"Life is a Bitch for Everybody"

Legendary Simpsons writer George Meyer on the institutions he'll never believe in, the happiness he's finally (sorta) finding with age, and whether Frank Grimes deserved better

George Meyer, left, with some yellow kid.

George Meyer has led me into the mountains of northern Los Angeles. We’re here because he’s heard stories about an abandoned missile silo, though he has only a vague notion of where it might be. We take Mulholland Drive until it dead ends, then follow a dirt road on foot. Hours later, we’re hopelessly lost.

George Meyer is a television writer, probably the best television writer of his generation. He is to The Simpsons what Doug Kenney was to The National Lampoon. He didn’t create it, but he’s largely responsible for its greatness. He’s written for the show since the beginning, and he’s still considered its Grand Pooh-Bah, the silent architect behind TV’s most unexpected satire.

Given his reputation, I had imagined Meyer as a giant. But he’s thin and lanky, with a voice so soft you expect his words to evaporate into wisps of smoke. He smiles mostly when recalling his favorite Simpsons jokes, though he never takes credit for writing them. He also enjoys stale Botan Rice Candy, and he’s more than happy to share.

We eventually stumble across the silo. There aren’t any actual missiles, but it’s still a frightening discovery. Meyer is delighted by a sign affixed to the silo’s door, with a single quote by Nikita Khrushchev: “We will bury you.” He wonders aloud about its purpose. Was it meant to motivate the silo’s long-departed personnel? Maybe scare them? It’s unclear.

Meyer takes us farther up the mountain, long past any trace of human activity. We spot some coyotes in the distance, eyeing us hungrily. A bloody mauling seems inevitable. But Meyer just waves at them, like they might be old friends.

Does it mean anything when a satirist laughs at his almost certain demise? Probably not.

Eric Spitznagel: I should warn you right up front that I’m one of those obsessive Simpsons fans.

George Meyer: [Nervously] OK…

ES: It’s not something that I’m particularly proud of. I’m the kind of guy who’ll waste entire evenings dissecting obscure characters like Mr. Teeny, the chain-smoking monkey.

GM: That’ll bring the ladies a-runnin.’

ES: And I’m one of the sane ones. Have you heard about the Ned Flanders cult in southern England?

GM: Oh, lord! Are you serious?

ES: Well, maybe “cult” is too strong a word. They’re devoutly religious and they get a fetishistic thrill from dressing like Ned. Does it disturb you that fans take this stuff so seriously?

GM: I find it intoxicating. I like that people are patterning their lives after our little fictional world. Even the non-fanatical fans have a weird relationship with the show. They want it to be like a dollhouse, and they’re enormously proprietary. When we’ve tried to change too much, they’ve gotten very upset with us. After we killed off Maude Flanders, people were in an uproar. They feel like these characters belong to them. I can understand that, but at the same time, as a writer you sometimes feel the need to shake things up.

The Simpsons’ writers’ room, circa 1992. George Meyer is in the upper right, facing the camera.

ES: Do you get the sense that some fans have unrealistic expectations?

GM: Oh, certainly. They seem to believe that we have unlimited time and resources for each episode, and that we’re able to examine everything from every possible angle. And really, the show is more like a hurricane swirling around us. Every joke can’t be dazzling. And if you think you spotted an inconsistency, brother, you did!