On one of his infrequent visits to his parents, Bob found his mother drinking sherry straight from the bottle.
"I've had a dreadful realization, Robert," she whispered. "I'm old."
Bob avoided making direct eye contact with her, and instead focused on the wrapped box that he held.
"Does this mean I should return your birthday present?"
Judith laughed without any true mirth. "That isn't funny, my dear. I was speaking with full seriousness."
She put down the almost empty bottle and picked up her cigarette holder. Bob's eyes widened.
"Mother, I thought you'd given that up."
"Don't be such a hypocrite, Robert," Judith murmured. "I know that you also smoke. And to be frank, I don't care much about my health anymore."
The aged former actress puffed on her cigarette before continuing, "I should be happy, shouldn't I?"
"I suppose so, Mother," Bob said, still not meeting her sad, pensive gaze. "After all, you've accomplished things that most people would only dream of."
"Don't end with a preposition," Judith said as she lit another cigarette. Bob resisted the urge to scowl or groan.
"That's part of the reason for my melancholy, Robert: there's nothing left for me to accomplish. I've won so many awards, received so many accolades, and even met the Queen herself. Shorting of meeting God, what else is left? In a manner of thinking, my life is over."
Bob tried to tell himself that this was the booze talking, and couldn't think of appropriate words of comfort. At that point, Dr. Robert Terwilliger Senior entered the apartment, with an uncharacteristic slouch in his posture.
"Father? What's the matter?"
The elder Robert sat down on the couch. "I lost another one today."
"Oh." Bob nervously tugged at the bow on his mother's present. "Well...you can't save them all."
"I may have lost my touch," Robert sighed. He removed his glasses, gave them a vigorous clean, and snatched the bottle of sherry, putting it to his lips to gulp what remained of it. Knowing how his mother felt about others taking her sherry, Bob left the present on the coffee table and took his leave.
Bob sat next to the sink in his dank prison cell, chugging down paper cups of orange juice fermented under a radiator. Though it was non-alcoholic, he still felt like the listless, self-loathing sort of drunk that his parents had been. Bob's reflection in the cracked and dingy mirror above the sink possessed many of the same features of his parents: pasty skin and circles under the eyes, and hair that drooped in the same way as Judith's in times of great misery.
It was pathetic, really. Robert Senior and Judith had drank to cope with their feelings of being washed up, but unlike them, Bob had never done anything to be worthy of getting those feelings. In order to be washed up, you needed to have succeeded at something great in the past, something worthy of admiration. Bob had failed at producing high-quality children's programming, being mayor in both Springfield and Salsiccia, being a good husband to both Selma and Francesca, a good, upright citizen and brother, and the one thing that bothered him the most: ridding the world of that insufferable Bart Simpson. Sure, murdering a child was not admirable, but Bob doubted that few people would be upset by the untimely death of that boy. Sometimes, Bob wanted to-
The paper cup crumpled in Bob's hand as he clenched his fist. The thought of doing anything like that was out of the question. Besides, he'd attempted it many times before, and couldn't even do that right. Besides, as one of the few beings in Springfield with anything close to intelligence, he couldn't just let it go to waste. Bob would accomplish something one day. All he needed was patience, and a well-planned idea.