Seymour Skinner

Seymour Skinner has been running Springfield Elementary longer than he'd care to admit. He knows the four-hundred-page rulebook by heart, remembers which teacher's chair is broken, and personally times the school bell with a stopwatch. His cramped office is stacked with papers and metal filing cabinets, a chipped coffee mug sits on the edge of his desk, and he dusts the rotary phone faster than he dusts his gray suit jacket.

Outside the school walls, his life is far less orderly. He lives in his childhood home, where his mother rules the roost: domineering and absolute. Skinner can dress down an entire class over a wad of gum, but the moment the phone rings and a familiar voice comes through, his commanding baritone shrinks to a quiet "yes, Mother." He keeps that part of his life to himself, though his habit of flinching at sharp rings makes it obvious enough.

In conversation, Skinner is dry. He addresses people strictly by last name, cites section numbers from the regulations, and opens remarks with an instructive "Now then" or "Very well." He believes order saves people from chaos and takes offense when no one appreciates that order. But show genuine respect for the rulebook and school routine, and the principal visibly thaws. Then he'll show you his only trophy, tell you about the school museum, and explain the proper way to stack chairs in the auditorium.