This story is rated PG-13. Nothing more offensive than the material in the show.

Disclaimer: The Simpsons own Matt Groening.


"Artie Ziff?" exclaimed the startled Homer. "ARTIE ZIFF?"

"That's what I said," Ozmodiar affirmed.

Homer calmed down and wiped his brow. "What a relief. I was so afraid you'd say Moe Szyslak."

"I'd still like to know who you're talking to," said the bewildered Maude.

"Artie wished for Marge to be his wife," the little green alien recounted. "I altered the time stream so that he behaved like a perfect gentleman instead of getting unfortunately fresh with her in his car. You are now living in a reality where Marge Bouvier became Marge Ziff instead of Marge Simpson. A reality where Maude Flanders is still alive—but that's mere coincidence."

"What about my kids?" asked Homer with concern.

"Bart, Lisa, and Maggie no longer exist," Ozmodiar told him. "They never did."

"I want my family back," Homer pleaded. "What do I have to do?"

"Artie is the only other person who remembers things as they were," said the alien. "You must convince him to wish for the old reality to return. You have exactly seven days—after that the change will become permanent."

Homer shook his head despondently. "How am I gonna convince him to give up his wife?" he wondered. "I'm so dumb, I couldn't convince him to run out of a burning building."

"Homer, what on Earth are you talking about?" Maude demanded.

"Shut up, dead woman," Homer snapped.

"As a first step, I suggest that you get dressed," said Ozmodiar.

"Yeah, that might be smart," remarked Homer, glancing down at his bathrobe.

As he was strolling toward the still-open entrance to his house, Barney approached him, wearing a blue uniform and a proud smile. Homer marveled at how well-groomed and poised his usually-drunken friend was.

"Where you headed?" he asked.

"To my job," Barney answered.

"What's your job?"

"You really don't remember?" Barney grinned patronizingly. "I'm a search-and-rescue chopper pilot. I'm on my way to Minnesota to rescue a kid who's been lost overnight in the Mall of America."

"Uh…sounds fulfilling."

"You'd better hurry up and get ready for work," Barney counseled him. "You don't want to be late again. In case you've forgotten, you're a technician at the nuclear power plant."

At least that hasn't changed, thought Homer.

His clothes dresser now had a mirror attached to the top—apparently, as a single person, he was more concerned about his appearance. The shirts and pants were somewhat unfamiliar, but fit him well. After putting on his shoes and tie, he rushed out of the house and to the sidewalk, where he had last conversed with the alien.

"Ozmodiar!" he called out. "I'm dressed now. What's the second step?"

No voice answered. No little green men were visible.

"Ozmodiar?"

Seeing no sign of the visitor from space, Homer groaned, went to the garage, and climbed into the one available vehicle—a blue PT Cruiser. From the looks of it, life without a family had left him with considerable discretionary income.

He quickly mastered the controls and drove away toward the smokestacks in the distance. The car was comfortable and quiet, though somewhat littered with Krusty Burger trash. He felt satisfied and successful as his fingers gripped the leather steering wheel cover. If only Burnsie could see me now, he thought.

Unbeknownst to him, a satellite with a powerful camera was observing his car from orbit…

"Smithers!" said Mr. Burns, who was scanning the array of TV screens embedded in the wall of his office. "Who is that successful-looking fat man driving down Route 401?"

"That's Homer Simpson, sir," his aide replied. "A swinging bachelor who cools things down in Sector 7-G."

"Simpson, eh?" Burns tented his fingers. "With all that traffic, I doubt he'll get here on time. Make sure he doesn't try to sneak in undetected."

As the cars ahead of him slowed to a crawl, Homer became severely impatient. "Come on, come on!" he growled, pounding the horn. "I've only got a week to get my wife back!"

Looking to the side of the highway, he noticed a little place that he had passed many times, but had never visited. A banner draped over the front entrance read, MUST HAVE COFFEE. Below this slogan, in smaller letters, was written, ESPRESSO AND INTERNET ACCESS.

"Mmm…espresso," Homer mumbled.

Then his brain had an ingenious idea. "Stop there," it suggested. "You can do a web search and find out where Marge is. You're stuck in traffic, so what do you have to lose?"

"Mmm…espresso," his mouth repeated.

"Fine," said his brain. "You can get an espresso while we're at it."

Homer pulled aside, parked, and stepped inside the café, where numerous young couples were enjoying breakfast and coffee. A surprisingly familiar face greeted him at the counter. "What can I get for you, sir?"

"Lionel Hutz?" Homer marveled. "You're running a coffee shop?"

"I wish," said Hutz with a sad chuckle.

A short, bearded man with a stern expression approached him from behind. "If you don't sell a triple latte within the next five minutes, you're fired," he warned.

As he sipped his triple latte in front of a computer screen, Homer went into a search engine and typed in the words "Marge Ziff". He didn't believe what he saw.

"Ever wonder how you can get your hair to stand upright like Marge Ziff's? Wonder no more! Try Dr. Nick Riviera's patented Hair Raiser epoxy adhesive!"

"Soul Cookin' with Marge Ziff. Discover the joys of old-time cuisine with more than 100 recipes compiled by the renowned hostess."

"Marge Madness. The new line of sensual lingerie from designer and socialite Marge Ziff."

"During her brief stint as a police officer, Marge Ziff exposed the Legitimate Businessman's Social Club as a Mafia front."

So astonished at the fame and accomplishments of the alternate-universe Marge was Homer, that he idly allowed the coffee mug to tilt in his hand. Before he noticed what was happening, half of his beverage had spilled onto the keyboard and flooded the spaces between the keys.

"D'oh!" he exclaimed, straightening his mug—but too late.

The computer screen turned completely blue, except for a message in blocky letters: "Your computer's hard drive has crashed. Please insert a new hard drive."

Homer groaned as Lionel Hutz walked up alongside him to inspect the damage. "Normally, pouring coffee on the keyboard shouldn't affect the hard drive," he remarked. "But after we upgraded to Windows XP, everything we knew went out the window."


She's super rich and super famous,
thought Homer bitterly. She'll never give up that life for a poor loser like me. There's only one alternative. I'll have to poison Artie and woo his widow, just like in that play…uh, My Fair Lady.

His mind ran in hopeless circles as he trudged through the pipe-filled hallway which he believed led to Sector 7-G, which he believed to be his place of work. He couldn't begin to imagine the differences in this strange universe where he hadn't married Marge. Would he discover that the configuration of the reactor control panel had changed drastically? What if red meant "push me now"?

His ruminations were interrupted when the stern-faced Smithers blocked his path. "Simpson, you're late again," the bespectacled man chided him. "That's the third time this week, and it's only Tuesday."

"Er, ah, I can explain," Homer stammered as he looked through the corners of his eyes for an escape route.

"Homer isn't late," came a sweet female voice. "I saw him in the break room half an hour ago."

To Homer's amazement, none other than safety inspector Mindy Simmons was striding toward them in high black heels. She was almost identical in appearance to the Mindy he knew from the old reality, except that her skirt was shorter, and her lipstick a darker shade. Upon seeing her, Homer felt a pleasant sensation that originated in his heart (or so he liked to flatter himself). Think unsexy thoughts, he urged himself, recalling his desperate purpose. Think unsexy thoughts…

Smithers eyed the safety inspector suspiciously. "Is that the truth?"

"I'm a beautiful woman," Mindy replied. "I wouldn't lie."

"I, uh, just stepped out to take a whiz," Homer claimed.

"The men's room is the other way," said Smithers, pointing.

"The dumpster was closer," said Homer.

Smithers shrugged and turned to leave.

Amazed by Mindy's fabrication, Homer chose to play along. "Look at the time," he remarked facetiously, glancing at his watch. "I've already been working for half an…"

Mindy Simmons kissed him on the lips.

Huh? What the…

Her hands were wrapped around the back of his neck. Her eyes were even with his, and radiated affection. He knew it was wrong, and he knew he had to stop, regardless of how good it felt.

"Mindy…don't…" he mumbled, fighting to detach his lips from hers.

The red-haired woman leaned away from him. "You're right, Homer," she said jokingly. "We don't want to make Waylon jealous."

To Homer's added embarrassment, Smithers was standing a yard away, arms folded, glaring disapprovingly at the couple.

"Er, sorry, Mr. Smithers," said Homer meekly.

Smithers' expression softened. God, I wish I were her, he thought.


to be continued