All language subtitles for Newhart_S08E03

[♪♪♪]

- Yeah, uh-uh.

Yeah, well, Steph, I know you've
only been in Newport a few days,

but being Apartsville
is killing me.

Without you by my side,
life has no meaning.

You're right, I am droning
on and on about myself.

How are you holding up,
Cuppers?

That much fun, huh?

I thought baby showers
were just a lot of women

yacking it up about--

Your dad hired musicians?

Well, sure, they were okay once,
but, without John,

they're just another
Liverpool garage band.

Don't worry about me,
Cuppers, I'll bear up.

You just keep having
the best time of your life.

No, no, I do not
want to talk to Yoko.

Okay, bye.

It's not fair.

Steph's off hobnobbing
at a baby shower

with the Fab Three
and I'm stuck here with you.

- Tragedy strikes
some people so young.

- Michael, you know
showers are for women only.

- So are Sweet 16 parties

but it didn't stop me
from having one.

- Michael, what do you
want us to do?

Throw--throw a shower for you?

- Would you, oh, would you?
Could you, could you!

- No!
- Oh, thanks, Dick.

Set me up just to knock me down.

- Well, you know, why shouldn't
the father-to-be have a party?

It might be fun.

I could make my famous
potato salad.

- Uh, ix-nay, Mrs. ick-Day.

There'll be no skirts
at this soiree, right, Dick?

- Yeah, you know,
let a woman into a-a baby shower

and the--the next thing
you know,

they're crashing
our swim-nastic classes.

- So true.
Okay, let's divvy it up.

I'll do the guest list
and you provide the rest.

And serve whatever you like.

You know, quiche,
finger sandwiches.

- Artichoke hearts
in a-a creamy vinaigrette?

- You sly dog, you've thrown
one of these before.

Adios!

I'm having a shower!

- So? I've had four today
and I still feel dirty.

Hello, Dick, Joanna.

- Miss Goddard.
- How are things at the library?

- Quiet!

Ha-ha!

That joke never fails
to yield a hearty laugh.

- It's your delivery.

- Anyway, as you know,
I wear two hats.

The hat of head librarian,

and the toque of president
of the local pastry club.

Today I'm in the latter guise
to extend a rare honor.

- "The pastry club
proudly presents

"an evening of
poetry and pasties."

- That can't be right.
That should say "pastries."

- Either way,
it sounds like a fun evening.

- You said something
about an honor?

- Well, as you know,
every other poetry competition

is judged by Talcott Harding,

the town's reclusive
poet laureate.

- Honey, you've seen Talcott.

You know,
that sweet little old man

with the long white hair.

- Oh yeah, I met him
at the market once.

He--he bit me
when I took the last bottle

of herbal conditioner.

- Ordinarily, Talcott
would jump at the chance

to judge the contest again.

- What--what's stopping him
from jumping?

- He's dead.

- That--that would make it
dicey.

- So, who will be judging
this year?

- Dick, we feel the next logical
choice would be you.

- No, thanks. I-I hate poetry.

- So did Talcott Harding,
but he showed up.

- Look, I-I can't tell a-a good
poem from--from a bad one.

- Well, you won't have to,
I win every year.

- Well, that'll certainly
make it easier.

- Then you'll do it?

- No, like I said--
- Good.

I hope that we won't have

another unattractive
display of tears

when you lose again this year.

Well, see you Saturday.

- Gee, honey,
if I win this year,

I hope people won't think

you gave me
preferential treatment.

- Well, you--you won't
be winning.

- Why not? Don't you think
my poems are good enough?

- Good is, you know, such a...
subjective term.

You know, while most people like
what William Shakespeare wrote,

I'm sure there are
some people that...

you know, that don't.

- So, you're saying
that even though

you don't care for my poetry,
some people might.

- Yeah, right.

- How can you stand there
and criticize my poetry

when you just admitted

you can't tell a good poem
from a bad one?

- Well, you make it easy,
sweetheart.

- Well, love of my life,
how kind and sensitive

and compassionate you are
to tell me my poems are stupid.

- You see, stupid is, I mean,
you know, it's such a...

a subjective term.

- Invite for the innkeep.

And you'll note
each is hand-painted

and numbered by the artist.

- This must've set you back
a small fortune.

- Well, not me, you're the host
of this baby bash.

Figured you'd be proud to pop
for this poppa-to-be.

Not to worry, Dickums,
let me explain

the Circus of Stationary's
easy monthly billing plan.

Thirty-six low,
low monthly installments

followed by a modest
balloon payment.

- I'm not footing the bill
for--for your shower.

Besides, I have to judge
a corny poetry contest Saturday.

- Pardon,
but perhaps you can persuade

those pentameter-pushers
to postpone.

- Michael, I'd rather
turn you down than Miss Goddard.

I've seen her bench press
over 200 at the Y.

- Well, fine, go listen
to your sissy poetry.

I'll be bonding with the boys
over watercress sandwiches.

- Oh, you're still here.

- Yeah, I was just going to go
the lobby to get, uh...

no.

- Well, then you'd better
uh...

hurry.

- All right.

- Where you going?

- To, uh...

get the...

nah, no.

- Don't let me, uh...

keep you.

Morning, Joanna.

If you're doing your crossword,

I can help you with
"Fiddler on the blank."

- Actually, George,
I'm working on a poem.

- Oh, for the contest.

I can't help you with that.

But if you want,
I could hot-glue the tassels

on your pasties.

- George, they're pastries.

Besides, I'm not
entering this year.

- Why not?

Now that Talcott Harding's
passed away,

Miss Goddard
isn't a shoe-in anymore.

Unless she's carrying on
with the new judge.

- Dick is the new judge.

- Uh-oh.

And he uses the same herbal
conditioner Talcott used.

The kind that gets
Miss Goddard all hotted up.

"The Big Hurt."

Gee, I tried to write a poem
once called "The Big Hurt."

Did you drop an engine block
on your foot too?

- This isn't about
a physical hurt.

It's about
my personal feelings.

- Can I read it?

- Well, it's not
really polished yet.

I mean, the imagery
might be a little off.

Also, the rhymes
are a bit forced.

- It's beautiful.
- I thought so too.

- This is even better
than that poem

Miss Goddard wrote last year.

"Ode to a Glistening Ploughman."

You've got to enter this poem.

- With Dick judging,

it'd be like
spitting in the wind.

- But, this should be
shared with the world.

And if it means taking a
facefull of spit, I'm your man.

- "Take thy beak
from out my heart,

"and take thy form
from off my door.

"Quoth the bluebird

"'Nevermore.'"

[CLAPPING]

- That was absolutely haunting.

- And I thought
he peaked last year

with his "Tracy at the Bat."

- Mr. Rusnak, are you sure
you actually wrote that poem?

- What are you implying, judge?

- Well, it's just that
your poem is, you know...

reminiscent of, uh,
Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven."

- My poem is about a bluebird.

Anybody hear me say
anything about a raven?

CLUB MEMBERS: No.

- I don't think Dick knows
any more about birds

than he does about poetry.

- Our next piece
is a collaborative effort

by Jim Dixon
and Chester Wanamaker.

- Isn't it unusual for
two people to write a poem?

- Not when they share
the same poetic soul.

- Yeah, we're two bodies
with but one mind.

- Well, whoever
is using it tonight,

will you please begin?

- "Pals."

A poem by Jim Dixon...

- and Chester Wanamaker.

- "As kids,
we too shared everything

"from baseball bats to gals.

"And from that time,

"we've always been
the very best of..."

- "Friends."

- "Years later, we played poker
at our next-door neighbor Hal's.

"And helped each other win
because you always help your..."

- Friends.

- "If you want to know the
secret of our very high morales.

"It's I've got him
and he's got me

"and that's what makes us..."

- Friends.

[CLAPPING]

- Excuse me, fellas, but
I couldn't help but notice

you--you never used the word,
uh, "pals."

- That's poetic license, Dick.

- Come to think of it, Jim,

the word "pals"
would have rhymed here.

- Oh yeah.

- And here. And here.

Why didn't you think of that?

- Well, why didn't you?

- Because you made me do
all the typing.

- That's because
you kept making me add

wheat Chex to the party mix.

- That's only because
you kept taking them out.

- Well, you should've let me
eat them straight from the box,

like I wanted to.

- Jim Dixon, you're really
pushing my angry button.

- Fellas, fellas.

All right, our--our last
contestant is Miss Goddard.

Miss Goddard?

- Thank you, Judge Loudon.

Might I add
that your hair

smells particularly herbal
this evening.

- I...

wondered why you were
sniffing me before.

- "The Entwinement,"
by Prudence Goddard.

[CLEARS HER THROAT]

"Weaving and churning
and heaving, they went

"until they were spent
and filled with

"the scent of passion
and moisture and fever.

"Swooning and sighing
and crooning they lay

"for most of the day,
they rolled in the hay

"while he swore
that he'd never deceive her.

"Groaning and gasping
and moaning,

"they shrieked
until their loins creaked.

"The two lovers peaked.

"How ironic that soon
he would leave her."

[CLAPPING]

- Thank you.
Thank you, Miss--Miss Goddard.

- I've got a better idea of
what killed Talcott Harding.

- Well, I think...

I think that's about
all we have.

I know...

I know I've heard enough.

- Wait, Dick, I've got one.

- Well, looks like we have
a surprise entry from George--

George Utley.

- I hope it's a haiku,
I'm hungry.

- "The Big Hurt."

"My hurt comes from a flame
no one can see.

"It's seared away
the hope inside of me.

"Time heals most things.

"I'll scar
where I've been burned.

"But what I've lost
can never be returned."

[CLAPPING]

- George, I-I had no idea
you were so--were so p-profound.

- Joanna's the profound one.

She wrote this poem.

[LAUGHTER]

- Profound?

This is the woman
who holds the town record

for the number of times
she's checked out

60 Days to a Tighter Tummy .

[LAUGHTER]

- I thought I held that record.

- I wrote that poem.
Doesn't anyone believe me?

CLUB MEMBERS: No.

- Well, you believe me,
don't you, Dick?

- I-I--I don't don't--I don't
know about you folks,

but I sure w-wouldn't mind
hearing " Pals" again.

[CLAPPING]

- "And he's got me
and that's what makes us..."

- "Friends."

[CLAPPING]

- So, do you believe
I wrote my poem?

- Honey, I-I'd like to.

But that--that poem,
it just isn't...

your style.

It's so, um...

good.

- And I tried so hard
to make it bad.

George, tell these people
that I wrote that poem.

- She sure did.
I was there.

- Did you actually
see her write it?

- No, but I did see her read it.

- Maybe the judge's wife
is not aware of the difference

between reading a poem
and writing one.

- But it's mine, I swear it.

- Give it up, woman,
that ship has sailed!

- This is so damn stupid!

- Oh dear, profanity
in a public library!

I wonder what commandment
she'll be breaking next.

- I don't think we're treating
Joanna very fairly.

- Thank you, George.
For your sole support.

- Why don't we let her
write another poem,

while we sit here and watch?

- George is right.

Our opinion of Joanna should be
based on her ability,

and not on her gutter mouth.

- This is appalling.

Dick, don't you think
this is ridiculous?

- Well, you know...I'm...

you know, ridiculous
is such a subjective term.

- Well, I guess
rational thinking

has no place in this room.

CLUB MEMBERS:
No [indistinct].

- Nobody can just sit down
and write a poem

without any inspiration.

- I can.
- So can I.

- We weren't inspired at all
when we wrote "Pals."

- Come on honey,
dash one off

and we can all
get out of here.

- With all these people
sitting here staring at me?

- Seems
Little Miss Inexperienced

needs her privacy.

Everyone, turn your backs
on the Loudon woman.

- You might want to steer clear
of your usual stuff

about clowns crying
the saddest tears of all.

- Now that our backs are turned,

she'll probably just have George
knock off another one for her.

- All right. That's it.

- Took you long enough.

- Okay, Joanna, lay it on us.

- I refuse to be degraded
by some small-minded people

who get some perverse joy
in passing judgement

just so they can fill up
their own empty lives.

- Well, I don't like it,
it doesn't even rhyme.

- It's not a poem!

It's what I'm feeling.

Angry.

Hurt.

Like what I felt
when I wrote that poem.

- So, all--all that burning and
searing was because of our...

our little--little tiff.

- Tiff?

Sounds like
you were branding her.

- I feel another poem coming on.

- So, the reason that your--

that your poem was good
w-was be-because of me.

- Get a load of this guy.

First, he humiliates his wife,

now he's trying to take credit
for her beautiful poetry.

- What a disgrace!

- A damn disgrace.

- Damn damn disgrace.

[CLUB MEMBERS CHATTER]

- Here.
A little bedtime reading.

- Dick, make a decision.
Who's the winner?

- Well, it's a--it's a
tough call,

but the winner is my--my lovely
and talented wife, Joanna.

[JOANNA SHRIEKS]

- I can't believe it.

After all these years
of never even coming close,

the one year
my husband is the judge

is the year that I finally win
this prestigious honor,

and I am just about
the happiest--

- Jo-Jo-Joanna, you're babbling.

- --girl in the world.

- Well, that--that puts an end
to our--

- Not so fast.

You still have to judge
the pastry competition.

- The--the pastry competition?

- Poetry counts for 10%.
Pastry for 90.

- It's a biathlon.

- You mean--you mean
all this--this poetry crap

w-was just a-a-a warmup
for a pastry competition?

- Well, why do you think
the pastry club hosts it?

- Wait until you sink your teeth
into my hot sticky buns.

- Don't listen to her.

I made my cranberry crisp.

- What's that?

- Dick, it's your favorite.

You know how much you love
my cranberry crisp

with a big cup of coffee.

- How else am I going to
worship Don?

- No, I understand.
Yeah, sure.

Same thing happened to, uh,
a few of the other guys.

Yeah, well, I'm sure
the pressure really cooks

when you're boning up
for a bar mitzvah.

Sure. Bye, Mohammed.

- Honey, I'm sorry
Miss Goddard won, but you know,

your cranberry crisp was a-a
touch on--on the dry side.

- Well,
it wouldn't have been dry

if you hadn't taken so long
judging the poetry.

- Joanna, th-there's no shame
in--in coming in dead last.

- I prefer to think of it as
a distant ninth, Judge Loudon.

- Is it just me,

or does this shower
seem kind of slow?

- I guess the concept of
an all-boys shower

was just too New Age
for this one-Porsche town.

At least you dudes showed up.

- Well, around here,
George and I are the vanguard

of everything hip and trendy.

- Anybody got their name
on this bowl of sauerkraut?

- It says George Utley now.

- Oh boy.

- Don't you want to consume
that kraut with your cronies?

- If you don't mind, I'd rather
party hearty alone in my room.

I've got some late-night
reading to do.

"The Branded Handyman."

- Well, goodnight.

- You're leaving too?
Don't you feel sorry for me?

- No more than usual.

- Oh, I get it.
You'd rather be with Joanna.

- Anybody got their name
on those cocktail wieners?

- Those dogs say Dick!

- Great shower.
- Thanks.

Care for a white wine spritzer?

- No.

- Bite of baklava?
Baked it myself.

- No.

- So, where's my shower gift?

- I didn't get you any.
- Oh.

- Well, 'night, Dick.

- I wonder if his poetry
is this good.

[♪♪♪]

- Meow.