"Smithers...Smithers. Where's the fucking soup," Mr. Burns drawled out, reaching over the royal purple velvet-and-satin couch with his clawlike fingers, breathing heavily as if each lungful of air pained him so terribly he could die at any moment.

The ancient tyrant's ever-faithful, bootlicking, ass-kissing lackey rushed in through the door with rabbit-fur mittens carrying a large and steaming bowl of peacock-and-truffle soup. Mr. Smithers smiled broadly as he gingerly stepped over the knickknacks strewn across the room to get to his boss-he'd clean the mess up right after.

"Oh, thank God, thank God for you, Smithers. I don't-I don't understand how I could live without you, my faithful toad," Burns looked down at the stew, "Oh, the soup is too hot! Smithers, add some water to it! And make sure it is not too full of Indian spices!"

"Yes, sir," Smithers bowed and rushed back into the kitchen again, so leaving Burns reclining on the couch melodramatically, the albino-mink robe loosely draped over his frail frame, thinking about the wonders of capitalism. Oh, he loved money, he loved it and he loved-

"I hope adding milk to the soup would soothe the flavor, sir," Smithers rudely interruped the old man's tragic internal monologue, but nonetheless he was pleased to hear that his assistant had nullified the soup, "Unicorn's milk, my favorite."

While Smithers was hand-feeding his boss the soup, he asked, "Do you know why I chose peacock for the meat part of the soup?"

"Because peacock meat is superior to regular cock meat," Burns nodded, and Smithers blushed slightly. It wasn't exactly what the sycophant meant, but it was pretty close.

And after he was done, Burns listened to his radio, which only played songs from the early 1800s and even earlier. Smithers was cleaning up the blackened marble floor while humming much more modern tunes, though quiet enough so his boss could listen better to the radio. Smithers thought about how he'd be bathing him soon, and then tucking him into bed, and then-

"Smithers! Where in the Devil's name are you going?" Burns asked, standing up from the couch and holding on to the assistant's shoulder with a cold hand. Smithers shivered a little, whether out of fear or arousal he didn't know, but nevertheless he answered: "I was thinking Manitoba, sir. Why did you ask and how did you know?"

"Manitoba, eh? It's a pretty shitty place, but it's cheap enough. I know everything about you, Smithers. Everything. Just like you know everything about me."

"So you know I'm gay?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Anyway, yes, I was planning on going, but I realized I need to take you there as well, and then I'd have to consider who would be in charge of the plant-"

"Lenny's in charge," Burns was already dressing up in an even richer and poofier outfit fit for rough Canadian nights, "Let's go."

Smithers pondered a decision for a moment before nodding, "To Winnipeg, capital city of Manitoba, yes? You'd like the shopping district there, I heard it's...decent. Sort of like Ross, but less peasant-y."

"Say, where is Manitoba?"

"Canada."

Burns sputtered, "W-what? Is that another state?"

"Well," Smithers shrugged, "It is in North America."

And so they went off to Canada, and when they landed, Burns' nose froze and fell off. It was very awkward.