I have been, at times in my life, genuinely obsessed with The Simpsons. There is a significant portion of my memory devoted - at this point not even intentionally - to even the most niche reference point from the first circa 12 seasons of the show at immediate recall and the following 8 at a slightly lower rate. Even I drifted away from it around season 22 or so, but in lockdown 3, when faced with the inevitable for the third time, I signed up for Disney+ and binged through about 13 seasons’ worth of episodes. The conclusion? We’ve reached a steady plateau. It is on some level a Krusty brand imitation gruel-thin shadow of its former self, but it produces three or so genuinely good episodes a season, three or so genuinely bad episodes a season, and the rest, meh. Season 33 is no different, for better or worse. It saddens me to hear Julie Kavner age so noticeably, as it reminds me I am no longer a child. I am in equal parts baffled but supportive of the final episode of the season turning into a musical number about generational wealth inequality. There is light somewhere behind its eyes. Accept that it will never be full-beam again, and embrace the warm fuzz.