All language subtitles for The_Simpsons_Season_37_Episode_7_Sashes_to_Sashes_1

And Moses raised his staff unto the sky,
and the Lord sent forth a mighty

tempest that thundered like... Come on
now, Alice, that's a bit much.

Alice?

Today we hold an assembly for a dead
lady you've never met, because this

wonderful, generous woman has left her
entire estate to the school to fund a

music program.

This is a dream come true!

Um, uh, I'd like a word. My name is Joe
Quimby III, Mr. DeHaan'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 Jerk, the

recently reunited...

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

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

No, no.

A festival is just one weekend, but a
new music program will produce

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 Quimby's 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. Oh, blessed turnip.

Joseph O'Shaughnessy from Quimby Island.

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 nipple 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 pulling.

Bart's playing well with all the demos.
Bullies, nerds, winks, 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 want to win in
politics, you gotta get your hands

Do we really want to spend the rest of
our days scavenging through hearth

leavings for coins and buttons?

Fuck up, Joe.

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

And who else will hire us? No Irish can
be a footpost, a beetler, a bodger, a

coal heaver, a garth man, a hello girl,
a loblolly boy, a prop bobby, or even a

lowly scrimpshanger.

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

This is a respectable parade.

Oh, there's Spallucci, the barrel king
of Snob Town.

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

Ha! I never hire an Irish.

Farewell, you slightly different kind of
Catholic dog.

Oh Celtic scum, what are you carrying?

I made you a corned beef sandwich.

Needs mustard.

After the accidental choking death of
Rigatoni Spannucci, 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

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 bid it all to start his own
movie studio.

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

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.

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
dunglark.

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 Lil' Quimby.

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

He's getting the Chunk Mafia.

Chunk it up.

Are you guys chunking it up?

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

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.

No.

Can our school risk a president whose
name rhymes with

fart?

Six, five, four, three.

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 Kyria.

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

negative opposition research.

The Quimby's have had so many scandals
and nothing has stopped them. From

bootlegging to spare... and so much
philandering.

Also, how many bridges can one family
drive off?

Ugh, just keep microfiching.

Fish, fish, fish, fish.

Wait a second.

Bouvier?

That woman who married Mayor Quimby
looks a little like mom.

Oh, 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 Newman 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.

Here, uh... Oh, Donkey Kong Jr., 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 think I'm pretty? You can make a
real difference, but oh no. You just

to please your rich daddy and his
lobster -rattling friends.

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 lot
of bridges between here and there.

This is Slobtown, the working class
heart of Springfield.

My father left this neighborhood as soon
as he could.

What is that?

That's a Slobtown meat cone.

A waffle cone full of beef stew.

Yeah, 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.

Oompa, oompa, slap your son.

Oompa, oompa, lots of fun.

My father would sing me to sleep with
this song.

The widow drowned herself in tears.
Oompa, oompa, fun for years.

I did 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

yes.

I may be a lemon -telted simpleton, but
that feels like real growth.

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

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 slob town meat
cone unless you're wearing it.

As E .T. the Extraterrestrial said, We
phoned home with a message of hope, and

the voters told us we have the eye of
the tiger.

Yeah!

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

Beatrice Bouvier, will you, uh, um, uh,
uh, um... Yes! Yes! A

thousand focus groups! Yes!

Are you tired of band -aids in the
jello?

Playground slides with exposed bolts?

An entitled rich kid trying to run our
school?

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

Next Tuesday, vote fart to fart symptom.

Dude, way to flip the fart narrative.

Oh, genius ad, Lisa. And get this. In
the school papers 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 Jr., take Beatrice

Bouvier to be your lawfully wedded wife?

Yes, I do, and there's no M's, R's, or
I's about it. I now pronounce you man

wife. You may kiss the bride.

Joe, your father wants to talk to you.

Marrying a slob -toned 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, Mary, 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

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.

I'm hearing all the votes are in, and we
can now call the election for Joseph

Quimby III.

They rejected my music program.

Who cares?

They rejected me.

Joe! Joe!

Joe! Joe!

Fail your music, please.

That's the best I'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

on my team.

Why would I work for you? You deepfaked
a picture of my brother picking his

nose. That wasn't a deepfake.

Oh, that makes sense.

My father wants you. And whatever my
father wants, my father gets. I need

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

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.

Dad, other than that last question, 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.

There was only a way to 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 Thelma.

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

Um, he gets by.

One more question.

Why is your mom just standing in the
doorway?

Because when I was four, he 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.

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

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

over those barrels and hitting them with
hammers. What?

But we have never been able to escape
them because those barrels are filled

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 Martin Prince.

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

Hit it.

Oh, I'm sorry I let you down, Father.

Burn your eyeballs, lot of man.

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.

Chunk Mafia.

What? Chunk, Chunk.

Chunk, Chunk, Chunk it up. Chunk, Chunk,
Chunk it up. Chunk, Chunk, Chunk it up.

Chunk, Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk, Chunk, Chunk it up. Chunk, Chunk
it up.

Chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk,
chunk, chunk it up!