Homer staggered into his house to find it empty. Noticing that someone had left voice messages on the phone, he picked up the receiver and pushed a button to play them.

"You have…twelve…new messages. First message."

It was his father's high-pitched, acerbic voice. "Why aren't you married?"

"Second message."

"Why aren't you married?"

"Third message."

"Why aren't you married?"

Too tired and drunk to think about his lost wife, Homer spent a few hours watching Fox reality shows, then retired to bed.

By the next morning, both Homer and his brain felt considerably better—so much better, that a brilliant idea occurred to him. "Eureka!" he exclaimed, throwing off his quilt. Around the living room he ran, wearing nothing but his underpants, shouting, "Eureka! Eureka!"

Both Barney and Gil stepped out of their rooms to see what the ruckus was about. "You don't smell so good either, Homer," Barney remarked. "Uuuurp."

Without bothering to explain his plan to his roommates, Homer quickly clothed himself and called up some old friends—Doug, Benjamin, and Gary, the college nerds.

In his dormitory at Springfield University, Gary set aside his textbook and answered the ringing telephone. "Klingon Embassy. Qa'plagh," he replied in a weary morning voice.

"Homer Simpson here. Remember me?"

"Homer?" said the geek with surprise. "Haven't heard from you since last year."

"I've been busy," said Homer. "Listen, since I did you guys a favor once, I'd like to ask a favor of you."

"What do you mean?" was Gary's response. "We helped you finish college so you could keep your job. The unethical measures we had to take haunt me to this day."

"Yeah, but I taught you how to party," said Homer proudly.

Gary let out a sigh of resignation. "All right, what do you want?"

"Artie Ziff's phone number."

The silence on the line was so profound that Homer thought Gary had died.

"You've gotta be kidding me," the college student spoke up. "It's every nerd's dream to have Artie Ziff's number, but he doesn't give it out. If you want to talk to him, you might still be able to catch him at Comdex—if you buy your ticket to Vegas now."

"I don't want to talk to him," said Homer. "I want it for another reason."

The line fell quiet again.

"I'll tell you what Ben and I will do," said Gary quietly. "We'll hack into the Ziffcorp intranet and find the number for you. But we've got classes and TA duty, so we won't get to it until this afternoon. We'll call you at work as soon as we have it."

"Thanks, guys," said Homer. "What's Doug up to these days?"

"Er…" Gary said sheepishly. "You see, during the summer, Doug and Ben got into an argument about who was sexier, Seven of Nine or T'Pol, and it sort of, well, escalated."

"Yikes," said Homer with a shudder.

"Yeah, those fake light sabers can do a lot of damage if used with enough force. Doug won't be eating solid food again for a long time."

Ignorant of the conspiracy to steal his contact information, Artie lounged in a first-class seat on a jumbo jet, his short legs barely reaching the floor. Marge sat beside him, her hair bent backwards by the ceiling. She gazed downward at the Arizona desert as it rolled past, and reflected on her pleasant existence.

Artie interrupted her reverie with a question. "Marge, do you remember Homer Simpson, that boy from high school?"

Marge turned her head slowly. "Er, yes. Nice kid, but not too bright. Last I heard he took a job at the nuclear plant."

"I wonder how he's doing," Artie mused.

A flight attendant stopped her cart in front of their seats, and provided them with napkins and bags of peanuts. "Thank you very much," said the millionaire politely.

"Artie, you're not going to eat that, are you?" said Marge as he ripped open the plastic peanut container.

"Why shouldn't I?" Artie responded. "I like peanuts."

"You're allergic," Marge warned him.

"Don't be absurd," said Artie. "I got over my peanut allergy in fourth grade."

"It came back five years ago," said Marge. "You spent three days in the hospital with a puffed-up face. I can't believe you've forgotten."

Artie looked thoughtfully at the salted snacks before him. He didn't recall asking Ozmodiar to bring about a recurrence of his despised allergy. Still, a life without peanuts was to be preferred over a life without Marge.

"Why are you worried about Homer Simpson?" his wife suddenly asked.

He searched his brain for a satisfactory answer.

"I think he had a lot of potential," he remarked. "There may be a place for him in Product Development."

Marge pictured Homer testing a new device that churned out one mug of brown fluid after another. As he gulped down each pint, he criticized the quality and made corresponding adjustments to the machine. "Needs more malt. Not enough head. Too filling…"

The call didn't come until shortly after 4 p.m. Homer dropped his legs from the console and reached over to answer.

"Homer, this is Gary. I've got the number. Are you ready to write it down?"

He grabbed a pen and pad of paper, and jotted down the digits that Gary dictated.

"Many nerds died to obtain this information," Gary told him.

"Thanks a lot," said Homer. "You owe me one."

He grinned deviously. Step 1 of his plan was complete. Step C would require a helpful female, and he knew where to find one.

Mindy worked at a desk in sector 6-A, if it could be called working. She spent the majority of her time leaning back in her chair, legs raised, looking over safety reports from the various sectors. Occasionally she fell asleep, and her short skirt slipped down and exposed her bare thighs. She was in such a state when Homer approached her.

"Zzz…huh?" Overcome by embarrassment, she quickly yanked the skirt to cover herself.

"I need you to do something for me, Mindy," said Homer earnestly.

"Anything, honey," said the safety inspector, lowering her pump-clad feet.

Homer drew a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "This is Artie Ziff's personal phone number," he told her. "I want you to call him and pretend to be his mistress."

"WHAT!" exclaimed the startled woman.

"Pretend that you know him, and that you've been having an affair with him for a long time," Homer went on.

Mindy stood and glared at him. "You're asking me to help break up Artie Ziff's marriage," she said accusingly. "What's in it for you? Are you hoping to score with Marge after she divorces him?"

"No, no!" said Homer, waving his hands. "That's not it at all."

"You should be ashamed to even consider such a thing, let alone try to involve me," Mindy scolded him.

"Do this for me and I'll marry you," Homer offered. "I promise."

Mindy opened her mouth to protest, then froze.

This had better work, Homer thought.

He said he'll marry me, Mindy reflected. At last I'll have him where I want him.

"How soon will you marry me?" she inquired.

"Is the Saturday after next good?" was Homer's response.

"The Saturday after next is great," said Mindy. "All right, I'll go along with your scheme. But if you welch on your promise, our relationship is over."

"Thanks, Mindy," said Homer, and he gave her a tender kiss on the lips. Sorry, Marge, he thought. I'm doing this for you.

to be continued