statistics with Professor…

Needlemeyer.

Yes, I was a few rows behind you.

I didn't take him. I had Gopnik.

We had Gopnik, of course.

As a private tutor.

Um, me too. I had him right after you.

Oh, of course.

But Ditherton's a men's college.

Yes. Which is why I dressed up
as a man in order to attend.

To prove a point to the sexist dean.

Ah, that explains it.
Nice to meet you again.

Pull up some sand.

Looks like I've made
another American friend.

Another?

Seymour, did you see me do a headstand?
Did you see? D… Who's this?

Marge Bouvier, meet Homer Simpsley.

Another well-to-do
friend I made in Napoli.

He's become my travel companion, food
taster and, uh, temporary house guest,

Permanent roommate.

Come up to the house and have
some wine with us. You simply must.

Uh, no, she mustn't.

I'd love to.

Great Gatsby! You live like this?

But you don't even have a job.

I mean, uh, nice place.

Eh, it'll do.

Now, let me take you to my studio.

You're, uh, quite the prodigious painter.

Yes, and Homer's quite the muse.

The prominent curves.

The shadowy folds.

And he can hold
absolutely still for hours.

Oh, my.

How bold of you to paint him in the nude.

Actually, um, he insisted.

Painting time!

Ugh. She's still here?

Dear Mrs. Skinner.

Good news. I found Seymour.

Now, the hard work of
convincing him to come home can begin.

I start most days on his beloved boat,
which he named in your honor.

Then, grab a light lunch at a cafe.

Some days Seymour takes us on a day
trip to see a Caravaggio in all its glory.

Your son's even taken on a young pupil.
Hoping to pass on his talent.

Although Seymour lives quite
the dolce vita here,

I'm sure I can get him back
to America in no time.

A toast to never going back to America.

Time for a refill.

Seymour said you came from money.

Remind me what does your family do again?

Uh, my wealthy family owns
a lucrative skull factory.

Can't get ahead without a Simpsley skull.

Hey, that's a pretty good lie.

No, it wasn't.

You're not rich.

You're just a low-class mooch.

At least there's honor in mooching.

You're nothing but a two-tit con man.

As soon as Skinner
sees you for what you are,

he's gonna toss you out like
yesterday's meatballs,

but I'm not going anywhere.

I'm his muse.

Hmm.

Holy cannoli.

Marge, you're an absolute vision.

The light, the hair,
the discernible waistline.

I must commit you to canvas.

Hey. I was musing there.

Um, why don't you go eat, Homer?

There's still some of
yesterday's meatballs.

Mm-mmm.

The mushrooms were super, Mario.

Seymour, darling,
now that we're living together,

I think it's time Homer moved out.

Mmm. He has been acting a bit
queer to use the parlance of our time.

Plus, all those broken Vespas are
really a drain on your trust fund.

It happened again.

Here's your laundry, Skinner.

What's for lunch?
Oh, and don't say Italian.

We ate.

Go put Seymour's clothes away.

We're gonna go lie on
the beach that stinks of fish.

Stupid Marge.

Before she showed up,
things around here were a lot more gay

to use the parlance of our time.

Ooh, when did he get this?

"Uh, do you like it, Homer?

Marge finds it garish."

That face is garish.

"You're incorrigible.

Hmm. You know, I've been
thinking of ending things with her."

Really? Why?

"Well, I have my eye on someone else.

Someone more full figured."

What? "Just go with it."

"Oh, yes, Homer."
Oh, Skinner.

What the hell's going on here?

Seymour, it's not what you think!

I mean nothing to me!

- Take my clothes off this instant.
- Ooh.

Then get out of my villa.

Oh.

But-But we're best friends.

I only tolerated your zaftig
buffoonery because you were easy to paint.

You're just one circle on top of another.
Any idiot could draw you.

Marge was right.

You're dumb as an ox,
unbelievably fat and charmlessly clingy.

You're the most
repulsive person I've ever met.

Guess we can add clumsy to the list too.

Whoa.

No, no, no, no, no. Seymour, please.

Dear God.

I didn't do this.
He slapsticked himself to death.

Looks like our meal ticket just
got a big hole punched into it.

Is that all you can think about,
you greedy shrew? You never loved him!

I call dibs on his room.

Don't you get it? We're out on our ass.

I guess it's back to filing down
corns and forging checks for me.

Unless I was to fake Seymour's
signature on his monthly trust checks.

But you can't pass for Skinner.

You're a… …woman.

I can't, but you can.

I'd be the Seymour?

Then, we wouldn't be
mooching off the rich anymore.

- We'd be one of them.
- One of them.

What's that now?

Hmm.

It'd be a shame to waste a clever plan.

Oh, yeah.

We'd kick ourselves
later if we didn't at least try.

This little scheme of ours only works if
we stick together.

For better or for worse.

What are you proposing?

What? Are you proposing?

Dearest Mother,
forgive my delayed correspondence,

but the most wonderful
thing has happened to me.

I've fallen deeply,
swiftly and profoundly in love.

And I've gotten married.

The priest said he never saw
a couple so smitten with each other.

We're packing only the essentials
as we leave on our honeymoon.

I'll let you know where we land.

Love, Seymour.

P.S., I am alive.

Our first stop in Rome will be the bank,
signor Skinner.

But I don't look anything like him.

You do now.

Ooh, baby.

Uh, I'd like to take some money
out of my trust.

My name is Seymour Skinner.

Account number and passport please.

Hmm. Eh. Close enough.

Sign here, Mr. Skinner.

I love your jacket.

Is the back the same color as the front?

Sì, sì. I will show you. Hmm.

Hmm. I get your money.

More bubbly for my co-conspirator.

You know, that suit makes
you look like a movie star.

Like Fatty Arbuckle or that
Italian actor Lardo Disgusto.

Oh, well,
this toupee is kinda itchy though.

No, no, no. Leave it on, Seymour.

Yeah.

Call me that again.

Didn't it feel good to get
away with something, Seymour?

And we did it together, Seymour.

Oh, baby.

Oh. Oh, Seymour.

Just like that, Seymour.

Wait, wait. Can I call you Seymour too?

- Um, sure.
- Okay.

- Oh, Seymour.
- Oh, Seymour. Yes.

Call me Seymour.
Oh, you boring, boring man.

- Oh, Seymour, your kisses!
- Oh, speak to me in your monotone voice.

Oh, Seymour. Seymour.

Yes, Seymour.
Oh, I love you, Seymour.

Yes, Seymour! Yes, yes, yes!

Oh, Seymour!

I love these little coffees.

Each one tinier than the last.

Look.

"Locals speculate that due to the corpse's
bloated state, bald head and awful smell,

it is likely to be the body of
sexually ambiguous mooch Homer Simpsley."

What? I don't look like a corpse.

I guess I kinda see it.

If they think you're dead, that means
they also think Skinner's still alive.

We totally got away with it.

So, this Homer Simpsley lived
with you for a time.

Is that correct, Mr. Skinner?

Uh, you talking to me? 'Cause my name is...

Yes, yes! Homer lived with us.
Lived off of us, I should say.

He was a real… What's the Italian word?

Uh, "moocharello."

Exactly.

This Simpsley character was nothing but
a leech, a sponge, a shiftless freeloader.

Too stupid to make it in this world.

If you ask me, Homer was so torn up
about Seymour cutting him off

that he likely jumped off a cliff
into the ocean.

Well, it sounds like an
open-and-a-shut case of fatso "suicidio."

And good riddance, right, Mr. Skinner?

May Homer Simpsley rot in hell.

"Dumb, ugly, lazy."

How would you like it
if someone described you so accurately?

I got that goombah gumshoe off our case,
didn't I?

It'll be smooth sailing from here on out.
No more surprises.

Surprise, Seymour.

It's your best buddy Gary Chalmers.
I heard you were in Rome.

Come on. Let's go to the Sistine Chapel
and pick up some broads.

Look, no one's heard from you in weeks.

I'm not leaving until
I see that you are… Oh.

Simpsley, you meaty "moocharello."
What are you doing in Skinner's apartment?

Where's Seymour?

Uh, he went to the Colosseum.

I think the lions are playing.

Shut up.

You must be Gary. Seymour's out.

But if you're dead set on seeing him,
join us for a drink.

Hmm.

Uh-huh?

So, who the devil are you?

I'm Marge. Seymour's new wife.

Cin cin.

New wife?

Seymour would never marry
some tenement Tina like yourself.

Look at those dishpan
eyes and thick Polish wrists.

It's true.

And those cankles could hold up a wharf.

I'm disliking you
less and less. Cheers.

So, what's going on here, Simpsley?

When did you go from
primate to fashion plate?

Why you almost look like Seymour?

Uh, no, he doesn't.

It's like you're almost trying to be him.

Uh, I like to think that
Seymour's been rubbing off on me.

Mmm.

A toast to friends
rubbing off on each other.

Hear, hear.

Skinner's ring.

He'd die before taking that off.
I'm calling the police.

But first, to finish my drink.

Geez Louise. Is killing rich guys
your solution to everything?

We're gonna get caught for sure.

Shut up. I need to think.

We can fix this.

Mamma mia.

Sì, sì.

Ay, Columbus.

Son of a…

Oh, my. When Mr. Chalmers left last night,

he said he was going to find some
Sicilians and insult their mothers.

Could that be a clue?

Mmm.

You're a very smart lady, signora Skinner.

Very clever.

But, unfortunately,
you are married to a stupid, stupid man.

He's gonna confess and take you both down.

It's just a matter of time.

It's the end of the road for you,

Mrs. Skinner, because you
and your husband are free to go.

Huh? Why?

We arrested this bastardo animalé
trying to sell

Mr. Chalmers's jewelry at a pawn shop.

What luck.
I almost confessed to everything.

The murders, the fraud, trying all those
gelato flavors without ever buying any.

Mmm. You certainly looked like
you were going to give us up.

Oh, I was.

But any time I was about to,
I remembered that

you did whatever it took to protect us.

To protect me. I've never had that before.

I think… I think I love you.

No one's ever said that to me before.

My whole life, I've been on my own,
and now I realize having

someone to scheme and scam
with has been all I ever wanted.

I… I love you too.

Let's celebrate. What do you wanna do?

Why don't we rent a little boat
and go out in the middle of the ocean?

Mmm.

Here's to a long,
loving and luxurious life together.

Hey, I forgot to ask. What's in that
really heavy bag you made me carry?

Is it a surprise for me?

- Marge, why?
- I'm sorry, Homer.

I do love you, but you are
bound to mess our good thing up.

'Cause you're a terrible liar,

and you're dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.

Hmm.

Huh?

Oh, honey. You were smart after all.

Dear Mr. Skinner,
I'm writing with sad news.

Your mother has died.

She read your letter about your
hasty marriage and was so incensed

that you found true love that
she choked on a broth and drowned.

She leaves the entirety
of her fortune to you.

The board of directors
will run the family business.

Leaving you and your new spouse free
to continue your life of spoiled excess.

On behalf of the firm,
we wish you both a long and happy union.