All language subtitles for Daria - S05E05 - The Story of D

Watching the fashionvision
humanitarian awards

instead of going out tonight
was such a good idea, Sandy.

They're donating
a tenth of a cent to charity

for every household tuned in.

We're really doing
something worthwhile.

Sandy, you've made us
into contributors.

Thank you all.

I try.

Thank you
from me and sponge cake,

and most of all,
from the little children

who now get the pedicures
they so sorely need.

The fashionvision
humanitarian awards

will be back right after--

but, Rita,
if Erin never loved him,

why'd she marry him
in the first place?

Once he gave her herpes,

she didn't think anyone else
would want her?

Oh, lord, Rita!

It's a new millennium.

When will people get rid of

these outmoded ideas
about sex?

Where's your sister?

In her room.

Is Tom in there with her?

Mo-om!

I'm not j. Edgar winter.

Ugh!
Talk to your aunt.

Hello?

It's Quinn, aunt Rita.

Well, of course
she should divorce him.

He's short.

Daria, why don't you two
come downstairs and, um...

Tom's not here?

Not unless
you've got him secreted

somewhere on your person.

You do, don't you?

Oh, hmm, all right, then.

Hello?

Okay, the movie just started

and you're in the comfort
of your own home,

so I'd say
you're not gonna make it.

What would you say?

Crap.

Gee, who'da thunk it?

It turns out
alien superintelligence

is no match
for our earthly can-do spunk.

And beautiful
20-year-old astrophysicists

are really looking for
a nice middle-aged street cop

to fall in love with.

Yeah, didn't see
that one coming.

I wish I hadn't seen it
at all.

Well, if you'd been on time,

we'd be deconstructing
that comedy from Croatia

instead of
it came from planet stupid.

What were you doing
that was so important, anyway?

Um... working on something.

Oh, I'm satisfied.

Out with it, morgendorffer.

Okay,
I was writing a short story.

And the big secret is...

I'm, uh, thinking
of submitting it somewhere,

like a publication.

Hey, that's a step.

When can I read it?

How does next leap year sound?

You're willing to have it
published and read by strangers,

but you don't want
your best friend to see it?

Thank you for understanding.

Congratulations for watching

the fashionvision
humanitarian awards.

And remember,
there's no better feeling

than looking good doing good.

Good night.

Those models are so unselfish.

I feel humble.

I wish I could win

a fashionvision
humanitarian award.

Well, you know, as a prominent
extracurricular organization

at lawndale high,

there's no reason
we couldn't lend our name

to a worthy cause.

Like the girls' soccer team

and their adopt-a-highway sign?

Ew.

Picking up trash
on the side of the road?

Um, Quinn,

I haven't been convicted
of anything.

Have you?

Besides, why settle for a sign

when you can have a plaque?

Wow, a plaque?

Exactly.

Mounted on something appropriate
for our beautification image,

like... a park bench.

But then wouldn't people

always be putting
their butts on us?

Ew.

I know;
How about a new mirror

to replace that awful one
in the girls' bathroom

that adds at least two pounds.

I hate that mirror.

It haunts me.

That's a good idea, Quinn.

Donating a mirror
will reflect well on us.

Reflect well on us?

Oh!

Now, that stain to the left
of the Barbie's corvette stain

looks just like
Eleanor Roosevelt.

Just say it.

You read my story
and hated it.

What?

Where'd you get
that madcap idea?

Your increasingly
desperate attempts

to avoid the topic.

I didn't hate it.

It just seemed, well--

the plot felt a little muddled.

You think it sucked.
Just admit it.

It had too many styles
or something; That's all.

It's okay if you
don't like it, you know.

In fact,
I don't even like it.

It stinks.

Look, why don't you show it
to someone else,

someone who appreciates
literature,

someone named Tom?

I couldn't show it to him.

It's too intimate.

Daria, it's about
a flesh-eating virus.

How is that intimate?

You'd think
it was pretty intimate

if it were eating your flesh.

This king of the jungle
was one tubby tabby

till the animal plastic surgeon
came to call.

Lipo for Leo next
on sick, sad world.

Damn it!

Why do they have to make
the eye of the needle

so darn small?

I guess to piss off
the camel.

Thanks, kiddo.

Just happy to find something
I can do, unlike writing.

Good for you.

Now, what the hell
did I do with that button?

Hey, who says you can't write?

It's not important.

Forget I mentioned it.

I don't want to talk about it.

It's true, isn't it?

I bet it was
some busybody teacher

like corporal ellenbogen.

Guy can dig a foxhole.

That makes him an expert
on show tunes?

I don't think so, damn it!

Um, dad, are you getting
your military school boyhood

mixed up with a past life
in vaudeville?

Ellenbogen told me

the song I wrote for the school
musical stank, damn it!

And you know what?

It was a darn good song.

I should have sung it
for someone who didn't think

musical comedy began and ended
with Gilbert and Sullivan.

Oh, please!

All right,
now that we've agreed

to donate
a new girls' room mirror,

the next order of business

is to figure out
how to pay for it.

Oh, yeah.

We could hold a yard sale.

Stacy, are you suggesting

we sit behind a card table
and haggle?

Oh, god,
what's wrong with me?

Why don't we do
what we do best?

Quinn, no one is going to
pay us to eat carrot sticks.

I mean, tell people
what's wrong with their outfits.

But we do that all day
for free.

That's why everyone likes us.

Well, we could put it down
on paper,

sell our own newsletter

offering advice
to fashion victims.

And we could predict
fashion trends.

People will save money
with our newsletter

by not buying things in
the wrong fabric or belt width.

A commendable idea.

All in favor?

Then I guess we should decide
which topics to cover.

Boy, this volunteering
is gonna be a lot of work.

I know.

Someone should really
pay us for it.

If it weren't
for ellenbogen,

I might be a Broadway lyricist.

I could write songs for cats.

I could write songs for dogs!

My name in lights
would have been fantastic.

Jake.
Ellenbogen!

Jake!
Huh?

Where are the girls?

Uh, Quinn's, um... somewhere.

And Daria's up in her room
with, um... Tom.

Jake, how long
have they been up there?

Did I ever tell you
about the song

I wrote in military school,
cadet guys, ho?

If I say I don't want them
in there alone,

I might give them ideas.

I know.

Snacks.

I'd like to thank
my family, my friends,

and not that damn
corporal ellenbogen

or Gilbert or Sullivan!

I'm so glad
you asked me to read this.

You are?

Yeah, it's great.

It's not muddled?

No, it's varied.

It changes voices.

It challenges the reader.

Daria, I'm serious.

This is really good.

Oh, Tom!

I didn't know you were here.

Are you two hungry?

I could get you
some chackers and creese--

um, crackers and cheese
and crackers.

I'll be right back.

You know, I read this story

my English teacher sent
to musings magazine,

and this is much better.

Why don't you submit it to them?

The rejection, indignation,
and lasting humiliation.

How about the success,
stardom,

and eventual alcoholism?

I actually did think
of submitting it somewhere,

but it feels too...

Too much like trying.

I'll never tell
you displayed motivation.

I'm just not sure
it's good enough.

Why don't you let
the magazine decide?

No one has to know.

Hello, Daria.

Oh, hi, Mr. O'Neill.

Musings magazine?

Daria, are you submitting
a story?

That's wonderful!

Um, I'd appreciate it

if you didn't tell anyone
about this.

Oh, of course.

It'll be our little secret,

a new and deeper level to our
teacher-student relationship,

something unique
and meaningful

between a gifted writer
and, well... her mentor?

Something like that.

I'm honored!

Is there anything else
you'd like to tell me?

Uh, your shoelace is untied.

Purple-based lipsticks
will be in,

so peach-based blushes
will be out,

because otherwise,
your cheekbones

won't match your lip liner,
and who needs that?

Smiley face.
Surprised face.

Wink.

Hold the tweezer
in your right hand,

or in your left hand
if you're left-handed.

Squeeze the eyebrow hair
and pull.

There is pain involved.

Long skirts will be back,
although not too long,

maybe on the shorter side
of long.

But don't be mad
if it turns out

that the longer longer ones

are more in
than the shorter longer ones.

Like a fine wine,
if wines were colors,

aubergine is dark, tasteful,
and goes well with fish.

I predict it will be
the breakout color

for next season.

Fellow pundits,

it's time to go to press.

Friends and followers,

as president
of the fashion club,

I am proud to announce

the first issue
of our cutting-edge publication

predicting upcoming trends
in personal deportment

while providing underwriting
to a deserving cause.

Uh, what are you selling?

Perhaps I didn't
make myself clear.

Our newsletter is dedicated
to the art of looking good,

or at least better
than those around you.

A fashion magazine?

Uh, no thanks.

Will you buy one from me?

Sure, I'll take one!

I'll take two!

Make it three!
No, five!

"An ode to aubergine"?

"Good pluck"?

"Please remember to blush"?

There must be a lot going on
in the boys' room

we don't know about.

And really, isn't that
as it should be?

Hey, maybe Quinn
should publish your story.

Nah, it's full of sentences
that don't begin with "I."

Besides, I, um,

already submitted it
to a magazine, Tom's idea.

Tom liked your story?
That's great!

See? What do I know
about literature?

What does he?

Was I being
enthusiastic again?

I'm sorry.

You didn't mean
anything by it.

Although the great
Greek dramatist aeschylus

wrote a staggering 80 plays,

only 7 of them
are available to us.

Does anyone know why?

The rest are still in Greece?

Uh... heh.

Anyone else?
Daria?

The remaining plays
were destroyed.

That's right.

All of them, gone.

Can you imagine
aeschylus' feelings?

Heck, I bet he's not even
thinking about it.

Daria, how would you feel

if the story you wrote
were lost to mankind forever,

if every last copy
of musings magazine

were somehow set aflame?

Wow, you've been published
in musings?

I know what you mean.

I wrote to
the embarrassing moments column

in teenbag magazine

about Kevin's gaseous problem
when we're making out,

and I never heard back
from them.

Ba-Abe!

Kevy, it's okay.

The important thing
is that I tried.

Um...

Daria, what were you saying?

Never mind.

I think you've said it all.

Excuse me?

Oh.
Oh, dear.

Um... sorry.

He meant well,

for a teacher
who does nothing well.

I'm reminded of my father.

What?
Why?

Because I can't get
the phrase

"damn idiot teachers
with their damn idiot brains"

out of my head.

Hey, Daria,
congratulations.

A published story?

That's amazing.

Um, it's not exactly
published.

I sent it in,
but I haven't heard back.

Then why are you telling
everyone it's been published?

Oh, you know Daria and her
compulsive need to impress.

Oh, but then instead of
making up stuff about writing,

shouldn't you pick
something good?

How's this?

During the day,
I'm a mild-mannered student,

but at night, I fight crime
in a stretchy, stretchy costume.

Cool!

I didn't know that!

She doesn't really.

But she just said--

kevy, you're so gullible.

You know,
my mother gets musings,

and their fiction is awful.

I bet you'll have
no trouble getting in.

Gee, thanks.

That's not what I meant.

I know, thanks.

Good luck.

Daria, in the name
of Jane Austen,

Emily Dickinson,
Anne bronte,

Emily bronte,
and Charlotte bronte,

I want to say,
"you go, girl."

That's just how they
would have put it.

Who told you?

Er, uh, um... nobody.

It certainly didn't come up

during anything other than
normal in-school chitchat

among colleagues,

fully dressed,
with no oils involved.

Ever have one of those moments
that no shower,

no matter the duration
nor the temperature,

can ever erase?

I'm leaning toward
trauma-induced amnesia myself.

Punch my head, would ya?

Daria, guess what!

I found my old song lyrics!

Here, I'll sing them for you.

Get ready to hear
some dope beats.

Ow!

Hey!

We're the guys
they call cadets

we're here to serve our

na... tion...

Daria?

I can't believe
all our newsletter predictions

were wrong!

Hems hike up.

Heels fall down.

Tweezing isn't pleasing.

And dark colors
like aubergine are over.

Who would have thought
that brightly comic tones

like peach and lemon
would suddenly come into vogue?

I need to be alone.

This is so sad.

Why does everything
always happen to us?

Let me guess.

The wide world of wool
was preempted

for an emergency
state of the union address.

Even worse.

Waif's "what's hot
and what's rot" issue just came,

and what we thought was
out and in is not and not,

and now our careers as fashion
prognosticators are over.

I'll go lower the flag
to half-mast.

"Thank you for giving us
the opportunity

to read your work."

I've been rejected.

Daria!
Come in.

Is everything okay?

No, everything's not okay.

Musings rejected my story.

Really?
I can't believe it.

Don't worry.
You'll get over it.

I knew it wasn't good enough
to be published.

Okay, so maybe it was
the wrong place

or just a bad editor.

There are lots
of magazines out there.

Send it somewhere else.

It's not enough
to get rejected once.

You want me to get rejected
dozens of times?

Come on.
It happens to everyone.

One try and you give up?

Uncle.

Daria, you're not listening
to what I'm saying.

Hey, I listened
when you told me to send it in,

and look what happened.

Now you want me
to keep submitting it

so I can live in a state
of perpetual misery?

God, you're insensitive.

No, I'm supportive,

but you're too thick-headed
to notice.

I liked that story.

I thought it was smart,
funny, and insightful--

none of which I can say
about you right now.

Gee, thanks.
See ya.

Why don't you just grow up?

Or not?

Attention.

Due to a senseless act
of sabotage

currently under investigation
by investigators,

the articles
in our newsletter

were altered
prior to publication

and without our knowledge.

We are therefore
rectifying the situation

by issuing refunds.

There you go.
There's my paper.

So, everyone, just ignore
everything you read.

You didn't read it at all,
did you?

Being an author sucks.

Want us to read it now?

No.

These dumpsters are gross.

What do you think this stuff
is that looks like vomit?

Stacy!
Sorry.

I guess we aren't gonna make
our fundraising goal.

It's just so unfair

that you have to do something
to get a plaque.

Hmm...

Daria!

There you are.

I've been waiting all day
to sing you this song.

Um... okay.

Hey, we're the guys
they call cadets

we're here
to serve our nation

fighting
stinking foreigners

right after graduation

we have learned
to make our beds

shine our boots
all gleamy

when we put on
our dress blues

we really look
quite dreamy

corporal ellenbogen was right.

Um...
The tune is catchy.

It sucks.

Damn drum machine!

Dah!

I'm a failure.

Dad, you made up one song
when you were a teenager,

and it's not the best thing
ever written,

and that makes you a failure?

Well, that's one
of the things.

So your reach
exceeded your grasp.

I'd rather have that happen
to me than the opposite.

What do you mean?

You know what good is.

That's how you know
you didn't achieve it.

That's a lot better than
if you were putting out crap

and thinking it was great.

It is?

You came up short
because you were aiming high.

You're right, Daria.

I did!

I went out on a limb
and took a chance.

That took guts, didn't it?

Um, yes, yes, it did.

Damn right, kiddo!

Gutsy jakey went to town

riding in a Lexus

missed his star
but did aim far

um...

Who cares what jerk
rejects us?

Who cares
what jerk rejects us?

Yeah!

And so as part
of our continuing effort

to improve the quality of life

for the students
of lawndale high,

the fashion club is pleased
to present this plaque

commemorating this plaque,

because, as my grandmother says

whenever she tries to give me
some horrible peasant blouse

from, like, the haight-ashtray
period of American history,

it's the thought that counts.

Oh, Sandy, that was great.

Really moving.

Um, does the red light thingy
have to be on to record?

Hello?

Um, hi.

I'm cooking up a delicious,
juicy crow tonight

and thought you might like
to come over for a drumstick.

Oh, I'm not hungry.

But I'll watch you eat.

Mmm.

That crow smells good.

Well, we both know
why I asked you here.

Not me, no idea,
none whatsoever.

Fine, I deserve that.

Look, I'm sorry.

You were being supportive.

I was the one acting like...
You know.

You can do it.
Rhymes with "clerk."

Shut up.

So...
Forgiveness and whatnot?

Eh, you've suffered enough,
for today.

Tom, Daria,

can I get you anything?

I'll have a big glass
of human growth hormone.

Coming right up.

I mean, I'll be back
with some snacks.

Better talk fast.

She's been doing speed drills.

So you're over
the rejection letter?

What letter?
Oh, wait.

You mean the one that said,

"dear, Ms. Morgendorffer,

"thank you for giving us

"the opportunity
to read your work.

"It's not right for us
at this time,

but please keep us in mind
for future submissions"?

Gee, I'd almost forgotten.

Daria, we're out of cheese.

Would you like pretzels?

That's what it said?

To submit again?

Yeah.
Don't they always say that?

No, Daria, that's great.

My teacher got
a one-line note:

"Musings regrets that
your material is unsuitable."

Really?

How about
some pineapple chunks?

In their own juice
or heavy syrup, you decide.

Editors never encourage people

unless they think
they really have something,

and that's not often.

Well, let's see
if I've got this straight.

The editors
didn't like my story.

They don't want to publish it.

But they do look forward
to rejecting me in the future,

and that's good.

Congratulations.

It's great to be a writer.

And such a cheerful writer.

Rice cakes-
oh, god, no!

You think Helen
will ever recover

from the telltale smooch?

All we can do for her now

is be there
when she's ready to talk.

How's that coming,
by the way?

Good, really good.

But I guess I'll get back
to my writing.

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