Original subtitles

Yeesh. The Dollar Store has definitely seen better days.

This low-rent dump

looks like the set of a zombie movie.

Brands...

Brands!

No one ever heard of these brands.

Look, we spent a lot of money on food for tonight's party,

so I have to scrimp on the utensils,

paper plates, and toilet paper.

Mm.

Oh, great.

It's Helen Lovejoy.

- Quick, kids, paper towels. - Marge? Marge Simpson.

I assumed that was you coming out of the shame store,

so I rushed right over.

Hi, Helen.

Stocking up on potted meat and broken ramen packets?

You know, the church pantry is always open

to the under-fortunate.

I'm just getting some supplies

for my birthday party tonight.

Right. Your little backyard soiree.

For my birthday, Timothy took me

on the Josh Groban Canadian canal cruise.

But I'm sure your thing will be just as fun.

Oh, boy.

What's her deal?

She bumped into Helen Lovejoy at the shame store

and has been growling ever since.

Don't worry.

Whenever she comes home with a murderous rage

in her cute little eyes, she goes upstairs for a bit,

then when she comes down, she's cool as a mule in summer school.

I wonder what she does up there to de-stress herself so fully.

You've reached

your imagination limit for the month.

To keep imagining, please subscribe.

I can't imagine, but whatever she does, it works.

All right, my loveables.

Let's throw me the best birthday party ever.

Who wants crab puffs?

- Yeah. - Ah!

Marge, this party is a hit.

Even the Springfield celebs are here.

I know. Wolfcastle, Arnie Pye,

freaking Bumblebee Man is here.

And you know who's not here?

A bunch of snot-nosed children. Mwah.

Where'd you put them all?

I'm a pimple.

I never imagined that everyone in town

would show up for my birthday.

Of course we did, Marge. Springfield adores you.

You're a bake sale legend.

You always have spare underwear for my Milhouse's "uh-ohs."

Plus, you're always nice to everybody,

even the town jerks, like me and, uh, no offense, Homer.

Oh.

By the pinots ingested in me,

I hereby decree Marge Simpson the nicest lady in Springfield.

Last night was like something out of a dream.

Yeah. Can you believe I went to work naked

and my teeth all fell out?

Oh... I've enjoyed my share of balls before,

but I was never the belle of one.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any better,

now I get to clean again.

Old sneakers, coveralls,

industrial-grade kerchief...

It's gone. Where is it? Where is it?

- Where's what? - My box. My secret box.

- The sex box? - No. No, my box of letters.

What letters?

My secret box of hate letters.

But the sex box is okay?

Okay, here it goes.

When I was a teenager,

I would occasionally... and I'm not proud of this...

get mad.

Stupid Tim Meadows.

Why the hell would you leave SNL?

You're a linchpin.

Then one day, I came across this article

that would change my life forever.

It said, when someone makes you angry,

write them a fiery letter full of everything

you wish you could say to their face,

then never send it, and poof,

the bad feelings are gone forever.

From that day forward, I wrote hundreds of letters,

and you know what? It made me a much nicer person.

"Go jump in a wood chipper. Marge Simpson."

And every time I wrote one, I felt much better,

with all my bad feelings tucked away and, therefore, gone.

But those letters were just for me.

They weren't meant to be read by anyone, ever.

We have to find them.

Honey, relax. I'm sure they're around here somewhere.

Maybe the cleaning lady moved them.

I'm the cleaning lady.

Tell us where you moved them, or you're fired.

Uh, Mom, you got a new message from an unknown number.

Dear Marge, we have your letters.

If you want to see them again, pay us $5,000.

If not, we will show the world what a mean bitch

Marge Simpson really is.

Can we say that now?

We've got to find that letter thief.

Okay. We've got photos

of everyone who was at the party last night.

All our dearest friends and loved ones.

One of these scumbags is holding your mom's letters hostage.

But who?

My money's on Jasper.

He's ugly, and ugly people are prone to crime.

I've always hated ugly people, and now I know why.

Guys, last night, our friends and neighbors

came to show Mom how much they love her.

We can't just accuse people willy-nilly.

Willie!

Of course. He was the ugliest guy at the party by a mile.

Let's go burn down his shack.

It's not Willie! Willie can't read!

Oh, it's hopeless.

Everyone thinks I'm the sweetest lady in the world,

like Ellen when she started her talk show.

But if those letters get out, they'll all hate me.

Like Ellen when she ended her talk show.

Fear not, Marge. I know who can help us,

Springfield's finest.

Sorry, can't help you.

What? Can't you trace the call

or descramble the voice or something?

I wish, but the wusses down at the state house defunded us.

I'm sorry, Marge, but you're on your own.

Uh, we weren't defunded, Chief.

Our budget was increased by 33%.

Yeah, but it's a great excuse

for when you want to have a lazy Saturday.

Help. I woke up in the bathtub with no kidneys.

Defunded.

Oh... Those letters can't get out.

We're just gonna have to pay the ransom.

But it's $5,000.

Do you know how many kidneys you'd have to steal to get that?

I think I know where we can get the money,

but you're not gonna like it.

Oh, I know there's always strings attached

with you people, but there's no one else I can turn to.

Fat Tony...

is currently out of town, so I came to you.

So, can I borrow the money?

No dice. That's what you get for repressing your emotions.

You see, Marge,

a woman's feelings are a lot like her boobs.

Always locked away when they're in public,

but you got to flop 'em out once in a while,

or you'll go bananas.

Ah, at ease, men.

The deadline's almost up. I don't have the money.

What am I gonna do?

Honey, wait. I've seen every movie

about angry, middle-aged men

refusing to negotiate with kidnappers.

I know how to talk to these people.

Time's up, Marge.

This is Mr. Marge, dirt butt,

and you just signed your own death warrant

'cause I'm a retired CIA ninja who just un-retired

to chimp chomp your face.

Hey. You listen here...

No, YOU listen, butt dirt!

We want those letters on our doorstep

by noon hundred hours tomorrow,

or I'm gonna be on you like a Hawaiian shirt on a fat guy.

Aloha means "hello" and "you're dead."

Fixed it.

Oh...

We haven't heard from the letter-napper yet.

I put the fear of God in 'em, Marge.

Just like Father Snooze up there tries to do.

Maybe you did scare them straight,

and this whole thing is behind us.

Um, before today's service,

Mrs. Lovejoy would like to make a, um, statement,

uh, she could not be talked out of.

Unless cooler heads have prevailed?

Take it away, dear.

Last night, a vile, horrible letter was left at our doorstep

and tore my world asunder.

It reads, "'Dear'"... and dear is in quotes... "Helen.

"In case you haven't been made aware, you are a...

bitch!"

"You're a snobby little gossip

"who derives a vampiric pleasure

in the misfortune and minor foibles of others."

- Wow, you're a good writer, Mom. - Shh!

"Do me a favor and keep your surgically upturned nose

"out of my business. Josh Groban would hate your guts.

Go jump in a woodchipper."

And it's signed by...

Blank. The name was cut out.

But I know exactly who wrote this despicable letter.

Someone who's fooled this town for years

with her "sweet, gentle" nature.

Agnes Skinner.

I would never write such vile things.

I'd say 'em to your discount Botox face.

Are you gonna let her talk to me like that?

Defend my honor.

Get him, Seymour.

But-but-but he's a man of God.

Shouldn't I turn the other cheek?

Wuss fight!

Fight! Fight!

Fight!

Look at the mayhem

that just one of your letters can cause.

You have 60 minutes before I release them all

and turn your life into an abominable hellscape

of torment and woe.

Honey, you're missing the wuss fight. What's going on?

I know just who the kidnapper is.

_

More crab puffs coming right up.

Hey, Shauna. Thanks again for babysitting.

I'm sorry I forgot to mention it was 56 kids

instead of the usual three. How is it?

Ugh. It's an abominable hellscape of torment and woe.

Wha...?

Oh. I'm reading a goth romance novel

and some of the vocab is sticking.

- _ - Hmm.

- Ooh, crab puffs. - Up-bup-bup.

Why don't you eat the food I left in the kids area?

But Milhouse sucked all the pigs out of the blankets.

And Martin ate all the corn off the dogs.

Oh, I'm sure it's not that bad. Who wants crab puffs?

_

Ugh. Every time she hires me to babysit,

she treats me like I freakin' work for her.

She acts like all I do around here

is watch TV and try on her clothes.

Uh, that is what you do.

Yikes. How does she pull this off

without looking like a skank?

The pearls class the whole thing up.

Psh. Everyone thinks she's such a saint.

Meanwhile, she's starving the one babysitter

that's watching, like, every kid in town.

Where are those kids, anyway?

Up your butt. I don't know.

Holy crab.

Oh, man. This angry MILF hates everyone in town.

I thought this box was gonna be full of, like,

pot or grandma ashes,

but this is even better.

I bet Mrs. Bart's Mom would pay anything

to keep people from reading these letters.

Even $5,000.

With that kind of money, we could start over.

Live a whole new life.

♪ Birds of a feather ♪

♪ We should stick together ♪

♪ I know ♪

♪ I said I'd never ♪

♪ Think I wasn't better alone ♪

♪ Can't change the weather ♪

♪ Might not be forever ♪

♪ But if it's forever.

Hmm?

Marge Simpson's gonna rue the day

she ever messed with me.

Shauna Chalmers is gonna rue the day she ever messed with me.

...an abominable hellscape

of torment and woe!

Shauna said that exact same phrase the night of the party.

So, she and the raccoon are working together.

They probably stole our garbage, too. So what's the plan?

I know that, on Sundays, Shauna volunteers at the senior home

to steal their medications, so this is the perfect time

to break into her house and get those letters back.

You want to break into her house?

What would Marge say? You're Marge.

Damn it.

Superintendent Chalmers is home.

We're gonna have to improvise.

Oh, hello, Mrs. Simpson.

To what do I owe the unannounced weekend visit?

Um... I'm writing an article

for the PTA newsletter about you.

Me?

Yes. An interview, really. Long form.

"Gary Chalmers: A Profile In Competence."

Not "incompetence." "In competence."

'Cause you're great.

Hm... I wasn't aware that the PTA's biannual, one-page,

single-sided newsletter

even did long-form interviews,

but how nice. Come on in.

Uh, don't you need a pen or a recording device?

Uh, no. No, I have a photographic memory.

For auditory speech?

Yes.

I think he's buying it.

I'm not buying it.

But why make up such an absurd story?

Oh, dear God,

Marge Simpson is coming on to me.

So, how did you become so...

super at... intending?

Well, I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind.

No, Gary. Not with another school parent.

The Van Houten woman is still blowing up your phone.

I have to put an end to this right now.

Look, I'm very sorry, Mrs. Simpson,

but I'm gonna have to ask you...

if you would like some plum wine.

Come on, Homer. Rummage like the wind.

Psh. Another stupid kid wearing an old T-shirt

of a band they know nothing about.

I bet she can't name one song by...

Planned Parenthood.

Got it.

Oh, if there's a lovelier music than samba,

I don't want to hear it.

Have you ever been to Brazil?

Very liberated country.

You don't say.

Que diabos! What was that?

Just the house settling, I bet.

With this framing? Not likely. I better go check it out.

Uh, I think I have enough for my article, Superintendent.

Thanks again for your time.

But-but I-I...

It's probably for the best.

- _ - _

We did it!

Sorry, Shauna Chalmers. "Letter" luck next time.

What the...? Goth romance novels?

She took the letters out.

Oh, it's hopeless.

Shauna's probably spreading them all over town by now.

Everyone's gonna know what a terrible person I am inside.

What the...?

My letters.

Step on it, Jimbo.

Marge, what are you... Ah!

_

Give me back my letters.

Go get her, Marge. I've got this punk.

I don't got this punk.

Stop right there.

Come any closer, and I'll, like-like,

drop 'em or whatever.

Why'd you do it, Shauna?

Was all this over a stupid crab puff?

No. When I found those letters, I thought they were awesome.

You totally nailed all the cringe-os in this cringe town.

And then I read the letter you wrote to me.

Oh, Shauna. I never meant for you...

You called me a "hormonal little snot

with more piercings than brains."

And you're supposed to be the nicest lady in town?

I am nice. I just write these letters

when I'm filled with anger.

And then, afterwards, I'm over it. I swear.

There's, like, 30-year-old letters in here.

If you're so over it, why'd you save 'em?

Because...

...it brings me peace.

Give me my letters.

Shauna!

Don't let me die.

I want to live to be old and fat like you.

I can save you both.

No!

I got you, Shauna.

Thanks Mrs. S. I'm really sorry.

I know, sweetie.

Well, they're all out there now.

All my unspoken grievances and resentments

for the world to read.

Hey, look. A letter from Marge Simpson,

addressed directly to me.

"Dear Chief, you give fat, do-nothing,

donut-eating cops a bad name."

"A soulless dead-eyed creepazoid."

"A greasy-fingered know-it-all."

"An amoral homewrecker and a never-was singer."

"A deviant letch who can't keep his busy hands to himself."

"A smoking hot comedic linchpin

who should've never left Studio 8H."

There's the hateful epistolist who called me

"an operatic blowhard."

Hi, everyone. I just want to apologize.

Not for having negative feelings,

but for keeping them to myself all these years.

Even though I smiled in your face,

I was secretly furious.

And that wasn't fair to you or to me.

So do you hate us all?

No. No, I love the people of this town.

Even when we butt heads.

Butt heads.

Aw.

But I'd rather you all think of me as an honest person

with real, complex emotions,

and not someone who's just nice.

- Thank you. - Let's hear it for Marge Simpson.

The most three-dimensional woman in town.

Helen, hi.

Marge, I know it was you who wrote me that scornful letter,

and I just wanted to say...

I'm sorry for being so snarky and elitist in the past.

Oh. Why, thank you. Apology accept...

As someone so well off and closer to God,

it's easy for me to look down my naturally perfect nose at you.

But that ends now.

Oh, I'm glad to hear it.

Ugh. I envy this new you, Marge.

Honest and boorishly uncouth.

Right.

Anyway, I'm off to the good hairdresser.

Oh, not the one you're thinking of, this one's better. Toodles.

Oh, wait, wait. O-One more thing, Helen.

Yes?

Kiss my ass!

"Dear Marge, where the hell do you get off?

"My career choices are nobody's business

"but mine and maybe my manager's.

"The next time you want to tell me

"what other 'bone-headed mistakes' I've made,

"I hope you'll do me a favor

"and go jump in a wood chipper.

Sincerely yours, Tim Meadows."

Wow. That does feel good.

"Dear Lorne Michaels, where the hell do you get off?"

"Dear TGI Fridays, where the hell do you get off?"

"Dear Sunglass Hut, where the hell do you get off?"

"Dear Quiznos, where the hell do you get off?"

- Shh! - Where the hell do you get off?

- synced and corrected by sot26 - www.addic7ed.com