Burns: [looking up from his magazine] Smithers, what's the meaning
of this slacking off?
Smithers: Uh, there's a bee in my eye, sir.
Burns: And?
Smithers: I, I'm allergic to bee stings. They cause me to, uh, die.
Burns: But we're running out of forward momentum.
Smithers: Uh, perhaps you could pedal for just a little while, sir?
Burns: Quite impossible. I could try to bat him off if you like.
[tries, feebly]
Smithers: Uh, really, that's o-- [the bee stings Smithers, who slumps
over the handlebars]
Burns: Holy cats, man! We're starting to wobble.
Smithers: [heavily slurred] Get ... me ... to ... a ... hospital ...
you ... have ... to ... pedal.
Burns: Oh, Tuttle's Sunday trousers. Fear not, I'll get you to a
hospital -- the only way I know how.
Smithers, you infernal ninny, stick your left hoof on that
flange, now! Now, if you can get it through your bug-addled
brain, jam that second mephitic clodhopper of yours on the
right doodad! Now pump those scrawny chicken legs, you
stuporous funker!
-- Burns and Smithers bikercise,
"Twenty-Two Short Films About Springfield"
