ONE:

A USUAL MORNING

"D'oh"

Bart snickered as his dad's voice echoed up the steps and into his room, knowing that either the family cat (Snowball 2) or the family dog (Santa's Little Helper) had just gotten flattened.

"Boy, come down here and clean this junk up!"

Okay, maybe its not one of the pets, Bart thought, rising from his bed and heading out the door. More then likely it's my skateboard…

Sure enough when Bart reached the foot of the steps his father, Homer J. Simpson, was standing over his son's deadly skateboard, which Bart had so carelessly left in the floor along with some Radioactive Man action figures.

"Ooops, sorry Dad," Bart apologized, not able to meet his father's eyes.

"Yeah, I know you're sorry!" Homer retorted. He extended his meaty, yellow hands out to wrap them around his son's neck. Just as his did his wife, Marge Simpson, stepped into the hallway.

"Homer! What are you and Bart arguing about now?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips. Her scolding tone brought in Lisa, Bart's younger sister. She was soon followed by Maggie, the youngest of the three siblings who was still crawling on all floors.

"Looks like Bart's being a pack rat again, Mom!" Lisa said matter-of-factly. Bart snorted.

"So? It looks like you're being a bratty know-it-all little sister!" he shot back. Lisa charged at him. The comment had stung the mousy, jazz-playing bookworm and she wasn't about to take her brother's insult lightly.

Maggie watched all this from the side lines, learning. Marge could only sigh, knowing as well Maggie did that this was just another usual morning in the Simpson household.

Miles away however, in New York City, Phillip J. Fry's morning wasn't going quite as smoothly.

His parents were arguing again. They had been at it all day yesterday, all through the previous night, and Fry wouldn't be surprised if the shouting went on all day today.

"They have to shut up sometime," his older brother Yancy said.

Fry felt oddly comforted by his brother's wisdom, for the two brothers very seldom agreed on anything but whenever they did…life seemed a bit more bearable somehow, for the both of them.

Not so for their parents. Both of them were still fighting like a pair of cats and Fry, getting tired of watching the whole thing, shouted, "Why don't you both just shut up!"

Mr. and Mrs. Fry stopped arguing long enough to glance at their youngest son, who was a bit shorter then Yancy and had wild red hair while his brother's was jet black.

"Don't speak that way to your mother, Phil!" Mrs. Fry scolded. Fry's lip twitched in annoyance. He knew better then to contradict his mother.

Yancy was a bit bolder. "Mother, you and Dad have got to stop this fighting!" he told his parents, who stared at their sons open-mouthed. "It's driving me and Fry crazy! Can't you just stop for a minute to consider – "

Mr. Fry exploded. "Consider? What is there to consider?" he roared, advancing upon his sons in complete fury. He was about to shout something else but Yancy stopped him.

"First of all, I think you and Mom should consider going away awhile," he suggested, wrapping an arm around Fry's slumped shoulders, which were quaking.

"Where to?" Mrs. Fry asked. Yancy stared as she flung her red, flowing hair out of her aging face. It was so red…as red as Fry's, proving that Yancy had inherited his black hair from his father, who was going bald.

"What about that Springfield place?" Fry pointed at an old postcard that his dad had tossed onto the coffee table. It pictured a large American town complete with surrounding rolling hills and a power plant.

Yancy thought it looked perfect and far more inviting than the city would ever be.

"We'll sleep on it," Mr. Fry said, and no one objected.

The next morning the Frys were packing their bags and heading out of the city.

They were going to Springfield.