The Simpsons - Season 1 E10.Homer's Night Out

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♪ 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!