"The Principal's Secret: A Lunchtime Revelation"
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Smithers was in the middle of explaining to Mr. Burns the finer points of coconuts in the stock market when the rushed voice of Agnes Skinner interrupted the morning. “Principal Seymour Skinner, how dare you?!”
Across town, inside the Springfield Elementary cafeteria, Armin Tamzarian adjusted his tie awkwardly. The lunch ladies had just finished re-assembling their jello fortress when Agnes stormed in.
"Alright, alright, Agnes! Everybody, just calm down," Armin said, attempting to control the wave of hysteria that Agnes carried in like a portable thunderstorm.
“I won’t calm down!” Agnes snapped, brandishing a spatula she requisitioned from the cafeteria kitchen. She pointed it menacingly at him. “You imposter! How dare you impersonate my precious Seymour!”
Around them, the students were slowly gathering, trading their lunch hour plot lines for this real-life thriller, their trays of mystery meat becoming secondary to the spectacle.
Armin gulped. “I knew this day would come,” he began dramatically, causing Milhouse to spit out his milk in excitement. “Agnes, I’ve lived with this guilt for years. Your real son, Seymour, is… well…” He glanced around for a teacher to hand over this ticking bomb but found none. They all appeared vaguely interested, or asleep.
“Spit it out, man!” Agnes demanded.
Armin took a deep breath. “Seymour is presumed dead.”
The cafeteria gasped. The jello fortress wobbled threateningly. Agnes’s grip on the spatula relaxed slightly, only slightly.
“You… you mean to say… that all along, you... you knew?” Agnes’s voice wavered in a confusing mixture of ire and incomprehension as she tried to process the revelation.
“Yes,” Armin admitted, trying to keep his composure while a second-year student passed out from sheer drama overload next to him. "I am really Armin Tamzarian. I took on Seymour’s identity after the war, to bring some semblance of peace to your heart, but I couldn't keep lying to you, Agnes. Bottling it up, wearing these tan slacks all the time, it just— it broke me.”
Agnes blinked, taken aback. “So, you’re an imposter? And you’ve been pretending to be Seymour all this time? What about the fact you never eat brussels sprouts with mustard like he did?”
“Well, uh… I guess people change?” Armin offered weakly, glancing at Bart and Lisa Simpson for help. Bart, ever the wisdom dispenser, just did his “Seymour! Seymour!” chant, adding fuel to the cafeteria hysteria.
Agnes’s response was not quite what he expected. She sagged a little, the spatula now more an impromptu cane than a weapon. “But why? Why go through all this trouble?”
Armin scratched his head. “You really take to scorched earth when it comes to parenting, Mrs. Skinner. And you had everyone believing the real Seymour wouldn’t have made it five minutes back home.”
Agnes's stern face softened, more a flurry of wrinkles finding new positions, and she started to chuckle. “Well, you had me fooled. But heavens to Betsy, I kind of admire the grit.”
Armin blinked. “Wait, did I just inadvertently earn your respect?”
Agnes gave him a wry smile. “Don’t push it, Earl. Or Armin. Whatever your name is. Just get back to work and don’t screw up again.”
Their moment of uneasy truce was interrupted by the bell. The students, who had ignored the melodrama for about as long as they could handle free drama, shuffled off to their classrooms. True to Springfield tradition, this juicy tidbit would likely be forgotten by dinner.
As Agnes Skinner left the cafeteria, Armin Tamzarian stood there, a little confused, a bit relieved, and somehow having maneuvered through the revelation without losing his job or, it seems, her (bristling) approval. "Well, that went better than expected," he murmured to himself, straightening up and heading back to the principal’s office, resuming the ever-hilarious life of masqueraded identity.
This story was generated by user HsiehE29 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: “The Principal and the Pauper” flashback, but Armin Tamzarian admits the truth and tells Agnes that her real son is persumed dead.
Response: Smithers was in the middle of explaining to Mr. Burns the finer points of coconuts in the stock market when the rushed voice of Agnes Skinner interrupted the morning. “Principal Seymour Skinner, how dare you?!” Across town, inside the Springfield Elementary cafeteria, Armin Tamzarian adjusted his tie awkwardly. The lunch ladies had just finished re-assembling their jello fortress when Agnes stormed in. "Alright, alright, Agnes! Everybody, just calm down," Armin said, attempting to control the wave of hysteria that Agnes carried in like a portable thunderstorm. “I won’t calm down!” Agnes snapped, brandishing a spatula she requisitioned from the cafeteria kitchen. She pointed it menacingly at him. “You imposter! How dare you impersonate my precious Seymour!” Around them, the students were slowly gathering, trading their lunch hour plot lines for this real-life thriller, their trays of mystery meat becoming secondary to the spectacle. Armin gulped. “I knew this day would come,” he began dramatically, causing Milhouse to spit out his milk in excitement. “Agnes, I’ve lived with this guilt for years. Your real son, Seymour, is… well…” He glanced around for a teacher to hand over this ticking bomb but found none. They all appeared vaguely interested, or asleep. “Spit it out, man!” Agnes demanded. Armin took a deep breath. “Seymour is presumed dead.” The cafeteria gasped. The jello fortress wobbled threateningly. Agnes’s grip on the spatula relaxed slightly, only slightly. “You… you mean to say… that all along, you... you knew?” Agnes’s voice wavered in a confusing mixture of ire and incomprehension as she tried to process the revelation. “Yes,” Armin admitted, trying to keep his composure while a second-year student passed out from sheer drama overload next to him. "I am really Armin Tamzarian. I took on Seymour’s identity after the war, to bring some semblance of peace to your heart, but I couldn't keep lying to you, Agnes. Bottling it up, wearing these tan slacks all the time, it just— it broke me.” Agnes blinked, taken aback. “So, you’re an imposter? And you’ve been pretending to be Seymour all this time? What about the fact you never eat brussels sprouts with mustard like he did?” “Well, uh… I guess people change?” Armin offered weakly, glancing at Bart and Lisa Simpson for help. Bart, ever the wisdom dispenser, just did his “Seymour! Seymour!” chant, adding fuel to the cafeteria hysteria. Agnes’s response was not quite what he expected. She sagged a little, the spatula now more an impromptu cane than a weapon. “But why? Why go through all this trouble?” Armin scratched his head. “You really take to scorched earth when it comes to parenting, Mrs. Skinner. And you had everyone believing the real Seymour wouldn’t have made it five minutes back home.” Agnes's stern face softened, more a flurry of wrinkles finding new positions, and she started to chuckle. “Well, you had me fooled. But heavens to Betsy, I kind of admire the grit.” Armin blinked. “Wait, did I just inadvertently earn your respect?” Agnes gave him a wry smile. “Don’t push it, Earl. Or Armin. Whatever your name is. Just get back to work and don’t screw up again.” Their moment of uneasy truce was interrupted by the bell. The students, who had ignored the melodrama for about as long as they could handle free drama, shuffled off to their classrooms. True to Springfield tradition, this juicy tidbit would likely be forgotten by dinner. As Agnes Skinner left the cafeteria, Armin Tamzarian stood there, a little confused, a bit relieved, and somehow having maneuvered through the revelation without losing his job or, it seems, her (bristling) approval. "Well, that went better than expected," he murmured to himself, straightening up and heading back to the principal’s office, resuming the ever-hilarious life of masqueraded identity.
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