All language subtitles for Duckman - 3x06 - A Room With a Bellevue-ing

(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.