Waylon Smithers

© Details Magazine, October 1998, p.196.

What was your first job, and how did it end?
I've only had the one job: Charles Montgomery Burns's right-hand man. From moistening his eyeballs to steaming his toast to covering up Homer Simpson's various meltdowns, Three Mile Islands, and China Syndromes.

What did you collect?
I'm the proud father of the largest Malibu Stacy collection in the world. I've got 'em all, even that Mommy model that lactated that corrosive. Tragic really . . . . I love my Stacys so. They know me so well. Sometimes I can hear them singing to me. But when I turn the light on, they always stop, the little angels.

Have you ever had a nickname?
The guys in my college fraternity called me Cruiser. I never quite understood what they meant by that. Great guys, though. We're still in touch.

Have you ever been arrested?
Once, but it was only for trying to kill Mr. Burns. But if I had killed him, I would have just as quickly taken my own life. A no-brainer -- gun in the mouth and bang. Hey, "gun in mouth" . . . "no-brainer." Get it? I should write that down.

What's the scariest thing that has ever happened to you?
Well, my Miata broke down in this horrible neighborhood and I was attacked by a mean street gang. They chased me down and slashed me savagely with a box cutter. I woke up with only a machine keeping me alive. It was then that I realized I hadn't fed Mr. Burns's peacocks. My heart almost stopped. I was a wreck.

What's the best thing you've ever done?
I fed those peacocks, dammit. Of course, it meant checking myself out of the hospital and later going into shock . . . again. The birds didn't seem very hungry. But Mr. Burns appreciated it. He never said anything, but that's his way. We're very, very close.

When did you first get drunk?
About a week after the peacock incident. No particular reason. Just felt like drinking all of a sudden. Who says I need a reason for everything?

What's the one thing you believed at eighteen that you wish you still believed now?
That love will find a way. I want to believe so badly, but sometimes it's so hard.

What's hardest about being a man?
Living with a secret. For example, a secret all-consuming desire that a certain special person would take you passionately in his withered arms and say, "Smithers, you are everything to me!" And you would say, "Yes sir, Mr. Burms!" And we'd get a place together, somewhere quiet with hardwood floors and a lot of natural light. And every Sunday morning, Monty and me, we'd do the crossword puzzle in bed. I'd read the clues out loud, and he'd furiously yell out the solutions for me to write in. What a mind on that man. Maybe we'd meet up with some friends later for brunch. "I always knew you two'd end up together," they'd say . . . . Great, just pour your heart out to any random . . . Look, let's say this conversation never happened.

What will you never do again?
Answer personal questions after drinking five glasses of Merlot on an empty stomach.

Playboy or Penthouse? And where did you keep your issues?
What is that supposed to mean? I don't think I like your tone.

Who was the first woman you were sexually attracted to?
You ask a lot of questions for a taxi driver. And why are you talking into your jacket?

When did you first make love to a woman, and how did you do it?
Forget it. Just drop me off at the next corner -- I can walk the rest of the way.

Submitted by William Weller