Original subtitles

(quacks)

(horns honking)

(yells)

Ajax, I told you to wake me at 7:00!

Don't worry, Dad, it's only 12:00, 12:00,

12:00, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00...

If I don't call the governor in time

with this new evidence I found,

they're going to give a wrongly accused killer the chair.

(electrical buzzing)

Oh, well. Back to bed.

Duckman, aren't you forgetting something?

(electrical buzzing)

Oh, right. His accomplice.

No, you downy dullard, the twins' birthday.

The same day each year you just happen to get robbed at gunpoint

of all the money you were going to spend on their presents!

Aha, of course!

And this year, I dodged a bullet

to bring them this.

It's ribbed and glows in the dark.

I've had much better luck with these than those experimental gauze kind.

Actually, Dad, in lieu of one of your

delightful gifts from the heart,

we have a favor to ask.

Since Aunt Bernice is taking the family to dinner tonight,

we thought you could follow the example

of all the other fathers in the world

and actually wear clothes.

Oh, fine. Squash the natural expression of my beauty.

I'll wear my new suit.

Ya like?

Amazing, the stuff you find in a train wreck.

Well, at least get it cleaned and extinguished.

And if you're not on time at the boys' birthday tonight,

you'll have a smoking carcass

to go with your smoking jacket!

Family. Can't live with them,

can't stuff a throw pillow over them while they sleep

then toss their lifeless bodies into a woodchipper.

Kid-ding.

(birds chirping)

(motor humming)

Hey, Gene! Feel free to toss all your leaves onto my lawn

because my property is nothing if not a dumping ground

for my slope-headed neighbors

who are too stupid to work a rake!

Oh, sorry, neighbor.

I won't blow any more... leaves.

(motor humming)

(grunting)

(horns honking, Latin music playing)

(horn blares)

(buzzing)

(buzzing)

Note to myself.

No more meat-flavored cologne.

I need this cleaned.

Okay, how's Friday?

How's 5:00?

How's two Saturdays

from now at 1:45?

Listen, Martinizer,

I may not exactly be a member of the so-called

intelligen... ser... uh... ia,

but when you say "In by 9:00, out by 5:00"

doesn't that mean if I bring something in by 9:00

it'll be out by, oh, I don't know... 5:00?

I suppose you could take it that way,

but you didn't get it in by 9:00.

Your clock says 9:00.

It's fast.

That would make it before 9:00.

I mean... slow.

Your whole plan is to stall

until it's after 9:00, isn't it?

Yes.

Suit! Clean! 5:00!

Okay, the cleaning will be ready by 5:00,

but the mending won't be done until Friday.

(growling)

(horns honking, Latin music playing)

Carjacking.

(engine revving)

(tires screech)

(horns honking)

No offense, Dillinger, but you must feel

like a complete moron.

Not really.

Keying!

Four hours to get to the office.

I'm surrounded by crooks and clapperheads.

CORNFED: this is Mr. Griswoldvanderhorn and his lawyer.

We were going to pay you, honest.

We just need more time.

Please don't sue.

Please, please, please, please!

Uh, Duckman, Mr. Griswoldvanderhorn's a client.

He actually owes us money.

Oh, Mr. Gris wold vanderhorn.

So many clients' names sound alike.

Yes, well, this makes everything I've gone through today worthwhile.

And how will you be paying that-- in cash, cash or cash?

We won't be paying it at all.

What?! You can't do that!

Actually, they can.

It says here on page 12, paragraph three, subsection B,

The client doesn't have to pay

if he doesn't want to.

Fine. Then you write the contracts from now on.

(screams)

1:00 already!

If I leave now, I can get to the cleaners by 5:00.

(horns honking, siren wailing)

So this is what's been slowing me down.

(men laughing)

(frustrated growling)

(tires squealing)

(engine dieseling, Duckman screams)

(hissing, engine stalls)

(growling)

(muffled scream)

I made it! Where's my suit?

Excuse me, sir, read the sign.

What does it say under that other sign?

Nothing. It doesn't say anything.

What a strange question. You go now.

(shrieking)

I can't take it anymore!

(Duckman shrieking)

I just want to get home for my kids' birthday,

but this whole leaf-blowing, false-advertising,

traffic-stopping, tax-dollar-squandering,

workers-on-permanent- coffee-break,

upper-class-money-dodging, stolen-car-parts-dealing,

sign-changing society won't let me!

And you know who's to blame?!

We all are!

We say we hate lawyers, but we can't wait to sue somebody.

We want leaders to make tough choices,

then we vote them out when they do!

We all want X-rated older-women- with-hirsute-upper-lips

chat lines, then scream bloody murder when we get the bill!

I ask you-- what's happened to logic in this world?

You're under arrest.

For what? I have a right to speak my mind.

We're arresting you for ranting in public

without a starched collar.

What kind of idiot law is...?

(screams)

(groans)

(wheels squeaking)

Let's get a few things straight.

As your court-appointed attorney, I don't know you.

I have far too many cases to become emotionally attached,

and I don't get paid enough to care.

But here's my card; in case you're a recidivist,

you'll get 10% off your next case.

Deal. I've got 20 minutes to make it to my kids' birthday.

What's my quickest way to get me out of here?

Plead insanity.

Your honor, I plead insanity.

I hereby commit you to 30 days psychiatric evaluation

at the state mental hospital.

Whoo-hoo!

I am out of here.

Goo...

(yelling)

I supposed I should've seen that coming.

(electrical buzzing, Duckman screaming)

To maintain the illusion

that you'll be treated as individuals,

we're giving you a battery of psychological tests.

Remember, there are no right and wrong answers,

just sane and insane ones.

You have ten minutes

to complete part one.

Go.

Pencils down.

Who thinks ten minutes actually passed?

You have temporal disorders.

The rest of you, please continue.

Hey, hey, hey, not so rough.

Ease up, haystack.

Don't dent the down.

(grunting)

Who here thinks they just saw a big, yellow duck?

(grunts)

Okay, look, let me save you some time.

I'm not like these other bathrobe-wearing,

string-collecting, wife-for-hat-mistaking wingnuts

who think they're the Messiah.

(laughs)

That's not for you to say,

now, is it, Mr... "Duke-mah"?

I am Dr. Henri Ducharme.

And this is Dr. Georg Morsink.

And we wanted to examine you by giving you some simple tests.

Fine, fine.

But no rectal probes, okay?

I'm saving some things for my next honeymoon.

Quiet! I will show you a picture.

You will tell me what you see.

(screaming)

(nervous laughter)

All I see is a little square,

not Satan worshippers dressed like my mother,

and certainly not surrounded by clams

who are trying to devour my flesh.

Why don't you tell us about your first

sexual encounter?

Well, it's, uh, it's quite a story.

In fact, I never thought these things really happened

to guys like me.

Boy, was I wrong.

I was a freshman at a small liberal arts college

and I was called in to see my professor,

a 39-23-35 beauty, whose large, heaving breasts

were barely concealed beneath her skimpy crop-top.

Suddenly, she grabbed my swollen...

No, no.

Your first sexual experience,

not a letter to Penthouse.

This wasmy first sexual experience,

and my second and my third through 845th.

In fact, if I could have

a few minutes alone and a small towel...

Sue me, I'm colorful.

Doesn't mean I belong in here

making potholders with the wackos.

Besides, what gives you

the right to judge other people anyway?

The diploma.

Judging people is pretty much the main benefit.

That and the license plates with "MD" on them.

You can park almost anywhere.

And when you think about it, isn't that exactly the point?

(timidly): Parking.

And driving and shopping and eating and working.

Somewhere, somehow, they all got chewed up and spit back out,

and they don't taste like living anymore.

Don't you see what it's like

in this deranged Waring Blender of a world?

Every day is an agonizing ordeal,

like balancing a pot of scalding water on your head

while people whip your legs and butt.

Ah, you never forget your senior prom.

You think I'm sick?

Well, the only disease I've got is modern life:

a schnutbusting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery

that's one long parade of letdowns, put-downs,

trickle downs, shutouts, freeze-outs, sellouts,

numnuts, nincompoops and nimrods,

all making every day as much fun

as waxing a flaming Pontiac with your tongue,

where even if you do luck into the possibility

of some fleeting pleasure,

like say if some nymphomaniac telephone operators,

with the muscle control of Rumanian mat-slappers,

agree to a little strip air hockey,

it'll be over before it starts, 'cause some vowel-lacking,

feta-reeking, cab-jockey slams his Checker up your hatchback

and the cab is owned by some pinata spanker

from a Santeria cult in Xoacalpa

who starts shaking chicken bones at you

and gives you a boil on your neck so big

all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete.

And even with all this-- with all this!--

I still drag my sorry butt off the Sealy every morning

and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day,

knowing when it's time

to flash the cosmic card key at those Pearly Gates,

I won't be in the coffin anyway

'cause some underhanded undertaker

sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted Good 'N' Plenty

to that same Santeria cult!

So, does anybody really wonder

why anybody is hanging onto sanity by the atoms

on the tips of their fingernails

while life dirty-dances on their digits,

and is it really any wonder that I seem deranged?!

But (chuckles) that's probably nothing you haven't heard

a hundred times before.

Get me the Freud Institute, the AMA

and book me on Ricki Lake.

I'll do the talk shows.

I've already diagnosed this

as a new psycho-sexual phenomenon--

"The Ducharme Syndrome."

Schweinhund!

I've diagnosed it as a sexual-psycho phenomenon,

and I'm calling it "Morsink's Malady."

Buzz off, you narcissistic Nazi.

Nice talk, Mr. Gender Identity Disorder.

Or should I say, Miss Gender Identity Disorder?

At least I didn't hypnotize Stone Phillips

after an appearance on Dateline

and then try to have sex with him.

I told you, a fly landed on his buckle!

And at least I haven't been rendered impotent

by latent pedophilia.

At least mine is latent.

Pansy! Wormwand!

Stinkleberry! Strudel noodle!

Hey, didn't Ricki Lake already do an insane duck show?

Yeah, last month, during sweeps.

The duck surprised the heroin-addicted, right-wing,

paroled serial murder with a gun fetish

by telling him he loved him on the air.

And the man flipped out and shot the duck

and most of the studio audience with an Uzi

he was carrying over his shoulder.

Who could have predicted?

Those things always come as shock.

Anyway, what's up, docs-- am I getting out of here or what?

Well, apparently, you're demented, delusional

and, most likely, dangerous,

but that's only good if it helps our careers.

However, we do get paid $400 a day by the state

to spend $18 on you

so we'll keep you here for the rest of the month

and run further tests.

(Duckman grunts)

I tell you-- going inside a person's head

and making omniscient and absolute decisions

on things we couldn't possibly know for certain

is exhausting.

Sure is. Let's go to the dispensary and relax.

DUCKMAN: All righty, I'll see your Xanax

and raise you two phenobarbitals.

(sighs) Too rich for my blood.

(mumbling)

Oh. Oh, no.

The shakes are starting.

I need my L-Dopa.

Should have thought of that before you bluffed

my pair of fives with that straight flush.

So, patsies, how's it work?

How do they know who's nutso and who isn't?

A definitive clinical response is almost impossible

given the vagaries of the human mind.

For a more informed answer, I'd have to ask

my invisible friend, the Great Tontoon.

I wouldn't have a clue either.

But I might.

Mostly though, sheep have the biggest sinks.

Uh-huh. Well, no matter. All I really want to know

is why I got to be stuck in this loonatorium

when all I really need is...

WOMAN: Dinner!

Not too shabby.

None of Bernice's kelp or bran,

and sporks, my favorite harmless utensil.

(slurping, burps)

If I were allowed to wear a belt, I'd loosen it contentedly.

I'd sure love to sit out on a...

WOMAN: Patio!

Everyone to the patio for evening relaxation.

I feel like a... (crickets chirping)

Nap!

I wonder what's on...

Television!

Breakfast!

Hey, guys, you got to read this Gatsby book.

"And so we beat on, boats against the current,

borne back ceaselessly into the past."

It's sad, but...

but beautiful, you know?

Mr. "Duke-mah," the court ordered

a one-month observation period.

Though we still find you more poorly adjusted

than James Dean's brake linings,

clinically, you are not crazy

so, you are free to go.

Go?! Ha! Out there?

With the noise, and the cleaners and construction workers?

I don't think so.

I actually read this book, and I never read books

that don't have the word "spank" in the title.

Who had the time with all the shouting and anarchy and chaos?

The regimentation here is just what I've needed.

The perfect antidote to the haphazard world outside.

I feel like I've wasted all this time

scrambling around, misusing my time and energy.

Hey, just like Gatsby.

What are you saying, Mr. "Duke-mah"?

I'm staying. I love it here.

I need a place where things work

like they're supposed to when they're supposed to.

When I, uh, spill something on my sheets, I get new ones.

When I want pepper steak, it's pepper steak day.

The guy who cleans the bathroom does it so well,

I don't even try to aim.

I've always wanted to live in a world

that fits the way I think and feel,

and I've found it, here, in an asylum!

And I ain't never leaving!

Ethically, we can't keep a sane man confined.

Which is why we keep these handy.

Would you be willing to sign this form

permanently committing yourself

to the institution?

Faster than you can say Jimmy Piersall.

Done and doner.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's 18 minutes to lunch

and I've heard this guy Dickens is a real ray of sunshine.

Should make my, uh... (sniffing)

El Ranchero and peas even tastier.

It was the best of times and the best of times.

Hmm.

Aunt Bernice.

We were in our rooms

enjoying a quiet evening of, respectively

quantum theory...

Nuclear physics...

And updating my collection of cold sores...

When we realized why everything was so peaceful and idyllic--

Dad's still gone.

Really? I hadn't noticed.

Sorry to come in without knocking

but these shows are only 22 minutes.

Since it's been well over a month

since Duckman entered the mental hospital,

I can only assume that he's being held against his will,

and, once again, it's up to us to rescue him.

Oops, I'm due at a rehearsal of the tristate water safety

civilian review board pep gals glee club.

Bernice, this is about the right of ordinary citizens

to be free from the capricious imposition

of a state-enforced idea of normalcy.

Also, he owes me three dollars.

You're right, Cornfed.

No innocent person should suffer like that,

and neither should Duckman.

Once more into the breach!

Hyah!

We demand you release Duckman immediately.

No.

We did everything we could.

Who's for waffles? (cheering)

CORNFED: Cornfed's log, Pigdate 31489.7,

or, in layman's terms, Tuesday.

Conventional efforts to free Duckman have failed

so I've had to resort to my emergency contingency plan.

(humming)

Just think, one month ago, my world was a living hell,

and now I get to shower every day

with a bunch of naked, wet, insane people.

(man yelps) WOMAN: Uh-uh-uh.

There'll be no sodomy

or you'll get a lobotomy.

MAN: sorry, I thought he was catatonic.

Nothing like a schedule, right, gang?

Ten minutes for staring and drooling,

then it's twitching and moaning time.

Duckman, were you able to get

that strawberry Jell-O for me?

On your plate tonight, and look in the mashed potatoes--

there's an extra dose of Librium for Bastille Day.

Hey, Frankeroonie,

Had a wonderful and horrible time last night.

That's the last time I party with the manic depressives.

(yelps)

Don't you ever knock?

Duckman, I'm afraid we'll have to dispense

with our usual time-killing, lively banter.

You're in terrible danger.

The fact that you're enjoying your time here

like it's a vacation

has convinced them that you're really crazy

and they've scheduled you for electroshock.

That's ridiculous.

I stole your chart. Take a look.

Electroshock is, like, a bad thing, right?

I've planned your escape.

Let's go. (door opens)

(screams)

Shh, it's me.

I'm disguised as a psychotic delusion.

Typical mental health professionals

refuse to acknowledge any violation

of their hyper-rational world view.

As a result, they can't see me.

(panicked yelling) I see a monster!

Of course you do.

Medication!

I brought one for you, too.

Scarlett O'Hara?

I had a lot of taffeta lying around.

The monster's dating a fictional Civil War heroine!

Of course he is.

Straitjacket and gurney!

So we can waltz right out of here without anyone seeing us?

Yes, but be careful-- we'll only stay delusions

as long as we avoid anything these characters

would ever actually say or do.

Oh, fiddle-dee-dee.

What? It's a common expression.

Holding me against my will

is a violation of the Hippocratic oath,

the Geneva convention and the UN Charter.

Oh, fiddle-dee-dee.

Hmm.

You are insane, and I can prove it.

Hmm. A PTA meeting with cucumbers instead of parents.

That's it! You're the first one to ever get it right!

You're free to go.

Thanks.

Sorry.

(gulps)

So, here I am, about to be tapioca.

And make no mistake: I am a nutcase.

It didn't work on the outside, didn't work on the inside.

So, what else could I be but crazy?

Clearly, the only thing to do is hickory smoke my brain

to perfection with 10,000 volts of electricity.

(chuckles)

10,000 volts?!

(screams)

Good morning.

Duckman, are you all right?

Those doctors gave you electroshock.

Good for me.

You don't mind having your brain destroyed?

Heck no. They're board-certified professionals.

They know what's best. (horns honking)

Oh, boy! Highway construction!

(horns honking, country music playing)

How wonderful to see the government using

my hard-earned money to improve my life.

Duckman, those workers are just goofing off.

Nonsense and tosh, Corny.

They're using their cowboy boots to tamp down the asphalt.

Besides, I love this song.

CORNFED: Cornfed's log, supplemental.

Duckman has become a cheerful, mindless zombie.

In many ways, this is an improvement

but his pro-country music attitude has me worried.

(country music continues playing)

Look, a note from my family.

"Welcome home, Duckman.

"We have a dangerous gas leak and have fled for our lives.

Go in and take care of it."

Ah, how thoughtful.

They spelled my name right.

Hello, Gas Company?

I have a dangerous leak.

Well, great. Thank you.

They said to wait here

and they'll show up whenever they feel like it.

Doesn't that annoy you?

Of course not.

After all, I'mpaying them.

Duckman, you can't keep waiting.

Oh, nonsense.

I'm sure they'll be here before winter.

You need to get some fresh air.

You're right, old friend.

There's nothing like fresh air.

Oh, well, serves me right for disobeying gas company orders.

Breathe this.

Terrific!

What-What's going on?

I've reversed your electroshock.

Lucky I sent away for that course in neurosurgery.

Hey, if Sally Struthers is selling, I'm buying.

You see, Duckman, I realized

that it's the person who can cheerfully accept

the madness of this world that is truly insane.

You said a mouthful, old swine of mine.

That hospital may have been a stinking hellhole,

but the so-called normal world is really bad.

So, let's face it, the only answer,

the only sane way to deal with any of this

is ruthless random acts of violence.

Making sure they're wiped out--

the innocent and guilty alike, (bone snaps)

in a hail of gunfire.

Cleft in twain by my mighty sword!

Trampled into the dust and squashed

like the stupid, tiny unsegmented insects they are!

And...

Of course, I may need to do a little fine-tuning.

(whirring)

(instrument whirring and grinding)

(crackling, moist splatter)

CORNFED: Oy.

(man singing in Spanish)

*

*

(music fades)

DUCKMAN: Good for me.