Ah, the joy of a completed to-do list.
Shall we celebrate by cracking open an amontillado?
Uh, sir, you had that cask of amontillado
walled off two days ago.
- Along with the salesman.
Are you still considering
the Cask of the Month Club?
After three months, it pays for itself.
I'm thinking about it.
Anyway, Smithers, a tasting.
What about this 1945 Bordeaux?
Yes, that could give my palate a little party.
Palate, have at it.
Oh.
How I miss extra-venous fluids.
Mm, you're getting notes of cigar smoke,
saffron— Ooh, sandalwood.
Yes, yes, all of those.
And cupcake frosting from a child's birthday party
with notes of petting zoo on the finish.
Oh, I'm getting a little tipsy.
Make sure you take two aspirin
and drink plenty of water before I go to bed.
What is it? what do you hear, boy?
Dress shoes on linoleum.
It's Smithers.
Whenever he comes down here, he wants
someone to stay late and do extra work.
Homer, it's one taquito.
It's not worth it.
No snack left behind.
I'll tell your story.
Simpson, come with me.
Can I bring my taquito?
No.
Mr. Burns wants to impress his wine club,
so he paid a million dollars
for a very special bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin
once owned by Napoleon.
Whoa, just like the laundry pods
they lock up at the Kwik-E-Mart.
Wow.
Turns out Napoleon fought the Battle of Austerlitz
just because he'd heard there was
an extraordinary bottle of red there.
And you need my expert skills to keep watch over it.
No, I need you to ride in the back with it as a human airbag.
Ooh, human.
Smithers, I coughed up my Adam's apple.
Not again.
I'm on my way, sir.
Simpson, I need you to bring the Napoleon wine
directly to Mr. Burns' mansion.
This is the most important job
you've ever done in your entire life.
I'm glad to have earned your trust.
If there were anyone else on Earth I could ask, I would.
Thank you.
Hurry, Smithers.
Now ants are circling it.
Okay, just get the bottle back to Mr. Burns.
First, select the least bumpy route.
Aah! Where'd it go?
And now it is my great honor
to christen this ship—
- Well, I never.
No, wait, this did happen once before.
Mazel tov!
Ow!
Uh...
Mwah.
Mm...
Oh, man, I'm so far from Mr. Burns' mansion.
Where even am I?
I'll give you a hint, dumb-ass.
You live here.
Give me another hint.
Okay, Homer, you got a million-dollar bottle of wine.
For once in your life, don't be stupid.
Put it somewhere safe.
Safe, safe.
Wait, a safe.
Safe. So this is what being smart feels like.
I'll reward myself
with a quick garage nap in the car.
I'll just turn it on to keep warm and—
No.
Staying smart.
Huh? Wha— Oh, no!
I need to get to Burns' mansion.
You're exhausted.
At least eat dinner before you go.
Mmm, this is the best stew ever.
Oh, it's nothing special.
Just beef, carrots, onions,
garlic and bay leaves.
Well, it's delicious.
Oh, and some wine.
What kind of wine?
I didn't want to use the good nine-dollar bottle,
so I just used this old one.
How? No.
No, I was smart. I was smart.
So smart.
What? I don't understand.
It's still locked.
- Huh? Hey, Homer.
What the hell kind of safe is this?
Remember? You punched a hole in the wall
when Major League Baseball added the pitch clock.
I like my sports slow, and they knew that.
Marge, you don't understand.
That wine you used in the stew
was Burns' wine.
It cost a million dollars!
Oh, no. No!
No, no, no, no, no, no.
A million dollars?
A million dollars!
I don't want stew.
I want mac and cheese.
- Eat your million-dollar stew.
You used all of the million-dollar wine?
It's what the recipe calls for.
You should have written your name on the bottle.
Like I do with that special tea that makes me regular.
Regular? You didn't go the whole time
we were in the Wisconsin Dells.
That's why I got the tea!
That I label.
Simpson.
Why haven't you delivered the bottle to Mr. Burns' mansion?
Before I answer that,
try some of this delicious stew.
Mmm, the onions, the garlic,
the red wine from the 19th century.
Aah!
It's not what you think.
Marge cooked the wine into stew.
Stew that we ate.
- Uh,
if you need to strangle the boy for a minute,
that's what he's here for.
Eh, it's what I bring to the table.
Oh, God, this is going to take Mr. Burns
to a horrifying level of fury.
He built this lumber mill just to kill us.
Oh, that explains it.
Waylon, Homer really did try to keep it safe.
This is all my fault.
I can't believe I was undone by Marge Simpson.
Mm. Hmm?
Okay, I know things look kind of bad.
But there is a way out of this.
This isn't "kind of bad."
This is a catastrophe.
If I may— for you, catastrophe is a new thing.
But for me, it's just another day at the office.
What the hell are talking about, you incompetent nitwit?
Oh, Smithers, Smithers, Smithers.
Let me explain.
Maggie, my note.
Mm, I can't resist
a musical number that advances the plot.
- I'm in. - But how do we cover this up?
It's not gonna be easy.
Mr. Burns is planning to pour the Napoleon wine
for some of the most discerning wine connoisseurs in the world.
You know, wine is basically just chemistry.
Maybe you need someone who knows all about
the chemistry of alcohol.
Wine is the red one, right?
Well, I understand your dilemma,
but I am right in the middle of an experiment
to develop the proverbial six-pack abdominals.
- I know, but it's what the ladies want.
I think they just want someone who listens.
Well, I don't have a contraption for that.
Professor, maybe if I
Uh, well, based on my analysis
of the last drops of the stewified Napoleon wine,
I've created a replica out of diammonium phosphate,
calcium carbonate and 14 CCs
of Manischewitz.
Mmm. That's, uh, that's amazing.
- So we did it? - We did it.
Uh, I, uh, did it, yes.
And now, just to ensure I've removed
the radioactive isotope found in all wines
made after the dawn of the nuclear age...
Perfect.
Uh, should I be worried about that?
Are you planning on having children?
I never planned any of my children.
Uh, well, it is what it is.
I call to order this meeting with our credo,
"Never drink something younger
or date something older than you."
To pointless excess.
And now, the main event:
a bottle of wine once held by Napoleon himself.
So, raise a glass and bend an "Elba."
Smithers, release the cork.
Moment of truth.
You know, our marriage really could use
fewer moments of truth.
Now that's million-buck chuck!
Complex with a hint of
doy-yoy-yoy-yoy-yoy-yoing!
Mm.
The cover-up worked!
And tonight, we'll have cover-up sex.
Ooh, it'll be my first.
No, it won't.
I can't believe we pulled that off.
I feel a little guilty and a little scared.
Like the first time I fast-forwarded
through a commercial.
Don't feel bad.
With the money those billionaires
spend on one bottle,
it could buy every poor person in the world
an inexpensive but very drinkable rosé.
Those monsters.
They are. And I do their bidding.
I'm just as bad, if not worse, because I know better.
I'm even starting to look like Mr. Burns.
Hump!
Sometimes I feel like I've only got this much soul left.
Don't worry, Waylon.
There's plenty of soul where that came from.
You know, we've still got
a lot of this Frinky drinky.
Think how many wrongs we could right
if we sold just one more million-dollar bottle.
Are you slurring what I think you're slurring?
Yes. What if we sell fake wine
to the rich to give to the poor?
Like Robin Hood.
I'm cleansing my soul.
And I'm getting out of the house.
We're doing this.
We're actually going to Robin Hood
a bottle of fake wine.
Look at all these mega-rich wine connoisseurs.
I've never seen so many people not wearing baseball caps.
And that's Jim Sprawldon from the Sprawl-Mart fortune.
And from Sam's Club, there's Marcus Club himself.
Oh... I can ask him to bring back
Marcus's Choice cinnamon apple dryer sheets.
There's Francis Ford Coppola and Andrew Lloyd Webber,
the most surprisingly straight wine collector in the world.
And he's next to Robert Parker,
who invented the 100-point wine ranking scale.
I will buy this Napoleon wine
with the money from the music that I write.
The money from the music of the night.
I rate this conversation a 36.
Next up is the last known wine owned by Napoleon.
Offered for sale by an anonymous owner.
I open the bidding at—
$1 million!
- $1.5 million.
Wh— I'm sorry. I have a call from my accountant.
Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.
I bid nothing.
Uh, $1.5 million.
$2 million.
$2 million? That's, like, 20,000100s.
Going once. Going twice. Sold!
Slowly, deftly, losing shall caress you.
Hear it, feel it.
Secretly depress you.
You did Cats, right?
What the hell was that?
And why do I love it?
We did it!
This money is going to right so many wrongs.
Thank you, Marge. For the first time in my life,
I feel free.
You are under arrest for the high crime
of wine forgery.
Here's your cell.
Does the gentleman find it suitable?
Why do they always ask the man?
Oh, Homie, Homie, I don't know how to tell you this,
but I'm in jail.
Marge in jail? Puh-lease.
This is like that phone scam I almost fell for last month.
That was really me.
I had to walk home from the airport
because you wouldn't believe me.
Then this is Marge! You're in jail?
Yes.
Waylon and I faked and sold another Napoleon wine.
Well, this is crazy.
You're in jail for booze, and I'm...
at home watching the kids.
- Time's up.
I've got to go. I miss you all so much.
- I love you.
Oh, Mommy loves you, too, Maggie.
Wine court is modeled after the quirky French legal system.
It's based on every defendant's right to a certain,
mm... je ne sais quoi.
How do you know about all this?
Oh, Wine Court TV plays all day in most gay bars.
Your Honor, this is a case of shocking fraud
perpetrated by the worst kind of scammers.
Do we seriously believe that a wine
owned by Napoleon was found
by an executive assistant and a homemaker?
They're simple, ignorant Philistines.
Mrs. Simpson, please tell the court
your recipe for sangria.
Two parts Duff wine cooler
to one part grape Popsicle.
- Oh, no, Marge.
You stupid lady.
Homie, I might be going to jail for years.
Promise me you'll take good care of the kids.
Honey, you know I can't make that promise.
I wonder if Homer is looking at the same moon.
Marge was always here...
to dry and put away.
- This is all my fault.
You said Mom was in Santa Barbara with friends.
Kids, your mom's not in Santa Barbara.
She's in wine jail.
There's no such thing as Santa Barbara.
Dad, you got to find a way to get Mom out of jail.
You got to cover this up.
It's the only thing you're good at.
No, the only thing I'm good at is nothing.
I will never cover up again.
Ladies, gentlemen,
and bored looking cat in a turtleneck.
The wine we're accused of faking
tastes exactly like the real thing,
so if-if no one can tell the difference,
how is that a crime?
Your Honor, this is a case with legs.
Pun intended on "legs" but not on "case."
Wine is much more than a beverage.
For centuries, it has told the story of civilization.
Whenever something is that rare, unique, and beautiful,
it is attacked by greed and fraud at every turn.
Thus, it is our responsibility
to ensure that this jewel of our society
keeps its integrity intact.
I have reached a decision.
I declare the fake wine in question to be...
real.
- Case dismissed.
I don't know what just happened.
Oh, allow me to explain.
I bought something more valuable than any bottle of wine:
the judge.
You bribed her to save us?
I... I wasn't saving you, Smithers,
and, uh, your wife.
I was protecting the myth that the possessions
of the obscenely wealthy are remotely worth it.
If that bottle was exposed as fake,
skeptical eyes might look to fine art
such as my Vermeer,
Girl with a Pearl Nose Ring.
Or my Bible signed by Jesus.
And it's all thanks to this fine fellow
who alerted me to your predicament.
- Homer, you— - Covered it up.
But, Dad, you said you were never gonna cover up again.
I tried not to, but covering up is all I know.
So, I went to the king of cover-ups.
Who do you think hid all that nuclear waste
under Denver's airport?
- This guy. Oh, you.
Great, we were saved by an evil deed
from the man whose evil deeds we were trying to un-evil.
But, Waylon, our whole drunken plan
was to use bad money to do good things.
And now we can.
- Robin Hood? - Robin Hood.
You will be housed here in wine jail
while you await your trial in Springfield wine court.
Wine court?
Yes. Wine crimes are too sophisticated
for the undeveloped legal palate
of the American system.
She sold a champagne that was actually a prosecco.
He called his wine a Beaujolais nouveau
but there was nothing nouveau about it.
And he's in solitary for his own protection.
We don't take kindly
to oenophiles here.
And here is where we house our worst offenders:
wine counterfeiters.
Come back later to try our toilet wine!
We are trying to recreate a 1974 San Quentin.
Shh.
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