The Simpsons s22e03 Episode Script

Money Bart

(squawks) (shrieks) (school bell ringing) (Barney belches) (whistle blows) (yells) (tires screeching) D'oh! (tires screeching) (grunts) (dreamlike music plays) (somber music plays) Who's that lady? Who's that lady? Beautiful lady Who's that lady? Lovely lady Who's that lady? (kids murmuring) Real fine Wow! She's everything I want to be! Calling out to you 'cause it's all that I can do Your eyes tell me to pursue But you say, "Look, yeah, but don't touch, baby" No, no, no, don't touch What's a babe like her doing with a brown banana like Skinner? Maybe she's one of those sexy school supply company reps.
If that's true, where's her suitcase with wheels, Bart? Where's her suitcase with wheels? (grunting) CHALMERS: Ah, if it isn't Eavesdrop Ernie and the Listen-In Bunch.
I'd like you boys to meet Dahlia Brinkley.
She's the only Springfield Elementary alum ever to advance to the Ivy League! There's a car in the parking lot with a Yale sticker on it.
(gasps) It's gotta be you! I just graduated from Yale, and thought I'd pay a visit, from Yale, to the little school where it all began.
(laughs) I plan to attend an Ivy League school myself.
I do he a 0 GPA.
She can do the kind of math that has letters.
What's X, Lisa? Well, that depends.
She did it yesterday.
I believe you.
What else have you got? Um, I'm treasurer of the Jazz Club, and started the school's recycling society.
(sheepish giggling) Nice.
And? Uh, that's it.
Two clubs? Well, that's a bridge bid, not an Ivy League application.
But I'm only in second grade.
By your age, I'd been the dominant force in dozens of extracurricular activities.
Quite so.
Just take a look at her yearbook.
The boys next door, the mums and dads New weds and nearly deads Have you ever been had in Clubland? Wonderful year.
Same year we got new playground sand.
Yes, it was.
(Lisa grunting) Thrust! Parry! Dodge! Poke! Come on, Maggie.
I need to get good at fencing so I can put it on my resume and get into Yale.
Don't be scared.
I won't hurt my widdle sister.
Ooh! (gasps) (grunts) Oh! Sweetie, you can still go to McGill-- the Harvard of Canada.
Anything that's the something of the something isn't really the anything of anything.
(doorbell rings) Hello, Flanders.
Don't you have a neighbor on the other side? Indeedily-doodily I do, and I love him just as much as you.
It's a Flanders sandwich with great neighbor bread! (groans) Bart, call me Walter Matthau, 'cause I'm a bad-news bearer.
I'm resigning as manager of your Little League team.
What?! Why?! In the last game, our shortstop hit a long foul ball, but the umpire called it a homerun, and I let it go without saying a word.
I just don't like the monster I've become.
(sighs) Oh.
But without a coach, we can't play! Homie, maybe you could do it.
Sorry, Marge.
Last time I stepped on a baseball field, I got tased.
You know, someday these kids will be out of the house, and you'll regret not spending more time with them.
That's a problem for future Homer.
Man, I don't envy that guy.
(thud, gasping) Can't play baseball.
What am I gonna do? Son, how would you like to spend the summer building wooden boats by hand with master craftsmen? How'd you like to kiss my ass? NELSON: Look at me, I'm Whitey Ford! (kids chattering) Huh? What's going on? We got a new coach! Awesome! Who is it? It's me.
Lisa?! What, you can't stand the idea of a girl coaching a boys' baseball team? No, we can't stand the idea of someone who knows nothing about baseball coaching a baseball team.
Hey, there have been plenty of female managers in baseball.
Connie Mack, Sandy Alomar, Terry Francona, Pinky Higgins.
Those are dudes! Really? They sound like I mean Well, the thing Ooh no.
Okay, bottom line-- I need an extra-curricular activity, and no one else will coach you loveable losers.
We're not losers.
Last year, we finished six and five.
And we're not loveable.
We had a tall, freckled-faced kid on the team that we picked on till he quit.
Hey, Splatter-face! How's the weather up there? It's too bad, 'cause he's a great hitter, but it's worth it.
Look, if you want to play liability-insured baseball, I'm your only shot.
(muttering) Fine, you can be our coach.
You can be the free safety.
Wrong sport.
I mean the point guard.
Also wrong.
I'm gonna do a little research.
A little's not gonna be enough, honepie.
Don't call me honey pie.
You got it, tootsie pop.
(grunts) Get a room, you two.
We're brother and sister.
So are my parents, I think.
(cheering) Hey, Dad? Hey, pal, how you doing? Fine.
I was hoping you and your friends could tell me something about baseball strategy.
The only thing I know about strategy is that whatever the manager does, it's wrong, unless it works, in which case he's a button-pusher.
I hate guys that just push buttons all day.
You just push buttons all day.
You know, ever since Obama came in, you've got all the answers, don't you? Ugh! Does anyone here actually know anything about baseball? Uh, the guys in that booth down there.
(typing) (overlapping voices) As a pitcher, Cliff Lee is clearly superior to Zack Greinke.
Uh, yes, I completely agree, with the following colossal exception.
Before the fourth inning after a road loss in a domed stadium.
Th it's good to be Greinke.
Uh, unless he's got a bunion, in which case he is notably ineffective.
(chuckles) Wow.
I'm surprised you guys know so much about a sport.
Oh, Lisa, baseball is a game played by the dexterous, but only understood by the Poin-dexterous.
(chuckling) If you understand what I've laid out there.
The key to understanding the game is sabermetrics.
Huh?! The field was developed by statistician Bill James.
I made baseball as much fun as doing your taxes! Using sabermetrics, even an eight-year-old girl can run a ball club with the sagacity of a Stengel, and the single-mindedness of a Steinbrenner.
I call it a Stein-stengel (mutters) (chuckles) Thanks, guys.
Hey, speaking of stats, I'm none too pleased about your ratio of seats occupied to beers ordered.
You mean our SOBO? Let's calculate it now! (muttering) What's the conversion factor for ginger beer? Refreshingness over effervescence.
Plus or minus tang.
Oh, why did I advertise my drink specials in Scientific American? I can think of three reasons.
First of all, you Shut up.
ANNOUNCER: So we're one-one in the third, and Isotots manager Lisa Simpson rearranges her defense one more time.
I haven't seen this many books in a dugout since Albert Einstein went canoeing.
Everyone shift towards right! ALL: Huh? (cheering) I caught a white apple! ("Take Me Out to the Ballgame" plays) (whimpers) Okay.
Everyone study two-out situations, count management, and I'll be back with some gluten-free crackers.
(gasps) Your spreadsheets! Oh, my stupid sister's taken the fun out of baseball.
What happened to stealing bases, the suicide squeeze, throwing a little chin music? We're no longer cellar dwellers.
Well, the team isn't.
This isn't the game I grew up with, the game played in the misty ballparks of Enron Field, or Pac Bell, then SBC, now AT & T Park.
And from now on, I'm gonna play my game.
ANNOUNCER: Bart Simpson on deck, his bat's just hungering for a homer, like Chronos for his children.
Speaking of Homer, Bart's father's name is, you guessed it, not on my fact sheet.
Bart, this guy's walked the last two batters, and if he walks you, we win the game.
Don't swing at anything! But I'm on a hot streak.
Hot streaks are a statistical illusion.
I wish you were a statistical illusion.
Well, there's a 97 % chance I'm not, so do what I say.
(grumbling) Ball one! Ball two! Don't swing.
I've ruined your favorite thing! Oh (grunts) (crowd cheering) TEAM: Bart! Bart! Bart! You disobeyed your manager! So what? We won.
TEAM: Bart! Bart! Bart! Here's what: you're off the team! Get him out of here, boys.
TEAM: Conflicted, conflicted, conflicted.
(Agnes mutters) Come on, guys.
I had to get rid of Bart.
But he socked a walk-off dinger.
That dinger was a fluke.
Not that I have to defend myself to you.
Managers manage, and players play.
Do alligators alligate? I don't know yes! I'm scared.
Here's my uniform, (grunts) since I won't be needing it anymore.
Whoo-hoo! Underpants dinner! (grunts) No, it's not.
You know, Lis, I'm glad I'm not playing baseball anymore.
I think I'm more interested in soccer.
(thudding loudly) Ow! (loud thudding, grunting) Hey.
Cut it out! You're upsetting the gravy boat.
I'll put a stop to this nonsense.
Lisa, can't you let your brother back on the team? Fly balls and fungoes come and go, but family is forever.
Sorry Marge, I got to call bullcrap on that.
The '69 Mets will live on forever, but do you think anyone cares about Ron Swoboda's wife and kids? Not me, and, I assume, not Ron Swoboda! What about Bart's feelings? Boys don't have feelings.
They have muscles.
Why do you say such ridiculous things? They sound good in my brain, then my tongue makes not the words sound very good, formally.
(grunting) (snoring) (grunting) "Mama Bear said, 'I'm sure Sister Bear will come to her senses.
'" "Then Pete Rose plowed into his friend Ray Fosse" (Marge continues) "dislocating Fosse's shoulder in a meaningless game.
" (shouting): "He had earned the nickname 'Charlie Hustle'" (Homer shouting) "Mama Bear said, 'Families should stick together because'" "personal feelings get between him and home plate!" "'anything else is unbearable!'" FLANDERS: Excuse me? With all this racket, my boys can't get their 16 hours sleep.
(both muttering) (organ playing "Charge") So, because of your on-base percentage, Nelson, you're the new leadoff hitter.
Questions? When's Bart coming back? He's not.
He thought he was better than the laws of probability.
Anyone else think he's better than the laws of probability? Well, you're not! With me here in the booth is brand-new color commentator and former Isotots great, Bart Simpson.
Bart, do you miss the game? No, no, no, no.
I got a lot goin' on.
I'm sure you do.
Milhouse hits a frozen rope just past the diving shortstop.
There's a play at the plate! He's safe.
And that's all she wrote.
It's a triumph of number-crunching over the human spirit.
And it's about time.
(cheering) (Lisa squeals) Look, Dad.
"Players and Coaches Entrance.
" Hey, let's hold hands and skip inside.
(both laughing) Well, let's go to the bleachers.
I brought an air horn and a megaphone.
Testing (horn blows) Actually, I'm taking you on a "special little guy super happy fun" day.
Are you taking me to the dentist? You're not going to the dentist.
(Marge mutters) You know, Mom, after only seven hours in this amusement park, I'm finally enjoying myself.
I'm actually starting to forget about (cell phone rings) Lisa? She wants to talk to you.
Hey Lis.
Bart, I need you.
Ralph can't play, 'cause he's too juiced.
I didn't know what I was putting into my body.
Sorry, sis.
I've moved on.
And my days of listening to my manager are over.
Son, you should always listen to your manager.
(gasps) Mike Scioscia! Didn't you get radiation poisoning working at the Springfield Nuclear Plant? I sure did, and it gave me super-managing powers! I also demagnetize credit cards.
(shudders) Bart, I have two pieces of advice.
First, keep your arms in the damn car.
Whoa! Secondly, I don't care if your manager is your sister, Dick Drago's mustache, or Oscar Gamble's afro.
A player should always listen to his skipper.
That's how I got these three World Series rings.
(gasping and shuddering) Never mind that.
I'll win more.
But you owe it to your sister, and the great game of baseball-- wacky face for the camera-- to go back and help your team.
Now, who wants funnel cake? You got some great raw ingredients, kid.
Open up your stance a little.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
That's okay.
You just didn't have it today.
Not everything's baseball.
Yes, it is.
(typing) Oh! What am I gonna do? I need a pinch-runner with speed! How about a benchwarmer who's afraid of puppets? (groans) Did someone order a happy ending? Bart! Oh! Now get out there and kick a field goal! (chuckles) Kidding.
ANNOUNCER: And that's why anyone who invested with Lenny Dykstra really should call that number.
Lawyers are standing by.
Simpson on first, taking a big lead.
Oh, looks like he's gonna swipe the bag.
No, no.
Don't steal.
(crowd cheering) ANNOUNCER: And there he goes! He's stealing third.
Okay, okay, he's stolen third.
But surely, that's the limit of his cockiness.
I'm stealing home! No! The computer says it's statistically impossible! Bah.
They'll never replace my Huffnagle autocollator! Crank it, Smithers.
Crank it! It's, uh, seizing up, sir.
Yes, well apply more goose grease.
(cheering) Stealing home.
It's so impossible.
It's against every sensible instinct.
It's, it's (crowd cheering) (autocollator shattering) It's the most exciting play in baseball.
Go, Bart! If he makes it, that's my son! You're out! (crowd gasping) The Isotots lose.
Now to begin my off-season job: follow-home robberies.
I'll see you in the parking lot, but you won't see me until it's too late.
HOMER: You stink! (grunts) Did I make it? No.
But you did do something.
You made me love baseball.
Not as a collection of numbers, but as an unpredictable, passionate game beaten in excitement only by every other sport.
I guess your computer was right.
Maybe it was, but according to my calculations, you're a great brother And according to my gut, you're okay, too.
Can you put a number on it? Aww TEAM: Conflict resolved.
Conflict resolved.
Conflict resolved.

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