All language subtitles for The.Simpsons.S37E07.1080p.WEB.h264-EDITH

♪ The Simpsons ♪

And Moses raised his staff unto the sky,

and the Lord sent forth
a mighty tempest that thundered like...

Oh, come on now, Alice. That's a bit much.

Alice!

Today, we hold an assembly
for a dead lady you never met,

because this wonderful, generous woman
has left her entire estate to the school

to fund the new music program.

This is a dream come true.
We can get...

Um… Uh…

I'd like a word.
My name is Joe Quimby III.

Mr. Dahan's homeroom.
I go to this school now.

Welcome, rich kid.

Maybe by "music program",
instead of new instruments,

Mrs. Glick really meant
an epic three-day music festival.

We could get performers
like Little Smelly,

DJ Breakfast, Jupiter Jerks,
the recently reunited G.O.R.M,

and possibly Chunk Mafia!

Chunk it up!

This once-in-a-generation tornado
of fun will become a reality

when I'm elected as your student council
president in next month's election.

Absolutely!

No, no. A festival is just one weekend,

but a new music program will produce
timpanists and flautists forever.

We could be lectured by Lisa,

or let's all kick off my son's campaign
with free frozen yogurt!

This isn't what Mrs. Glick wanted!

I've heard of frozen water
and plain yogurt,

but this is extraordinary.

Those Quimbys have run this town forever,

and they've never had
a day of struggle in their lives!

What's for supper?

I was weeping in the fields
when I found a turnip!

A whole blessed turnip!

A rock?

Wee Joe has the real turnip!

Farewell, Ma and Pa.

In this town, all I shall ever be
is the son of a pig whistler.

I want something more!

Oink, oink, oink.

Hmm. Joseph O'Shaughnessy
from Quimby, Ireland.

Never seen an apostrophe
in a name before. Must be a typo.

Welcome to America, Joe Quimby.

Someone ought to run against
that rich, little nepo-Quimby.

Someone who cares about the school
with real plans for the future.

Someone like… …me.

Two votes. That's all you get.
You and Milhouse… maybe.

I'm still doing my research.

The only candidate with a chance
against Joe Quimby III would be Bart.

Everyone loves the cis Caucasian bad boy,
and you should see his polling.

Bart's playing well with all the demos,
bullies, nerds, twinks,

by which I mean kids who like Twinkies.

So, I have to get my idiot brother elected
to save the music program?

Well, I guess if you wanna win
in politics,

you've got to get your hands dirty.

Do we really want to spend
the rest of our days

scavenging through
horse leavings for coins and buttons?

Buck up, Joe.

Being a dunglark is part
of the fast-growing gag economy,

and who else will hire us?

No Irish can be a foot-post, a beetler,
a bodger, a coal heaver,

a garthman, a hello girl, a loblolly boy,

a propbobby, or even a lowly scrimshander.

Well, at least we can watch
the Saint Patrick's Day parade.

Hey, this is a respectable parade.

Oh, there's Spanucci,
the barrel king of Slobtown.

Ooh. He looks like a good man.
Perhaps he'll give me a job.

Ha! I'd never hire an Irish!

Farewell, you slightly different kind
of Catholic dog.

Oh, hello, Celtic scum.
What are you carrying?

I made you a corned beef sandwich.

Needs mustard.

After the accidental
choking death of Rigatoni Spanucci,

a will found on his body states
he's bequeathed his barrel factory

to his dearest friend, Joe Quimby.

And bad news for Wall Street means
a windfall for Quimby's new business.

Stockbrokers are losing the shirts
off their backs

and the suits that go with them.

Lucky for them, Quimby's barrels
are there to cover their shame.

Quimby then bet it all to start
his own movie studio.

Here he is at the premiere of his new hit,
barrel-based musical Over the Falls.

Hey, Joe. Stave a seat for me!

Joe, you've conquered
so many industries. What's next?

Well, I was thinking of running
for city council.

The Irish barrel monkey
wants to be in politics.

Know your place,
you filthy Irish.

Extra, extra. Barrel Baron's baby
about to be born!

Father just hearing it now.

Son, I may be a barrel king
and movie mogul,

but to the people that hold the strings,

I'll always be a dirty Irish dung lark.
Not you.

One day you'll wear these.

Trust me, boy,
you're going to be a winner.

Trust me, Bart, you're gonna be a winner.

I'm already a winner.
I just got the high score.

Bart, you have to run for president.
Somebody's gotta stop little Quimby.

Oh, but I don't wanna be president,
and I'm excited for that music festival.

He's getting the Chunk Mafia.
Chunk, chunk it up.

Are you guys chunking it up?

- Chunk it up. Chunk it up.
- Chunk it up. Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

But, Bart, if you run for president
and win, it'll drive Skinner crazy.

Huh? Chunk it up.

A cherry bomb in every toilet
and a beehive in Skinner's car.

They're in my ears!

And we'll save
Lisa's stupid music program.

No!

Can our school risk a president
whose name rhymes with fart?

Six, five.

Four, three, two, one.

Bart dealt it,
but you don't need to smelt it.

Next Thursday, vote Joe Quimby III.

He's killing us
on the Bart-fart rhyme angle.

This is exactly
what took down Kevin Kiarrhea.

Hold on. Hold on.
If they're gonna fight dirty, so can we.

With exhaustive
negative opposition research.

The Quimbys have had so many scandals,
and nothing has stopped them.

From bootlegging to barrel shaving
and so much philandering.

Also, how many bridges
can one family drive off?

Ugh, just keep microfiche-ing.

Fiche, fiche, fiche,
fiche… …fiche, fiche.

Wait a second. Bouvier?

That woman who married Mayor Quimby
looks a little like Mom…

And that flower girl is Mom.

Yeah, that's me in the picture…
…and the bride is my aunt Beatrice,

and I don't want to talk about it.

Uh, okay, but I just have
a couple more questions.

Sorry, I can't hear you!
I think a fork fell in.

I'm not afraid to tell you the hard truth.

The rich deserve tax breaks for yachts

and LeRoy Neiman paintings
and fancy dinners like this one.

Terrific speech, Son.

You've grown up to make me, your mother,
and my five mistresses very proud.

Uh…

Oh, Donkey Kong Junior.

Maybe we'll both
live up to the expectations

of our barrel-cursed fathers.

You're blowing your chance to do real good
for the people of Springfield.

Who the hell are you?

Beatrice Bouvier.

I get coffee
for the person who gets you coffee.

Look, your family money
and your pretty-boy good looks

aren't going to win you this election.

You, uh, think I'm pretty?

You can make a real difference,
but oh, no,

you just wanna please your rich daddy
and his lobster rattling friends.

Hmm. Who am I kidding?
The first casualty of politics is hope.

I quit.

Don't leave, you lippy dame!

If you want me to stay,
you have to hit the real neighborhoods

and meet the people you'll be serving.

Okay, but you're driving.

There's a, uh, lot of bridges
between here and there.

This is Slobtown.
The working-class heart of Springfield.

Ugh. My father left this neighborhood
as soon as he could.

Ugh. What is that?

That's a Slobtown meat cone.
A waffle cone full of beef stew.

Ugh, these people are animals.

Thank God they don't get to vote.

They do, and the cone allows them
to hold stew in one hand

while hooping a barrel with the other.

My father would sing me to sleep
with this song.

- Hey!
- Hey!

I get it now.

Politics is about improving
the lot of working folks.

Beatrice, will you be my campaign manager?

Will you promise to be
the best version of yourself?

You're the first person
I've never wanted to lie to,

so I'm not lying when I say yes.

I may be a lemon pelted simpleton,
but this feels like real growth.

Elect me,
and we'll have more money for parks,

education, and inspiring murals of
ethnically diverse children getting along.

Meat cones for both of you on the house.

Would you like a napkin?

No, because it ain't a Slobtown meat cone
unless you're wearing it.

As E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial said,
we "phoned home" with a message of hope,

and the voters told us
we have the "Eye of the Tiger".

You've always vetted my policy proposals,
but this one's all my own.

Beatrice Bouvier, will you, uh…

Yes, yes. A thousand focus groups, yes!

Are you tired
of band-aids in the Jell-O?

Playground slides
with exposed bolts?

And entitled rich kids
trying to run our school?

It's 3 a.m.
Whose finger do you pull?

Next Tuesday,
vote Bart "The Fart" Simpson.

Dude, way to flip the fart narrative.

Oh, genius ad, Lisa.

And get this, in the school paper's
poll of four-square players,

you're tied with Quimby two to two.

It's weird,
but it turns out I love popularity.

Excuse me, I got a rope of kindergartners
begging for the Fart Man.

Do you, Joe Quimby Junior,

take Beatrice Bouvier
to be your lawfully wedded wife?

Yes, I do,
and there's no ums, uhs, or ahs about it.

I now pronounce you man and wife.
You may kiss the bride.

Joe, your father wants to talk to you.

Marrying a slobtown girl
will help us with the unions.

Smart move, Son.

I married her because I love her.

Never say that on the record.
Now, there's one thing your image needs.

What? Mistresses?

Uh…
My dad says being a philanderer

is an essential part
of my hyper-masculine political image,

but don't worry,
I told him I would never cheat on you.

Oh, thank God.

He'll be happy as long as the press
catches me in bed

naked with many, many sexy ladies,

but I will commit neither hanky nor panky.

So you'll respect me privately,
but humiliate me publicly?

I don't have a choice.

I'm sorry, but whatever my father wants,
my father gets.

Oh. You broke my heart, Joe Quimby.

Are you going off to your magical castle?

Princesses aren't real,
and there is no happily ever after.

Let's check the lunchroom map.

It all comes down
to the girls who sniff Sharpies

and that sad boy who's always throwing up.

Uh, I'm hearing all the votes are in,

and we can now call the election
for Joseph Quimby III.

They rejected my music program.

Oh, who cares? They rejected me.

Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe.

Failure music, please.

And that's the best they'll ever sound.

I need to talk to you.

I thought you did an amazing job
on Bart's campaign.

The way you linked me
to chocolate milk inflation?

Negative, unfair,
and I wish I'd thought of it.

Compliment noted.

Lisa, my father has endless plans for me,

and now those plans include
having you on my team.

Why would I work for you?

You deep faked a picture
of my brother picking his nose.

That wasn't a deep fake.

That makes sense.

My father wants you,

and whatever my father wants,
my father gets.

I need your answer by Monday at recess.

Don't sweat this decision too much.
Just remember, it's all just a game.

It's all just a game.

You spend your whole life chasing sashes,
and then it's over.

Mr. Mayor, something amazing has happened.

Beatrice came back?

No, you forgot
about your televised debate.

It starts in five minutes.

Oh, right. I'm running for governor now.

Mr. Mayor, some critics say
you're skating by on your family money

and pretty-boy good looks.
How do you respond?

I say I love you, Beatrice,
and I'm so sorry I hurt you.

I want the voters to know

I'm not having sex
with an endless parade of nubile beauties.

I only want to have routine, reliable
intercourse with the woman I love,

and even then…
…not that frequently.

If he can't even cheat on his wife,
how can he repave our highways?

I say we turn on him.

Yeah!

He's a wuss.

Dad, other than that last question,
uh, how do you think I did in the debate?

I stole the family turnip.
I left the land of my birth.

I killed a man
with a corned beef sandwich.

All to make our name in this country.

Okay, all pretty positive so far.

But you've ruined all that.

You'll never be more
than the mayor of a two-bit town.

You're a failure,

and you've forever brought shame
to the Quimby name.

Oh, if there was only a way
to, uh, make this right.

Have a son
and raise him to succeed where you failed.

Thanks for reaching out, Lisa.

I've only heard about your family
through your aunts, Patty and Selma.

How's your morbidly obese alcoholic father
dealing with his chronic butt fungus?

Um… He gets by.

One more question.

Why is your mom
just standing in the doorway?

Because when I was four,

you told me that princesses aren't real,
and there's no happily ever after.

Oh, gosh, did I say that?

Yes, and I wasn't ready to hear
that my dreams would never come true.

And that's why
I married the first…

I love your dad. Great guy.

Marge, I'm so sorry, but you should know
what happened that day.

I had just found out
that the love of my life betrayed me.

I never saw him again
or ate meat out of a cone.

Oh.

He chose his father's ambitions
over his love for you.

I'm so sorry.

Poor Joe,
he never stood a chance against his dad.

His son wants my help,
and I think I know how to give it to him.

Joe, Joe.

Joe, I finally understand your family,

and I've written the first speech
of your administration.

Oh, I love it.

Let me introduce my son
and your new president,

Joseph Fitzgerald Shriver
Onassis Schlossberg Quimby III.

Joe, Joe, Joe.

Ever since my grandfather got rich
making barrels,

my family has been
jumping over those barrels

and hitting them with hammers.

But we have never been able to escape them

because those barrels are filled
with ambition instead of love,

and often they are on fire.

It is true.

I can play this game no longer
because my soul has run out of quarters.

I'm stepping down, but I leave you
in the worthy hands of Bart Simpson.

What up, Springfield? We did it!
Chunk it up.

Bart, Bart, Bart!

Sorry, but the school constitution says

that the next in line of succession
is the Chief hall monitor.

That's, uh, Martin Prince.

Suck it, Simpsons,
and I'm saving the music program.

Hit it.

I'm sorry I let you down, Father.

I've never been more proud of you.

Bart, we broke a 100-year cycle
of emotional trauma.

So what? History is boring.

Don't they say
it just keeps repeating itself?

Sure, but each time
it's a little different.

Hey!

Chunk Mafia.

Shh!