Original subtitles

(whistles)

(quacks)

(screaming)

Bite me. You stink!

Eat masonry, duffy!

(angry shouting)

(piano clanging)

Bunch of thin-skinned, no-humor pansies.

You tell them an ice-breaker or two about women's libbers,

gays, environmentalists, several minorities,

the homeless, couple of religions, anorexics,

obese people, the handicapped, old farts, baldness

and people who walk real goofy 'cause they just had a vasectomy

and suddenly, they get all sensitive

like I'd offended one of them or something!

Makes you wonder why they even asked me to talk

in the first place.

Wasn't it community service for that incident with the ladder

at the second-story window of the girls' dormitory?

I told the judge it was sort of case-related...

in a way.

All I know is it's a good thing Cornfed was here

to rescue you today.

Yeah. That was truly amazing how you ran up on stage

told a few amusing anecdotes

then reasoned the mob

into taking the noose off his neck.

MAMBO: Not to mention how you got everyone

to hold hands, sway back and forth

and sing "Everything is beautiful"

in polyphonic harmony.

Hey, any ex-wandering troubadour/hostage negotiator

could have done it.

Look, I didn't need bacon breath here to save me, okay?

I could've handled those pantywaists.

I was just waiting for the right moment

to wind up the old haymaker and start dropping the bombs.

Yeah, right.

All we saw you dropping up there was your load.

(laughing)

Kids, if I may.

You should always respect a parent

over a close and seemingly more courageous friend of the family,

no matter how moronic, obnoxious, craven and cowardly

the parent seems to be.

And don't you forget it.

Yo! Yo! Yo! Hey, over here, man! Throw the ball!

Now, here's something

I have a-- shall we say-- small amount of expertise at.

I bet you didn't know your old man played

a little hoops in high school.

That's right. I once almost covered a guy

whose dad sold a car to the sister

of the all-city high school basketball champ.

Guess I ought to show these asphalt amateurs

the meaning of showtime.

(yelling)

Go for it, Corn.

Let's see what you can do.

Move that casaba.

Well, I'll give it a whirl.

Shucks. Caught some rim.

Whoa, dude.

Doctor C!

Did you play in high school too?

No. I was once kidnapped

by a cabal of kick-boxing ninja who forced me nightly

to play a deadly game of steel cage basketball

where the losers were beheaded.

Yeah, well... I'll bet there wasn't a shot clock.

And finally, remember, kids:

Floss daily to avoid tartar buildup,

carpool whenever possible, and over-tip

food and beverage servers.

It's 80% of their income.

(playing fanfare)

ALL: Surprise!

Why... well, thank you, everyone.

I, I got to admit, since my birthday was last week

and no one said anything, I, I thought you forgot.

We did, you flyspeck.

This is for Cornfed.

Cornfed? His birthday's not for another six months!

We know, but we just couldn't wait.

Happy birthday, Cornster!

(cheering)

Oh, by the way.

In all the excitement, we forgot to tell you.

You got a case!

(growls)

All right, let's book, birthday boy.

Everyone thinks you're so much better than me.

Let them watch while I crack this case open

like a three-egg omelet.

Let them see for themselves,

you don't have half the observational skills that I do.

Where the hell are my keys?

In your right hand.

(grunts)

"In your right hand."

Little bovine pain in the... (door slams)

DUCKMAN: It's a new game out here, clove-foot.

No soapboxes to stand on, no naive kids eating up

your every stealing- from-their-father move.

This is my turf.

I'm in charge here,

and I'm only gonna tell you once.

No popping off!

Aah! Well, now look what you made me do!

I got to go in there with a picture of me and Vanna White

frolicking naked with a tribe of pygmies on my chest.

Hmm. Looks like synchronized swimmers, crocheting mittens,

in a pool filled with truffles to me.

You're sick.

All right, let's go, and remember:

I have a perfectly honed instinct for this work.

You want to learn something, do exactly as I do.

Imitate my every move.

(yelling and grunting)

Do I have to do the yell too?

Whoa! Howdy, partner.

Took a shot to the keister, huh?

It's the fried food.

The grease makes things a little slick around here.

Yeah, thanks for the news flash, hopalong.

Here's an idea that's sweeping the nation:

Warning signs!

Oh. Keep them up there on the walls, huh?

(yelling)

My name's Bob, as in for apples.

Bob Heiny, I'm general manager here.

Any particular reason you got a picture of a drag queen

on a shetland pony licking a flaming banjo on your chest?

Never mind that!

I'm Duckman, private eye.

I'm here to investigate the, uh...

you know, the, uh... thing that needs investigating.

Sorry, partner, I'm not sure I know (moos)

what y'all are talking about.

Look, Wyatt, I don't know how they do things

on the Planet Redneck, but around here,

we cooperate with law enforcement officials.

You're only a private investigator.

Don't sass me, fry boy!

You won't talk, I can always apply a little persuasion.

Ew... You don't have to get ugly, son.

Maybe Mrs. De Ree sent for you. (screams)

Her husband just died.

Come with me.

This is it, gentlemen, the the De Ree Waffles

and Roast Beef on a Stick Factory.

Interesting name for a business.

What exactly do you make here?

Waffles and roast beef on a stick, Duckman.

I know that, Mr. Second-in-Command,

who wasn't asked the question.

I was just seeing if he was cooperating yet.

Mmm. Not bad.

Tastes like a little something extra

is mixed in with the beef.

Of course there is. You think a rat problem

like this side of town had just suddenly goes away?

We like to say at De Rees, "Roast beef is more

than just a dead cow with its head chopped off."

Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa! (crashing)

Here we are.

You might want to go easy on her.

She's been pretty torn up since he passed on.

So the midget says, "Enjoy it?

Hell, I was eating lunch in there."

(laughing)

(gasping)

(explosion)

MAN: Grease fire! Grease fire!

Yes? (sniffles) May I help you?

I'm, uh... Duckman, private detective,

and renaissance duck...

(chuckling)

...at your beck and call.

And I'm... Insignificant at the moment.

We understand there's a case you need us to investigate.

Yes, there is.

Thank goodness you're here.

Excuse me. Why do you have a picture of me, a rabbi

and six drunken longshoremen rolling around

on a rubber bed on your chest?

(clears throat) About the case?

(sobbing)

Of course.

Yes, it concerns my poor Stanley.

Actually, he was very wealthy.

By poor, I meant dead.

(sobbing and sniffing)

There seems to be a suspicion

that Stanley's death involved foul play.

Clearly, there's nothing to support that theory,

but the insurance company is insisting on an investigation.

They won't even let me move the body

until it's proven that he died of natural causes.

Do you think you can help me?

Uh... sorry, I didn't hear you.

I was staring at your breasts.

I understand.

They're very supple, I'm told.

(clears throat) Excuse me, Mrs. De Ree, I'm...

Beginning to annoy me.

Go on, Mrs. De Ree.

Val. It's clear to even the most casual observer

what killed Stanley.

Cholesterol.

Obviously, there are those who might think

I killed my husband for the insurance money,

then hired an idiot P.I.

to say I didn't, so I could get a big fat check

and make immediate plane reservations

to a sunny tropical resort, and live happily ever after.

Oh, well, the fools.

D'oh! Here, let me get those plane tickets

to Rio for you.

Well, it's clear,

you need to get your mind off your troubles.

In fact, I know just the place--

beer nuts, scantily clad women dancing in cages--

they know me there.

I could get us a table in front.

Duckman, judging by some of the things in this room,

I think we should ask Mrs. De Ree a few questions.

I told you to stay out of this.

What's to be gained from asking

this poor, sad, full-figured woman

a bunch of meaningless questions?

As far as I'm concerned, that's all this is--

just an open-and-shut case of improper diet.

Ooh, pretty parrot.

Say, "Hello, Duckman."

(squawking): Stop it, Val!

You're killing me!

Well, fine, if you can't do it.

As I was saying, my years of experience tell me

this very rich and refreshingly flirtatious young lady

is being needlessly harassed.

This was not a murder.

MAN: Val, put down that gun!

You're my wife. Don't shoot!

I can't hear myself think!

The point being as this busty,

and suddenly available, one-nighter possibility

is clearly innocent of any wrongdoing,

it's our duty to do what we can to prove it.

Never fear, Val, I'll be tireless in my efforts,

for Duckman doesn't know the meaning of the word "quit."

Apparently, the word "clue" slipped through

the cracks as well.

Where do you get off, pork rinds?

Making a crack about my investigative abilities?!

Who the hell do you think you are?

I'm your partner, Duckman.

Maybe I'm out of line, and nail me to the barn

and call me Hector if I am,

but the truth is, you're blinded by lust.

You're missing things no detective-- even you--

should ever miss.

Duckman, I think the way you're acting is,

well... I'll say it... unprofessional.

Unprofessional?! After everything else today,

you have the gall to criticize me?!

Well, that's it, bacon fat!

You can sit on a spit and rotate!

From now on, you're one stuck pig!

You hear me?! Shove an apple in it, buster!

You're done-- and I mean, well-done, finished!

Bring out the ketchup, folks!

We got ourselves some pork chops,

and they're going down hard!

Are you trying to tell me something?

Get out!

You're not my partner anymore!

You're fired!

(door shuts)

Hi. I'm not an actor,

but I play one on TV,

and that's why I bikini wax with the new and improved

"Gee, Your Groin Looks Well-Groomed."

Yeah, well, that's enough groovin' on the tube.

Very nice, very nice.

No more Cornfed around, yammering all the time

about this, that, that, this.

Well, nothing like a stimulating game of darts...

(yelps)... to get the juices going.

Yessiree, this is the life.

Doing things... * my way. *

I'd say my life is pretty much right on target.

(air hissing)

Who needs a parnter?

It's about time I got things heading in the right direction.

The reason people come to the Duckman Detective Agency

is Duckman, not Cornfed.

(buzzer) Phone call for Mr. Cornfed.

Fax for Mr. Cornfed.

Carrier pigeon for Mr. Cornfed.

Semaphore for Mr. Cornfed.

Smoke signals for Mr. Cornfed.

Cornfed doesn't work here anymore!

Hmm. Let's try him at home.

Why are you bothering me with all that stuff for?

I told you-- he's gone, fired!

He was nothing but a big pink weight on my shoulders,

and we're better off without him.

If you say so.

How's the case going without him?

Case? What case?

Oh, right! The case.

I was just about to put it to bed-- along with the client.

The kind of joke he probably enjoyed telling

when Cornfed was around.

Hey, maybe it's time for you two hairballs

to do something around here

besides irritating the hell out of me.

You want our help?

On a case?

Let's start with a couple of questions--

not that I don't already know the answers. I do.

I just want to, you know, see how you're thinking.

Suppose you're the chairman of a large...

Ah-ah-ah-ah. Chairperson.

Suppose you're the chairperson of a large corporation

that makes meat on a stick...

Oh, Mr. Duckman!

We couldn't support the killing

of animals for food.

Nor the senseless slaughter of trees for sticks.

Okay. You're the chairpeople of a large

environmentally friendly corporation

that produces wholesome apples.

Now, you're supposed to prove

that someone died of natural causes.

What would you do?

Are the apples free-range

or are they grown in captivity?

(screaming)

So, Mr. Cornfed, I understand

you recently joined the unemployed.

What makes you think we'd have an opening here?

(screaming)

(crashing)

Wild guess.

Do you have a resume?

I just threw it together this morning.

Hmm. I see you were a member of the Irish Parliament.

Sure and begorra.

And under your interests,

you list origami.

What exactly is that?

Got a matchbook?

Impressive, but do you know anything about mail?

Hmm. Postal worker in rural China,

avid stamp collector,

author, So You Want to Be a Mailman.

Well, Mr. Cornfed, when can you start?

No time like the present.

Could I use the rest room first?

Sure, you can't miss it.

Make a right at the cow bones grinding

and marrow extraction room, a quick left

at the chicken-squeezing, ovum-cracking pit,

and then a sharp circle 'round the gobstopper

and gizzard suction chamber.

I'll hold it in.

Sure, you're starting at the bottom,

but like in every big corporation,

some of our most promising executives-to-be

are working right here in the mail room.

Your job is just to sort the mail,

if you can hold onto it.

Got any napkins?

Napkins?!

That's brilliant!

Napkins.

Great idea. Yeah, napkins.

Mr. Cornfed, you're going places here.

In fact, next opening we get, you're moving out

of this mail room.

Surprise!

(cheering and applause)

(applause)

Hell of a first day, Corny.

Glad to be aboard, Bob.

What?

I start all my investigations here.

(sighs)

Hey, someone here might know something.

Hey, the case is almost solved.

So I'm nine months behind.

Didn't you ever hear of a grace period?

(grunting painfully)

Stop! Hey!

Gee, Mr.Duckman,

I don't think you're ever going to prove

that woman innocent.

I'll bet it would help

if Cornfed were here.

We now return to the USA premiere movie...

We heard about Cornfed.

I'll bet you laughed when they shot Old Yeller,

clapped when Bambi's mother died,

cheered when Danny Bonaduce got busted.

All I can say is what you did really stinks.

(breaks wind)

(grunts)

I am sensing you're in a... predicament.

Get me out of these.

(yells)

I am sensing you're in pain.

Look, I'm desperate. I got nowhere else to turn.

I can't crack this case.

I've crawled through the bowels of this vermin-infested city

searching for the answer.

I've hit rock bottom.

I can't think about anything else except this!

These things free?

They're a dime, but it goes to the rain forest.

(spits) I owe them a nickel.

So you need a clue.

Have a seat.

This will cost you $20.

Here, anything for some help.

In that case, I meant 25.

I know what the real problem is,

but we'll have to go back into your past

to find the solution.

(grunting)

No, that's not it.

Psst! Boys, boys.

If you want the prophet Cornfed,

he'll be over at the garden--

you know, Gethsemane.

Hey, everybody,

look at this water I turned into wine.

CROWD: Ooh, wow.

No, that's not it.

(grunting)

(panting)

Hey, everyone,

look what I pulled out of the stone.

(crowd cheering)

That's not it either.

I think we're searching for something

in your present life.

Hey, I don't care if you are just working here

till you graduate from astronaut school and orbit that planet.

Everyone knows a baker's dozen is 13.

Duck. Moron!

No, I mean "duck."

You, you took a bullet for me?

It's all right. I've got another kidney.

Who are you?

The name's Cornfed.

Well, I'm Duckman.

Want to be my partner?

Sure. If I don't die.

Ooh, that smarts.

You're not going to die! You're not going to die!

I'll get you to the hospital if it's the last thing I do.

I won't think about anything else

till I know you're all right.

These things free?

(groans)

(choking)

Oh, well, there's always dialysis.

Three times! He didn't even know you

and he saved your life three times!

Yeah, I... vaguely remember that.

He's a good person, isn't he?

The way he never thinks of himself--

always puts others first.

He is better than me.

That's why I did what I did-- I'm jealous.

I shouldn't feel that way about my best friend.

I should be thankful he is my friend.

I should get down on my knees and thank my lucky stars

that a person like Cornfed is even in my life,

which, at the moment, he isn't.

I got to go find him and do anything I can to get him back.

Oh, what a magical, mysterious find you are.

There's truly nothing else like you in the entire universe.

Oops.

Just wondered if the ball knew where he was.

Excuse me, Mrs. Ree, Bob's left on his vacation.

I need you to sign these productivity reports.

Come in.

You're here awfully late.

Insomnia.

Ought to stop by my place-- try it with me sometime.

Odd. Take a look at the signature you just gave me.

Now, take a look at the signature

on your trout fishing license.

Clearly, not the same.

However, note the resemblance

between this signature and Bob Heiny's.

Those signatures look nothing alike.

Maybe not to the untrained eye,

but I graduated first in my class

from the John Hancock Institute of Graphology.

My, my, seems your Heiny's in a sling, Bob.

You deep-sixed the old man

and set up his dame as a patsy,

knowing the minute he was tucked in with a shovel,

she'd take a powder to Rio and you could disguise yourself

as her and take over the business.

I just have to know, Bob-- was it the bloodlust,

was it the power, was it the money?

Actually, I just wanted to be her--

wear her clothes, put on her makeup,

set free the girlish passion that was dying for a voice.

That was my next guess.

Didn't count on an undercover pig

being on me like pee on a bum's shoes.

What gave it away?

The lavender handbag.

Val has better fashion sense than that.

You win, Heiny.

One last smoke?

You know, smoking can be deadly.

So can origami.

(speaking gibberish Japanese)

What's that mean?

Let's get physical.

Sayonara, Cornfed.

Corny!

Thank God, I fou..!

(machinery starts)

Duckman, you saved my life.

Yeah, well...

about time I paid you back.

Listen, Corny, old boy, you and I have

sort of a history together, and, well...

what I'm trying to say is...

You want me back.

But not at the salary I was paying you.

After all, you did run out on me.

I had to crack this case by myself.

Whatever you say, Duckman.

By the way, someone who knew you were feeling bad

about things told me to remind you

that there are a lot of ways

one person can be better than another,

like in providing a home away from home for a partner,

and in being the best father you know how.

Who told you that?

Your kids.