Original subtitles

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The bidding stands at $8 million.

Nine million.

Ten million.

11 million!

$15 million.

Joan Miró's The Poetess, going once, going twice, sold.

To billionaire tech mogul Megan Matheson.

Hmph.

Don't take that painting, I love it!

I won't let you take it!

_

_

There you have it, Ms. Matheson,

Joan Miró's The Poetess.

My painting's been stolen.

That's impossible.

It's a mystery so baffling, only one man can solve it.

Get me Manacek.

_

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- Sync and corrections by ByDem - - www.addic7ed.com -

_

Thank goodness you're here, Mr. Manacek.

You're the best freelance insurance investigator

in the business.

Oh, well, isn't that just what we need?

Some smug pretty boy out to make us cops look stupid.

Ah, Clancy, you're looking well...

- fed. - Uh... see?

He put that pause between those two words deliberately.

Maybe I did, maybe I... didn't.

Well, two can play at that...

pause.

Three people bid on the stolen painting:

nuclear magnate Mr. Burns,

venture capitalist Megan Matheson

and mini golf cheat Homer Simpson.

They're all suspects.

I don't mind telling you, Manacek:

I hope you fall flat on your face.

Oh.

I hope not.

My mother's rather fond of it.

Damn your wit.

Look, Manacek, I don't know why you're talking to me.

It's my painting that was stolen.

Yes, but you insured a $15 million painting

for $30 million.

For a woman with a head for numbers, it doesn't add up.

You smug son of a bitch.

I like you, Manacek.

But you should be talking to the real painting thief:

the man I outbid, Montgomery Burns.

That's quite a workout you're getting.

Although, I can think of a better one.

Sorry, but I'm in a committed relationship

with the former Miss Denmark.

She's created a breed of mosquito that cures malaria.

Well, if she invents a cure for commitment, let me know.

Pull.

Shoot.

Nice shot, Mr. Burns.

You're a natural in the ancient art of skeet.

Oh, spare me your flattery, Manacek.

I know why you're here.

You think I stole that ridiculous painting.

Absurd.

A little clay pigeon told me

that you couldn't stand being outbid by... a woman.

Pull, pull, pull!

Looks like the only thing being hit around here...

is a nerve.

I'll blast that smile right off your smug face.

I like you, Manacek.

But it's obvious who took the painting.

That lunatic who said he'd do anything to have it:

Homer Simpson.

I... Did you bring that with you?

It's inflatable.

I got it at Brookstone.

_

I don't know what help I can be with your case, Mr. Manacek.

As you can see, I'm a very busy man.

According to my sources... Lenny...

you were obsessed with that painting.

I myself was once obsessed

with a suede sports jacket with leather pockets.

I would have done anything to get it.

Even steal a painting.

Me? Obsessed with some stupid painting?

That's absurd.

- Is it? - You're right.

I'd do anything to have that painting.

Lie, kill, steal. Well, not kill.

But I would steal it, and then lie about it.

But I didn't steal it.

And I'm not lying.

Believe me, or I'll kill you.

I like you, Manacek.

I'll kill you!

I like you.

Mr. Simpson, there's more to your story

than you're letting on.

And I'm gonna find out what.

Please don't.

Wow.

The pizza delivery boys get better looking all the time.

I'm Homer Simpson's wife.

I love wives. They never pester you to marry them.

Geez, you've got a lot of lines.

You will too, after I show you my corduroy sheets.

Mr. Manacek, my husband is a wreck.

Please, just give me a chance to convince you he's innocent.

Only if it's over dinner.

Uh, okay.

More Frito pie, Mr. Manacek?

Sure, why not?

If he's not guilty of stealing that painting,

why is Homer cowering on the stairs,

eating cereal straight from the box?

Well, Homer's so quick to panic.

It's his only flaw.

Marge, I need you to be straight with me.

Okay, I admit it, he has many flaws.

Thousands. Flaws.

Everywhere, flaws.

Your husband doesn't really seem like a typical art lover,

but he shows exquisite taste in the female form.

Hey, Front Pockets, quit hitting on my mom.

She only loves one stocky man in tight pants: our dad.

Sorry, I can only solve impossible crimes

if I'm seducing an amazing woman.

It's my process.

I'll tell you everything I know about Homer

for one of those Tiparillos.

No Tiparillos.

Women.

I like you, Manacek.

So let me clue you in on the real story

about my dad and that painting.

Homer was chaperoning my class field trip to the art museum,

and he was not happy about it.

Come on, come on. Hurry up in there.

Three to a urinal.

No hand washing, or we'll be late for lunch.

Hmm?

Sheesh, look at that stupid painting.

What is it even supposed to be?

Art should be of pretty ladies,

hunting dogs with dead rabbits, Bible crap

and 3-D sidewalk drawings

where it looks like you could fall in.

I get it.

I... get... it.

Mr. Simpson, some of the kids went to the gift shop.

We were only supposed to bring five dollars,

but some brought more.

Wha-Wha... What?

Oh, right. Chaperone.

Hmm... mmm?

This is warm beer.

That's an '07 Michelob.

Homer was saving it for a special occasion.

Mmm. Yes.

My husband just couldn't stop thinking about that painting.

Wha...? Honey,

I love a painting.

Oh, what is it of? Grapes?

- No. - Flowers?

- No. - Peaches?

No.

You sure it's a painting?

I'm positive. I touched it when no one was looking.

Well, there's nothing wrong with being an art lover

as long as it's representational.

Mmm...

It is representational, isn't it?

Tell me it's representational.

What else about our marriage is a lie?

Are you really a licensed DJ?

I took the courses, but I failed the test!

A blue-collar Joe suddenly likes modern art?

That story and two bits will get you a cup of coffee.

What year do you think it is?

Hey, who's the shamus here?

I'm telling you, deep down,

my dad is really sensitive.

Oh, good, you're awake.

You're the only one I can talk to about... this.

I know that painting.

It's called The Poetess by Joan Miró.

Why does it bring me such peace?

Why?!

See? Even though the painting is abstract,

that yellow circle can represent the sun.

Or Pac-Man at rest.

Dad, you think art sucks. Snap out of it.

Wow. I mean, wow.

Every time I look at it from a different angle,

I see something new.

I just want to take a moment

to acknowledge that for the first time,

you're dragging me into the museum.

Yeah, it's a Topsy-turvy world.

Beach volleyball's bigger than regular volleyball.

Sorry, pally. Sorry, gally.

But the museum's closed down for good.

Can we go in and look

at our favorite painting one last time?

It's called The Poetess.

Oh, it's right there, inside the crate

that's going to the auction house,

where a billionaire will buy it

and you'll never see it again.

Oh, and I'll have to take that, too.

Now museum, now you don't.

The Springfield Museum of Fine Art

is the latest victim of this city's budget woes.

The storied institution has closed its doors forever.

Its legendary art collection will be sold at auction

and its docents released into the wild.

The closure is being protested

by a coalition of local art lovers

and homeless bathroom users.

Picasso, Goya,

Cézanne, Dalí, _

selling off artwork _

would be folly. _

_

We're here, Vermeer, get used to it!

People, people. Government is about

making tough choices.

This was not one of them.

Museum attendance was near zero.

We lost thousands on stolen audio wands.

What do people want with wands?

These wands

are putting the hurt on these walnuts.

Notice how Edward Hopper's use of windows

invites the viewer into the scene

but also keeps them at bay.

But Mayor Quimby,

the Springfield Museum of Fine Art,

or SMOFA, was a jewel.

SMOFA was the one institution of genuine culture

our town could be proud of.

Stop saying SMOFA.

It never caught on.

Um, excuse me, Mayor SMOFA.

I'm not like these brainy tote bags over here.

I like my crusts stuffed, my martial arts mixed,

and my movies fully Sandler-ed.

But there's this painting from that museum,

and when I really look at it,

only one word explains what I feel.

What is it again?

Transgender.

Transcendent.

Transcendence doesn't fill potholes

or educate our children.

Did you know we had to lay off

a third of the police force?

That's right. Eddie.

I used to have a gun.

Fine, sell the artwork.

Let's move on to the next protest:

too many poke restaurants.

Poke is just okay.

Poke is just okay.

At Water's Edge by Paul Cézanne,

sold for $65 million.

Yeah! I'm as happy as Steve Martin.

It's... Oh, God, no.

_

Our last item is The Poetess by Joan Miró.

The bidding starts at $5 million.

I bid that.

- What are you doing? - I have a plan to get the painting.

$6 million.

I think we can do better than that.

I need this painting

for my private monkey sanctuary in Costa Rica.

The monkeys find the colors quite arousing.

$7 million.

- Eight million. - Nine million.

Sir, we attempted to verify your funds

at the First Bank of Moe's.

The man at the phone threatened to boil our skulls

and make them into...

rat toilets.

It's okay, Dad.

You just really loved that painting.

The bidding stands at $8 million.

- Nine million. - Ten million.

11 million.

$15 million.

Joan Miró's The Poetess going once...

going twice... sold!

To billionaire tech mogul Megan Matheson.

Hmph.

Don't take that painting, I love it!

I won't let you take it!

Your story had everything...

a field trip, a dream sequence, Sideshow Mel...

and it gave your father the perfect motive

TO STEAL THAT PAINTING:

a deeper connection to his daughter.

Well, maybe, but I'm sure he's innocent.

Mom, Lisa, 1970s horndog,

Dad's run off.

He's on the lam!

You know, once I send your husband to prison,

you'll be kind of single.

It seems Homer escaped out this window.

Hmm.

In all my years as an investigator,

I've never seen a trellis take such a pounding.

I know it looks bad,

but think about what we told you.

My husband could never have stolen that painting.

Hmm. Thank you, Marge.

I now know exactly how everything happened.

How do you know that?

I'll be happy to explain...

over breakfast?

You have a real problem with women.

I know. I'm seeing a therapist...

tonight at my place.

Oh, get out. Go, go!

White chocolate... the loneliest chocolate.

Homer, I know you're in there.

How did you find me?

I knew you'd return to the scene of the crime:

where your inner peace was stolen.

You can't bring me in. You're not a cop.

You're not even a regular insurance investigator.

You're freelance. You don't get paid

unless you submit an invoice.

Which lets me control when my corporate year ends.

You're always one step ahead.

I don't like you, Manacek.

Your family's story of how you fell in love

with that painting did prove your innocence.

- How? - By providing one crucial fact:

you're too dumb to steal anything.

Maybe I did take it.

- Trust me, you didn't. - I could have.

But I know you didn't. That's what I'm saying.

- I'm smart. - You're dumb.

After careful consideration of facts and evidence

observed only by me,

I can reveal who stole The Poetess:

Ms. Matheson.

Your last IPO was DOA,

and you needed the cash to keep your girlfriend

in hybrid mosquito larva.

I've seen it a thousand times.

Impossible! The armed guards

never let the painting out of their sight.

But which armed guards?

It was a simple matter of finding

the guards' identical twins,

then hiring them to rob their own brothers.

That's the last impossible mystery

you'll ever solve.

Well done, Mr. Manacek.

Who would have suspected

it was the person none of us had ever met before?

Yes, it's a shame she went through all that trouble

to steal a painting...

that had already been stolen...

by you.

Uh, not yet, sir.

I mean, how dare you accuse me of such a crime?

But the painting was safely in our vault

until it left the auction house.

But which auction house?

It was a simple matter _

of Burns building an identical auction house

next door to the real one.

The actual painting never left the vault,

so Burns could steal it at his leisure.

- Now? - Yes, sir.

My painting!

Oh, thank goodness those thieves didn't get you.

It's a shame I punched out a woman and an old man over...

a gift shop tote bag.

Lisa?

It wasn't my plan to steal it.

That painting was the first thing

my dad and I ever had in common.

I couldn't bear to see him lose it. _

It was a simple matter

of switching my canvas tote bag for the painting

before it was even auctioned off.

I knew it was wrong,

but isn't it a worse crime

to let some billionaire

hide art away

where guys like my dad can never fall in love with it?

So, who gets The Poetess now?

$10 million.

Ownership of the painting reverts back to the city.

But where will we hang it?

We're knocking down the art museum.

And what are you doing with the money Springfield got

from selling all the public's art?

Well, uh, we're, uh, building

certain vitally needed civic improvements.

_

Everything I love in one place.

Beer. Hot dog.

Bathroom. Painting. Daughter.

Marge, you're a beautiful woman,

but you're loyal to your husband.

And I respect that.

But if things were different, would I have a shot?

You are the most conceited,

chauvinistic, son of a...

I like you, Manacek.

- Sync and corrections by ByDem - - www.addic7ed.com -

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