Lisa Simpson and Mr. Burns Warhammer Funny Meme
The Daily Struggles of an Imperial Citizen: A Warhammer 40K Simpsons Tale
It is so true, though! T’au cares more about their followers. LOL!
The Daily Struggles of an Imperial Citizen
In this glorious adaptation of The Simpsons into Warhammer 40K absurdity, Lisa has been given the finest diet of corpse-starch rations, a staple of the Imperium of Man’s culinary excellence. However, much like any rational human being who has eaten the same ration block for their entire life, she is absolutely done with it. Dressed in a cadet’s uniform with a skull-adorned cap, she rages against the grim reality of the Imperium’s food supply, a diet that consists primarily of reprocessed remains of the unfortunate. Her cries of dissatisfaction fall upon the deaf ears of a strict and overworked Commissar, who, like any loyal Imperial officer, sees absolutely nothing wrong with eating the same corpse-derived nutrients day in and day out. His solution? A sarcastic gesture, handing her a phone and telling her to call someone who cares.
A Heretical Customer Service Request
Faced with the obvious apathy of her Imperial overlord, Lisa does what any desperate and mildly treasonous citizen would do—she dials the Tau Empire. The close-up of the keypad showing “TAU EMPIRE” appearing on the screen is absolute comedic gold. This is the equivalent of calling the local vegan restaurant after getting sick of canned meat, except in this case, it’s turning to the Greater Good instead of dying in miserable servitude to a corpse-god. The Tau, after all, have actual food, and possibly even fresh fruit, something unheard of in the Imperium outside of the highest echelons of nobility. But just as she’s about to make the most forbidden DoorDash order in Imperial history, disaster strikes.
The Commissar’s Perfectly Timed Intervention
The moment that treacherous call is about to connect, Commissar Burns goes full Schola-mode, lunging for the heretical device with all the fury of an Ecclesiarchy preacher spotting an unburned witch. His sunglasses barely conceal the sheer horror of a loyal citizen even thinking about contacting the xenos. The sheer panic in his body language screams, by the Emperor, not on my watch, as if the Inquisition itself would materialize at any second to purge them both for heresy. His GIMME THAT is the sound of a man about to send someone on a one-way trip to the firing squad, all because she wanted a single non-humanitarian-aid-flavored meal. And so, Lisa’s fleeting hope for a better future is crushed under the unbreakable boot of Imperial bureaucracy, leaving her to choke down another fine helping of corpse-starch paste for the rest of her miserable existence.