♪ The Simpsons ♪
-(chalk screeches)
-(bell rings)
(work whistle blows)
-(register beeping)
(jazzy solo)
(tires screech)
-(tires screech)
-(horn honking)
(tires screech)
-(tires screech)
♪♪ (Marge humming)
♪♪ (continues humming)
So, how was the office
birthday party?
-Oh, it was delightful.
The frosting on the cake
was this thick.
And Eugene Fisk– my poor sucker
of an assistant–
didn’t know the fruit punch
was spiked
and he really made
an ass of himself
putting the moves on the new girl
in Valve Maintenance.
-Does this girl like him?
I have to warn you, Marge,
I think the poor young thing
has the hots for yours truly.
Just keeping you on your
toes, babe.
Two hundred and thirty nine pounds!
Oh, I’m a blimp.
Why are all the good things
so tasty?
From now on,
exercise every morning.
You’re not a blimp, Homer.
You’re my big cuddly teddy bear.
Nah, baloney. Yeah, right.
Oh, give me a break.
Wow, cool, man!
Oh, no!
Two hundred
and thirty nine pounds?
I’m a whale.
Why was I cursed with this
weakness for snack treats?
Well, from now on, exercise every morning,
Oh. Hmm.
Don’t strain
yourself, dear.
Good idea, Marge.
By the way,
this Friday night
I’m gonna be attending a little
get together with the boys at work.
Eugene Fisk is marrying
some girl in Valve Maintenance.
Homer, is this
some kind of stag party?
No, no, Marge.
It’s gonna be very classy.
A tea-and-crumpet
kind of thing.
Eugene Fisk.
Isn’t he your assistant?
No! My supervisor.
Didn’t he used to be
your assistant?
Hey, what is this,
the Spanish exposition?
Sorry, Homer.
(doorbell rings)
Uh-oh, it’s the “fe-mailman.”
Female carrier,
Lady, where’s my spy camera?
-“Where’s my spy camera?”
-Where’s my spy camera?
-…every day for the last six months.
-Where’s my spy camera lady?
-Where’s my spy camera?
-Where’s my spy camera?
-Where’s my spy camera?
-Where’s my spy camera?
Here’s your stupid spy camera!
Oh. Thanks, ma’am.
Whoa, man.
Look at the size
of this thing.
I wonder
if it really works.
‘Cause I got
a lot of spying to do.
(grunting, groaning)
What are you doing?
Sorry, Dad. The answer
to that is top secret.
(Homer growls)
-(Marge humming)
-(electric razor buzzing)
-Oh, Bart.
Go take some wildlife pictures
or something.
(Bart humming)
Ew, gross.
Mom, Bart was taking
a picture of his butt.
Oh, sure. Like I’m really gonna
take a picture of my butt.
Stop it, you two.
And put on some nice clothes.
Since it’s just
the four of us tonight,
we’re having dinner
at The Rusty Barnacle.
Yay, fried shrimp!
Aw, Mom. Can’t we just
grab a burger at–
Only four of us?
Who escaped?
Your father.
He’s having a boys’ night out.
Just as I was asking myself,
“Where did my seven-year-old
boy get the money…
for a Father’s Day present?”
I opened the box.
And inside was little
Eugene’s baseball glove.
He had given me
the one thing
that mattered most to him
in the whole world.
Eugene, when I see you–
the one thing that matters
most to me in the whole world–
married tomorrow,
I’m going to know
just how you felt that day.
-I love you, Dad.
-I love you, son.
Where am I,
the planet Cornball?
Hey, don’t worry.
Things are gonna pick up
once the entertainment
gets here.
-Ooh, entertainment.
-Yes, sir.
Ahoy! I spy
the children’s menu.
-Ahoy, this place bites.
So, what’s it gonna be,
me little bucko?
Hm, let’s see.
This evening
I shall go for the…
-squid platter,
-with extra tentacles, please.
-(people laughing, singing)
-Oh, Bart. Excuse me, sir.
-(banging, talking)
The party next door seems
to be a little raucous.
Could you please ask them
to quiet down a little bit, please?
Aye, aye.
Eh, eh, eh, eh.
(banging, singing)
Hey, try to keep
it down, guys.
-Hey, shut up.
♪ Open the door and lie on the floor
said Barnacle Bill the sailor ♪
Here you go.
There you are.
For the baby.
And one squid platter,
extra tentacles.
Bart, quit fooling around
and eat your dinner.
Yeah, eat it, Bart.
Ugh. May I please
be excused for a minute?
but don’t dawdle.
-Your food will get cold.
Okay, Eugene.
One last taste
of bachelor freedom.
(Middle-Eastern music)
Princess Kashmir,
queen of the mysterious East.
(cheering, catcalls)
Now this is
what I call a party.
How do I tell you this, my boy?
We’re in hell.
Look at him squirm.
-You care to dance?
-She wants you, Homer.
-Go for it, Homer!
Shake his buns.
(Homer laughing)
HOMER: I’m sorry.
I don’t usually laugh like this.
Ai, caramba.
Wow, man.
HOMER: Oh, this is the most
fun I’ve ever had in my life.
The meeting of The Future Photographers
of America is now in session.
We would like to welcome
our new member, Bart Simpson.
Whoa. People, people.
Don’t applaud.
Let’s get to work.
My goodness.
Quite exciting.
Extremely sensual.
The subtle gray tones recall
the work of Helmut Newton.
Who’s the sexy lady, Bart?
Beats me. But the guy
dancing with her is my pop.
-He brings to mind
the later work of Diane Arbus.
Bart, I’d really appreciate
a print of your masterwork.
-Me too.
-Yeah, come on.
Sorry, guys.
No can do.
ALL: Aw. Oh.
Come on, Bart. You’re gonna
make me a print, aren’t you?
Will you swear not to
let another living soul
get a copy of this photo?
-Cross your heart and hope to die?
-Stick a needle in your eye?
-Jam a dagger in your thigh?
-Eat a horse manure pie?
-Well, okay.
Pst. Look what I got.
Whoa. I gotta
have a copy of that.
-Aw, come on.
Well, okay.
Hey, Bart. How come
Milhouse gets a copy
of your girlie picture
and I don’t?
I thought
I was your friend too.
Well, okay.
Son, why are you wasting your time
with this sleazy trash?
Sorry, Dad.
(laughs) Wait till I show
the guys at work this little doozy.
Mike, this is Al.
Just wanted to thank you for the
“informative memo” you faxed me.
Whoops. Here comes the boss.
Gotta go.
Reverend Lovejoy,
your wife confiscated this
-from one of the boys in the choir.
Why this sheep has strayed
from my own flock. His name’s–
SMITHERS: Homer Simpson, sir,
a low-level employee…
-in sector 7-G.
-Simpson, huh?
-A family man?
-Wife and three kids, sir.
I’d like to see
our self-styled Valentino
tomorrow morning, Smithers.
(women laughing)
What are we laughing at?
One glazed and one Scratch-‘N-Win, please.
You look familiar, sir. Are you
on the television or something?
Sorry, buddy. You got me
confused with Fred Flintstone.
Oh. Liberty Bell.
Another Liberty Bell!
One more and I’m a millionaire.
Come on, Liberty Bell,
please, please, please.
That purple fruit thing.
Where were you yesterday?
Hey, hey.
Looking good.
-What do you want, pal?
-Hey mister.
(exotic theme)
♪ Do, do, do, do, do ♪
♪ Do dee do dee do ♪
Well a “do dee do dee do”
to you too, pint size.
Jeez, you get a lot
of nutcases in here.
Oh, sir, I’ve seen things
you can’t imagine.
-Hey, hey, hey.
-I hear you, buddy.
Whew. Full moon.
-(chuckles) Hmm. Still got it.
(whistling exotic theme)
-What is the meaning of this?
Meaningless, Marge.
Don’t even attempt
to find meaning in it.
There’s nothing between me
and Princess Kashmir.
-Princess who?
-Hey, my photo.
-BOTH: Your photo?
-Why you little–
-Why you big–
-Bart, go to your room.
-I’m out of here.
-Look, Marge, honey, baby, doll, I–
I don’t even want
to look at you right now.
-What are you saying, honey?
-But where will I sleep?
-My suggestion
is for you to sleep
in the filth you created.
Would a motel be okay?
Oh, I knew you’d
come to your–
Here. If you have
any soul left, you’ll need these.
I know I will.
What’s the matter, Homer?
Hottest ladies’ night
in months
and you’re not even
checking out the action.
Oh, Moe.
My wife gave me
the old heave ho because
of some lousy picture.
-What, this one?
So, uh, where are you
staying tonight, Homer?
Motel, I guess.
Oh, no.
No pal of mine
is gonna stay
in some dingy flophouse.
If you get hungry
in the middle of the night,
there’s an open beer
in the fridge.
Look, Barney. See the row
of tiny lights up there?
The middle one
is my house.
Someone must have left
the porch light on.
Hey that’s rough, pal.
(dialing telephone)
Hello, Marge.
-You left your damn porch light on.
Homer’s not
made of money, you know.
-Who is this?
-Don’t listen to him, Marge. He’s–
-Oh, it’s you. (dial tone)
Homer, you’re overwrought.
Why don’t you unwind a little bit?
Party down the hall.
You know, this apartment
complex caters
to upscale young singles like me.
No, Barn.
I just want to crawl into bed.
Suit yourself, Homer.
(music playing,
people laughing)
I wonder when
Dad’s coming home.
MAN (on P.A.):
Homer Simpson.
Homer Simpson. Report at once
to Mr. Burns’ office.
Oh, no.
What in blue blazes
do you think
you’re doing, Simpson?
-What do you mean, sir?
-I mean this.
-A plant employee carrying on
like an oversexed
orangutan in heat.
This is a family nuclear
power plant, Simpson.
Our research indicates
that over 50 percent of our power
is used by women.
I will not have you
offending my customers
with your bawdy shenanigans.
It won’t happen again, sir.
I promise.
May I get out
of your sight now?
Just a second, Simpson.
Smithers, would you leave
the room for a minute?
Yes, sir.
(door opens and closes)
Simpson, I am by most
measures a successful man.
I have wealth and power beyond the
dreams of you and your clock-punching ilk.
And yet, I’ve led a solitary life.
The fair sex remains a mystery to me.
You seem to have a way
with women, a certain–
how shall I put it–
animal magnetisme.
Help me, Simpson.
Tell me your secret.
Uh, Mr. Burns, in spite of
what everybody thinks,
I’m no lover boy.
I’m asking you nicely.
-I don’t really know, sir.
Well, I wine them,
dine them,
bring them flowers,
write them love poetry, sir.
Of course.
It’s simplicity itself.
I won’t forget this,
Now return to your work and tell
no one of what transpired here.
-Anybody home?
-Hi, Daddy.
Welcome back, Dad.
How’s your mom?
Still kind of ticked off.
good luck, man.
Oh, thanks boy.
Hello, Marge.
It’s me, Homer.
Are you still mad?
You are still mad.
Don’t need to say it.
I’m your loving husband.
I can read you like a book.
I’ll just have
some milk.
Look, I’m not drinking
out of the carton.
(whining) Come on, Marge!
Please forgive me.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
Homer, you don’t even know
why you’re apologizing.
Yes, I do.
Because I’m hungry,
my clothes are smelly,
and I’m tired.
I’ve been thinking, Homer,
and you know what bothers me
the most about this whole thing?
You taught Bart
a very bad lesson.
Your boy idolizes you.
-Oh, he does not.
-Yes, he does, Homer.
And when he sees you
treating women as objects,
he’s going to think
that it’s okay.
You owe your son
better than that, Homer.
So what should I do, Marge?
Well, I think you
should take Bart
to meet this exotic
I want him to see
that she’s a real human being
with real thoughts
and real feelings.
I want Bart to
see you apologize
for the way you treated her.
Okay. Your wish is
my command, my little–
Do it!
Princess Kashmir?
You must mean April Flower.
She’s working
over at the Girlesque.
See, I’m trying
to teach my son here
about treating women
as objects.
Oh, that’s a good idea.
Uh, but April’s over
at Foxy Boxing tonight.
Just let me say
that it is an honor
to have Springfield’s number-one
swinger here with us to–
Forget that.
I’m teaching my boy a lesson.
Is she here or not?
Uh, try Mud City.
-HOMER: Marge? Marge?
-(chattering, shouting)
We’re gonna try one more
place, the Sapphire Lounge.
Bart! I said look at
the floor.
There she is.
Hey, Princess!
It’s me, the guy
from the snapshot.
Oh. Oh, hi.
-MAN: Places, ladies, places.
Can I get just a little cooperation?
It’s show time.
Look. I’m here
because I want to apologize
for treating you
like an object.
-I also want my boy
to find out that you’re
more than just a belly.
I want him
to meet the woman behind
all the spangles
and glitter
and find out that she has
thoughts and feelings too.
Oh, well, okay.
But can we make it quick?
Nice to meet you, ma’am.
Could you tell him
a little about yourself?
-Well, uh, my real name is Shawna Tifton.
-My pet peeve is rude people.
-And my turn-ons include silk sheets
-and a warm fireplace.
-Thank you very much, ma’am.
We’ll be on our–
(lounge music plays)
♪ They can love
their wives ooh ♪
♪ But I think
that’s just foolish ♪
♪ Men must have hearts ♪
♪ Made of stone ♪
♪ Now my heart is made ♪
-Cool, man.
-♪ Of softer stuff ♪
Get out of my cage.
-My boss will freak out.
-Oh, no.
♪ A pretty girl can’t
look my way without– ♪
HOMER: Don’t. Don’t!
-Don’t. No.
-Get out. Get out of here.
-Get your hands off.
♪ A new romance ♪
♪ Oh I could love
a million girls ♪
-♪ And every girl a twin ♪
-(cheers, applause)
♪ I could love a Chinese girl
an Eskimo or– ♪
(screaming, grunting)
Get off of my stage,
fat boy.
Hey, it’s the guy
from the picture.
Homer Simpson!
Sorry, partner.
I didn’t recognize you
at first.
Ladies and gentlemen,
it’s an honor
to have a real swinging cat
with us tonight.
Homer Simpson,
party guy.
Mr. Maestro.
♪ Oh I could love
a million girls ♪
♪ And every girl a twin ♪
♪ Yeah I could love
a Chinese girl ♪
♪ An Eskimo or Finn ♪
♪ I could dig a Deutschland chick
a girl with golden curls ♪
♪ In fact I think
that we could love– ♪
♪ About a million girls ♪
Heh. Hey.
Ooh. Look out.
(Homer hums along)
How does he do it,
He’s a love machine, sir.
♪ Da, da, da ♪
Way to go, Dad.
Wait a minute.
Wait a minute.
Stop the music.
Quiet, please.
I have something to say.
You with the hair,
down in front.
Oh, no.
He’s sunk even lower.
I have something to say
to all the sons out there.
To all the boys,
to all the men, to all of us.
It’s about women,
and how they are not
mere objects
with curves that make us crazy.
No, they are our wives,
they are our daughters,
our sisters,
our grandmas, our aunts,
our nieces and nephews.
Well, not our nephews.
They are our mothers.
And you know
something, folks?
As ridiculous as this sounds,
I would rather feel the sweet breath
of my beautiful wife
on the back of my neck
as I sleep
than to stuff dollar bills
into some stranger’s G-string.
Am I wrong?
Or am I right?
My wife gets the cutest
little thing,
right here,
when she smiles.
-This is my Suzie.
-Oh, so cute.
Here’s mine.
You know, my mom
sounded a little down the other day.
I’d better give her a call.
All right, folks.
Show’s over.
No more to see, folks.
Come on.
Only sick people
want to see my folks kiss.
(mumbling) Shh!