The Simpsons s34e17 Episode Script

Pin Gal

Uh-oh. Aah!
So eggs, which were bad, then good,
then bad again, are now good again.
And Wait a minute.
Now they're bad again.
I can't believe you still
watch the local news, Dad.
Local news is great, sweetie.
It's just like your precious Internet,
except you don't post angry comments,
you yell them at the screen.
You call those lottery numbers?!
You call that a weather report?
In other news
You call that a segue?
A heartbreaking story today
at one of Springfield's
oldest establishments.
Stupid local news.
Always making everything sound
like the end of the world.
Springfield's Bowl-A-Rama
is closing forever.
Why does every place
nobody goes to anymore close?
Farewell, workout of the working man.
The thunder of the pins,
the sweet smell of shoe disinfectant,
the beauty of a perfectly-dragged toe.
That alley was magical.
It's where I was initiated
into one of the greatest
wonders of my life.
- Hey, little squirt.
You want to try these
new things called nachos?
Oh, big deal.
It's just a stack of tortilla chips.
Is it?
I've licked the face of God.
Wait, wait, wait. Was that your daydream
- or little Homer's?
- It doesn't matter.
We can't let that alley
go out of business.
We'll go there,
park our butts on the manager's face,
and never, ever leave.
- Yeah!
- Yeah!
Their beer is the best.
Wait, wait, wait, wait. If you do that,
then I'll go out of business.
- Eh.
- Yeah. -Mm.
This place is depressing.
Eh, what the hell.
- Wait for me!
Hey, look, don't blame me.
The lanes are so warped,
people just don't want to bowl anymore.
- So, I'm selling out.
- Relax, people.
I bought the alley because
I love the retro vibe.
Did you know John Waters
wears bowling shirts?
I'm gonna turn this amazing space
into The Bowl-A-Rama
at Springfield Yards.
You'll be able to live, work,
doom-scroll, cat-cafe
- And bowl?
- No. No bowling. Ugh.
Hey, pal, if you don't like bowling,
you don't like me.
- I don't like you.
- Mm. Fair enough.
Terrence, give us one week
to make this alley a going concern.
You'll have more
bowlers than a hat shop.
We'll prove you wrong.
Ugh. Can't you just prove me wrong now?
I hate waiting for anything.
One week.
Well, I hate waiting,
but I love being proved wrong.
You're on.
We're here for the, uh
"Night of Everlasting Bowl-mates?"
Uh, maybe we'll just skip the bowling.
Like hell you will.
I'm here for my birthday party,
which you said would be at the
Laser Tag and Crocodile Ranch.
How old is this place?
The soda machine doesn't
even take phones.
I'll have you know this
place is endorsed by a group
that's popular with today's kids:
ZZ Top.
How many of these lame-o
beard-os are still alive?
All of them. I think.
Oh, boy.
Oh, attendance is barely up.
And the fire department
won't even let me
lock people in.
- Let us out, please.
- Never!
Oh. Right.
Come on, Marge, help me out.
Let's bowl the night away.
I don't bowl, Homer. It's your thing.
Please, I just want
one thing in this world
to be like it was.
When I drive down Boulevard,
I can barely remember
which cannabis dispensaries
used to be Internet cafes.
I don't want to bowl!
Marge, are you concealing
a secret about bowling?
Bowling and life
begin in the hips.
D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
Um, there's something I
never told you about my past.
The past.
The past is past.
Do you want to know every
little mistake I've made?
- Sort of.
- Aah! Let's go bowling.
Now, the ball
might seem a little greasy.
Make sure you don't
drop it on your foot.
To put it in your language,
it's like rolling a Maggie.
Strike! You got a strike.
Pretend you're hurling a roast
into an oven 60 feet away.
Are you gonna listen to
me or are you gonna bowl?
Watch out, pins. Here comes Mama.
A baby split with company.
I got this.
Wow, Homer. Your wife bowls
like a 60-year-old teamster.
Thank you.
Ooh. I really need to get back in water.
Marge, can we have
bronto burgers tonight?
Homer, you're not Fred Flintstone.
Yabba dabba d'oh!
Somebody get Mama a beer.
He's in that world more
than he is with us.
Homie, are you upset that
I'm good at your thing?
No, Marge. I am in awe.
You have a gift.
I could no more be mad at you
than at an angel playing horseshoes.
You're a butterfly that
can kick field goals.
How in God's name did
you get so perfect?
- Aah!
- Attention.
I have an offer to make,
and like everything hipsters do,
it requires everyone's attention.
- Hey, you. You're not looking at me.
- Sorry.
Those pearls. That hair.
The game of the '30s
played by a dame from the '50s?
It's retro on kitsch to
the power of vintage.
- Oh.
- Here's the pitch, Marge.
You bowl one game against
the challenger of my choice.
Win, and the alley stays open.
Lose, and I turn it into
a coffee shop so expensive
your eyes will bleed. Deal?
Deal. You're going down, Terrence.
In your face.
Sorry. I sh-I shouldn't have done that.
If there's any damage,
here's a Best Buy gift card.
Ah, Springfield's greatest bowling mama.
Beppo, Guiseppe, bring-a the meatball.
Hey, a picture for Luigi's Wall of Fame.
Now chop it up. It's today's special.
Tomorrow, into the soup.
Then it goes to the dogs.
Then, back into the soup.
What you doing, angel?
Planning for the match.
I can't believe you've
never taken a single lesson.
Oh, this is so great.
You're saving the town.
I'm sleeping with the woman
who's saving the town.
Oh, okay, okay, fine.
I'll bowl the match,
no matter what the danger
is to our marriage.
That's my girl.
Sleep well, lady of the lane.
Now I have some mental
work to do of my own.
Mmm. Pizza.
Tastes as good off the ceiling
as it does off the floor.
We did to that ball what
we did to Hitler's bombs
got out of the way.
- What's going on? Mom's got the yips.
- How do you know?
There's something in me that
senses when trouble is brewing.
It's a sign of early neurosis,
but it's irrelevant that my
feelings are always accurate,
and I've got to remember that.
Marge, you need confidence.
This calls for the most exclusive level
of therapist there is:
a professional bowling instructor.
Hello, Marge.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
Please be another fantasy.
Shoo! Shoo, shoo. Shoo!
Stop with the "shoo."
It is I, in the flesh.
You like the way I just said
that word, "flesh"?
I can make anything sound erotic.
Garbage disposal.
Toilet plunger.
Enough with the words.
What are you doing here?
I brought him.
Homer, do you know who he is?
I sure do.
He's the best darn bowling
instructor in the city.
I'm not sure I'm comfortable with a
French bowling instructor.
"Homair," may I speak to your wife,
please? Alone?
Hey, I don't need to know
how the sausage is made.
Just start grinding.
Going to Moe's.
Don't worry, Marge.
My interest in you is
purely professional.
Why are you in my ear?
Oh, would you rather I be in your nose?
I don't think so.
Quite frankly, Marge,
I'm hard of speaking.
How can I believe your interest in me
is just professional?
If I am lying, may I
never taste cheese again.
Wow. Wow.
See you tomorrow at 10:00.
And what if you show up
and I'm not there?
Then a good and decent man who loves you
will suffer horribly.
I mean, of course, "Homair."
You mean Homer?
That's what I said "Homair."
He needs you to win now,
more than "evair."
And don't worry.
We will not have an affair.
Because fair is fair.
And I love your hair.
And now I'm off in my Corvair.
Oh, I don't have a Corvair.
Horrible car.
It was the only one I could
think of to rhyme. Stupid.
Oh, you're still here.
Great teacher. Don't wait up.
Imagine you are waltzing with the ball.
Un, deux, trois. Un, deux, trois.
What kind of bowling
instructor wears a turtleneck?
I don't say "mark my words" often,
but mark my words.
He's up to no good.
Mark my words.
What? You're crazy.
I'm getting six beers.
So, should I start my slide earlier?
A better question is what
are you still doing with him?
Clearly, he must have
changed his ways, huh?
Improved? Lost a pound or 20?
Yes, he has, in too many
ways to mention, so I won't.
So, then he's not still
buying you bowling balls
for presents, is he?
He apologized for that.
Do you ever think of the
night you almost came to me?
I had showered four times,
I shaved my face twice,
I shaved my back once.
I was ready for you, Marge.
Later on in the evening
when the doorbell rang,
I closed my eyes,
I opened the door, and I kissed.
I forgot I had ordered DoorDash.
It was some 20-year-old kid
holding a roast beef sandwich.
Apparently, he came out the next day.
You said just bowling.
I am the only one who can
help you with this match.
And if there's anything
a Frenchman wants
more than a beautiful woman,
it is to beat Americans
at the game they love.
And then, of course,
a 12-course meal, with a fine wine
and maybe a snail,
and somebody else at the
table to pick up the check.
- Are we gonna talk or are we gonna bowl?
- Fine.
Come bowl with me,
let's bowl the night away ♪
And if you like,
we'll make a strike ♪
In a platonic way. ♪
Are you worried yet?
Oh, I'd be worried if I
didn't know for a fact
that no man has ever lost a
woman to a professional bowler.
Now, your power comes
from your shoulders,
which I notice, in your case,
are always bare.
Eh, let me massage them.
Don't worry. It's strictly professional.
There we go. Here we go.
- Mmm.
- Let me just
- Aw.
- Yes. Ow. Okay.
- Cut it out!
- Stop it now?
No more? Okay.
Son, how do I put this?
I was right! I was right! I was right!
Now, son, if I need
the 411 on someone one-one,
I consult my network:
old people with nothing better to do.
You can learn anything you want
from discarded human beings.
Jasper, it's Abe.
I need any information you got
on a slick-shoed Casanova.
First name, Jacques.
On it.
We need the rundown on
this Marquis de Spare.
We'll lay him lower than my earlobes.
Hang him as high as my pants.
There will never be
another Tony Orlando.
Take a gander at his Facebook page.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God! What the
I don't know what shocks me more
these photos
or that you know how to use Facebook.
Let me in. Let me in!
No. I'm naked, and if you see me,
you will feel inferior forever.
Americans don't know how to feel
inferior, even if we should.
I've been such a fool.
I was so worried about the bowling alley
I lost sight of what will always be
the most important thing in my life:
my Marge.
I'll never take her for granted again.
That is correct.
Because you have already lost her.
Oh, yeah? As we say in my country,
en garde!
- Just let me
- That was autographed.
smash your head.
I will bowl you to death!
Now tell me the one
thing I have to know.
How far did you get with Marge?
We had brunch, no hot food.
Brunch? That's breakfast
getting it on with lunch.
Homer, wait!
Nothing happened with him.
You probably don't even remember.
You had disappointed me and I was upset.
Oh. Right.
I remember that exactly.
Geez, Marge,
if you're still here after all that,
plus some stuff you don't know about,
you must really love me.
I do. With all my heart. Mm.
Nothing worse than a
committed relationship.
I'm going to vomit.
You said it was strictly bowling.
You swore on cheese.
I never cared for cheese.
What is it, even?
Is it an appetizer or dessert?
Nobody knows.
Some come, they look okay.
Other come, they got holes in it.
Those are the more expensive ones.
Why would you pay more money for holes?
We're leaving.
Go ahead. Enjoy
your endless bourgeois celebrations
and your birthdays
and your anniversaries
until you crumble into enviable bliss.
We will.
Help me clean up.
Oh, so, Marge, word is your coach quit
and you can't get that bowling
arm out of its own head.
Poor Marge. Aw.
My thoughts about
bowling were conflicting
with something personal,
but not anymore.
Huh. Nice practice strike.
Now let me introduce you to
the bowler you'll be facing.
I was the master and you the pupil.
Now, I'm still very good.
You are also good, but inconsistent.
Like French tennis players
great on clay, shambles on grass.
Hard court, an embarrassment.
Always hurting themselves.
"Oh, my knee, my ankle,
I've got to forfeit."
Now let us bowl.
- Cutman.
- Are ya sure, Ma?
- Are ya sure?
- Do it.
I've seen a lot of
bowlers in my eight years,
but no one's got bigger pearls than you.
That's it, Marge
le moment de vérité.
And if that weren't enough, I am dying.
- Oh!
- No!
Ah, as we all are.
In the existential sense. Not now.
Just roll.
My God.
She's left herself a Greek Church split.
Which, though little known,
is actually the hardest
spare to pick up.
Oh, my God.
I can read what's behind those pins.
She still has feelings for him.
Ooh, she's been staring
at that ceiling for 40 minutes.
Eh. Still the most exciting
bowling match I've ever seen.
I have lost everything.
And we just found out you're here
on an expired bowling visa.
You're going back
where you came from: Paris.
No, no, no. Paris? There's nothing there
but sex and food and all of August off.
No, no, no.
Ah, that's enough dirty talk
out of you, pal.
Well, looks like you're gonna have
to keep this a bowling alley.
A very popular alley, which I now own.
I'm gonna make it one lane only
with a three-month waiting list.
Hipsters rule.
Oh, Marge, you saved my alley,
you saved my ego.
You do love me after all.
Was there ever any doubt?
- Mm.
- Mm.
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