Original subtitles

(whistles)

I'm happy.

Maybe it has to do with getting fried last night

and passing out with my hand on my crotch

watching some kind of fire on TV.

I think it was TV.

It wasn't.

Ah, well, life's an ever unfolding blah-blah-blah.

The point is, I've had an epiphany.

You mean a sudden revelation

about the essence of existence?

Oh, uh... no.

What's the word?

Colonic.

This morning, I feel refreshed, revitalized

and reeking of happiness.

Now, I know what you'd say if I let you say anything.

"Duckman, how can you feel good

if you're not making others miserable?"

How shallow.

If history teaches us anything,

it's that our happiness

need not cause others pain.

(tiny screams)

That, and never bet on a race

if you can't remember which horse you drugged.

And now, to begin my perfect day.

D'wah!

My car's gone!

D'wah!

D'wah!

D'wah.

Street cleaning?

This is the same garbage I dumped here a month ago.

How come I have to spend all that time and effort

avoiding taxes for services the city never gives me anyway?

(yells)

Talk about irony.

Public transportation-- what a farce.

No one rides except a bunch of loud-mouthed vandals.

Damn bus wouldn't even stop

till I screamed at the driver

and spray-painted the windshield.

Duckman, we have a client.

What's it this time--

some rich broad offering a reward

for her diamond necklace that's caught on her belt?

Why, that's remarkable.

I did lose a diamond necklace

and I'll pay $50,000

to anyone who can find it.

Actually, it's caught on your...

Hey, I'm a detective.

I got better things to do than try to solve

wild-goose-chase impossible- to-figure-out mysteries.

Why don't you just see if you can detect someone who cares?

They towed my car, Corny!

And for no other reason than it was illegally parked

and had $1200 in unpaid tickets.

Also, you stole it.

It was dark.

How was I supposed to tell the difference

between a parking lot at the mall

and a Mazda dealership?

URANUS: Ooh, look, isn't that it?

It's hanging from your belt.

I see it...

Quiet! I can't hear myself lie.

They changed the street cleaning hours!

Can they do that?

I mean, without some kind of notification?

What?

What?

Nothing.

You know, Duckman, regulations like that

are made by the city council.

Maybe you should speak to your representative.

City council? Representative?

Until Esperanto comes back,

you want to ease off on the foreign mumbo-jumbo?

They're English words, Duckman.

Well, we don't live in England, do we?

The council is a body of men and women who govern our city.

Wait! Did you say "women" and "body"?

It's my fault.

I was attempting an actual conversation.

You could go tonight and speak against the new regulations.

Maybe I'll do that, Cornfed.

Maybe I, Duckman, will strike a blow for the common man.

Maybe I, Duckman, will prove that anyone--

even I, Duckman-- can make a difference.

Bikini Babe Battle got canceled?

Those damn implant recalls have devastated the sport.

MAN: There's an evil cabal running this city!

A ruthless group who loot our treasury

to finance their goal of world domination through pornography

and the proof of this is the proposal

that the intersection of Beacon and Third

have a 22-second walk cycle!

And I want to know the names of the unholy pagans

who spent their nights making offerings to their dark lord

and their days voting

for mandatory feline distemper shots!

I've never heard such a bunch

of penny-ante, dime-a-dozen, two-bit half-wits

exaggerating their enemies, and bellyaching

over the tiniest, stupidest personal problems.

It's your turn.

I want to talk about the most vicious, heartless,

cold-blooded traitors in the history of mankind

and how they changed my block's street-cleaning hours!

(whimpering)

I think it went pretty well.

Still, in case none of them awake from their comas,

you might want to speak to the mayor.

Nice notion, Pork-face.

Hey, May!

I live on North Phlegm Avenue--

'cept for warrant-serving purposes,

in which case, I escaped to the islands

with Robert Vesco in the mid-70s.

You're a politician. You know the drill.

Anyhoo, I want street-cleaning hours changed back

or I'll find out where you live and hunt you down like a dog.

No offense.

That sounds like a marvelous idea.

I'm going to give it top priority.

Well, that was easy.

That sounds like a marvelous idea.

I'm going to give it top priority.

Dad, you haven't moved for a month.

When the mayor said she'd change

the street-cleaning hours back,

she didn't necessarily mean during your lifetime.

My elected representative made me a promise.

Dad, I need a favor, but it's a little awkward.

Go ahead, Ajax. You know you can ask me anything.

Could we brick you into the wall,

so we don't have to smell you when we come in to watch TV?

Of course, son.

Just be sure to brick up my faith

in the democratic system while you're at it.

A-okay, Dad.

Hey, some workers from the city

are out there changing all the street signs.

I knew it. I knew it!

Yes, yes.

Democracy in action.

"No standing, 12:00 A.M. To 12:00 P.M."

(clanging)

D'wah!

D'wah!

D'wah!

D'wah.

I was thrown

in the mildewed, ferret-infested cell,

forced to survive on gravel soup and rancid jujubes,

beaten every half hour by blind, east European circus clowns

and brought to a public square where I was put in stocks

and pelted with back issues of U.S. News & World Report.

Duckman, you're supposed to be telling us what happened

after you got towed by the city truck,

not showing slides of your vacation.

Fine.

We'll finish another time.

I'll tell you what happened to me.

I was treated like a common criminal!

Like an animal!

Like an ameba!

Like a geological substrata!

If it hadn't been for the foot massage,

I might not have stayed.

What about me?

They made fun of my clothes,

then took photos of my many abnormalities.

It was the most degrading and humiliating experience

I've had since that medical exam in the alien spaceship,

which, it turns out, is not covered by Medicaid.

As a psychiatrist, I found the experience quite intriguing,

because, as a psychiatrist, I write

many psychiatric papers which we psychia...

Oh, shut up.

Citizens of North Phlegm, are we so apathetic

that we let a faceless bureaucracy

treat our fellow neighbors this way?

ALL: Yes.

Point taken.

Still, at my request, the mayor's office

has sent someone to explain what happened.

Yowza.

The new street-cleaning hours are a result

of lobbying by your neighbors--

the Dutch Elm Street Block Association.

Those magnificent bastards!

Well, two can play at that game.

I say we do the same thing.

I say we... uh...

What did they do again?

Organize a block association

which can perform many valuable functions

and be an important source of civic pride.

We could plant trees, spruce up lawns.

Improve lighting, institute a crime watch.

And destroy Dutch Elm Street!

(cheering)

Neighbor fellows, is it not, or is it is

time to unite against the common enemy?

ALL: Duckman.

No, in this case, it's not Duckman.

The Jews?

BOTH: Dutch Elm Street.

Yes, and to help us get started, I've called upon an expert

on organizational structures--

a completely legitimate businessman

who assures me he's not a scam artist

currently wanted in 18 states-- our own beloved Art Disalvo.

Thank you.

As I travel around this land of ours,

one thought comes back to me again and again.

These people are nuts!

To protect themselves from their fellow Americans,

Americans use a wide range of group structures.

Turn off the lights, Ajax.

My pleasure, Mr. Disalvo.

That's okay.

I forgot the slides.

First, our economy plan-- the militia!

For this, all you need is a bunch

of unemployed white guys

and their weight in unregistered firearms.

Next! The skinhead.

This is a militia with a funky team beat.

There's no leaders, but you must have

a kindergarten education to participate.

Finally, our premium level-- the congress.

For this, you have to live in luxury,

write laws that benefit your wealthiest contributors,

and steal everything you can find

till you're indicted.

Gee, sounds good to me.

(murmuring in agreement)

Excellent choice.

I'll be here after the meeting

to hand out the information package

and take your checks.

Just make them out to Cash.

That's my maiden name.

Thank you, Art.

The next order of business is to elect a leader.

I'd like it to be someone who won't cause me physical pain.

I think it should be someone with a degree in psychiatry

who's also a psychiatrist.

I propose it be someone really stupid,

so that we could lull Dutch Elm Street

into a false sense of superiority.

All in favor of Duckman--

As a... psy...

an observer, I question the choice

of such an obviously unbalanced...

Oh, what is the medical term?

Moron.

What makes you qualified to lead a block association?

Well, I was president of a South American country.

I stopped King Chicken

from de-evolving the city into nothingness

and I was worshipped as a god by an alien civilization.

Well, yeah. That sounds good.

Okay. Get over to Dutch Elm and tell them

their days of ruthless zoning changes are over

because we now have a strong, united block association

with a fearless, hard-driving president.

Now, you mucus-covered pipe cleaner.

(yells)

(door slamming)

Snapple?

(funky jazz playing)

(pastoral music playing)

(warbling)

Hmm, nice mailbox flags.

Mr. Duckman! I had no idea you were coming.

I'm looking for someone with the block association.

Tad Venom. You know, I don't think our block

has an association, but please come in.

This meeting of the Dutch Elm Street Block Association

will now come to...

Kids' playroom-- no one's there now.

Say, congratulations

on being elected president of your block.

How did you know?

I didn't. Not a clue.

Please, sit.

Not there.

Springs are shot.

Look, I'm here because...

I'm sorry.

May I interrupt you for a moment?

Thanks. Please go on.

You... Please, call me Tad. Look, Mr. Duckman,

I promise that we don't have a block association

and I'm not president.

No. "Promise" is the wrong word. "Pretend."

Can't thank you enough for stopping by. Please come back soon--

though I will be out of town for the next 30 years.

I...

Ooh, you silver-tongued devil.

Bye.

Well, I don't think we'll be having

any more trouble from him.

(horns blaring)

I can't believe it.

Even after the tongue-lashing I gave Venom,

his block association got the zoning changed on our street,

so that their street wouldn't have every truck in the city...

every super-charged 408 stock car in the city...

every cattle drive in the city...

(truck horn blares)

(brakes squealing)

You realize, of course, this means war.

Be seated.

You are all North Phlegmers.

North Phlegmers love to win and will not tolerate a loser.

You're about to go on a mission

to take out Dutch Elm's cable television.

You may wonder if you'll chicken out.

Don't worry.

When you put your hand into a bunch of goo

that a moment before was your wife's radicchio patch,

you'll know what to do.

I'm proud to lead you wonderful guys

anytime, anywhere.

Unfortunately, right now, I've got this thing...

Your problem, Mr. Duckman,

is that you're a miserable coward.

That happens to be a lifestyle choice.

Okay, son, that's enough grease on your face.

Grease?

Where did you get grease?

(shouting)

Oh, my God!

Not toilet paper!

(screaming)

Charge!

You killed my lawn!

You killed my lawn!

(yells)

Ow.

Okay, we've got

to lull them to sleep.

Stein...

(new age keyboard music playing)

(snoring)

How are things on your end?

Fine, since the sores healed.

Animals... they're animals.

All you have to do is look at them to see

they don't have the same feelings as us.

Dad, what's the signal

for when we're in tremendous danger and about to be captured?

(shouting)

(screaming)

(barking)

(doorbell ringing)

Oui, monsieurs?

You've got to hide us.

You are Americans.

I do not like this terrible war.

Oui, I will hide you.

Walk this way.

Do it and you're off the series.

It is not, how you say..? The Ritz,

but I think you will be uncomfortable.

DUCKMAN: You mean comfortable.

No.

Thanks, Marie.

The girl's a treasure.

Would you mind strapping yourselves down?

I could call Igor, but he tends to break people.

You know how it is.

You volunteer to make lemonade,

you end up running the war and torturing everybody yourself.

Okay, here we go. There's still a few bugs,

but hopefully, this will hurt a lot.

(channel changes)

What the...?

Damn. Nothing works right since Windows 95.

Tad Venom, this is Cornfed.

In the name of humanity, will you agree to peace talks?

Okay.

CORNFED: As the mayor's representative,

I'm happy to do my best to arrange negotiations.

But I do have one preliminary request.

Could you please stop torturing Duckman?

Damn, I just got it working.

Again?

Mr. Venom, my plan is to sit both sides down at a table.

What kind of table?

Any kind.

Not rectangular.

I'm not sitting across from a Phlegmer.

All right, round.

Round? What kind of man do you take me for?

Triangular?

Octangular.

Rhomboid?

Tetragon.

Dodecagon?

Trapezohedron.

(gavel pounding)

Thank you, Cornfed.

Now, I have an idea

for ending this war quickly and easily and quickly.

I propose that Dutch Elm Street annex North Phlegm Avenue.

(shouting disagreement)

Venom, that is the stupidest idea I've heard

since the Indians claimed they lived here before Americans.

Actually, I feel it's worth considering.

Yes. It might be fun to live under the strong

yet benevolent leadership of a genial tyrant like Mr. Venom.

I never considered the idea before,

but I feel it's an idea worth considering.

Something funny's going on here.

It's about time.

I'm getting sick of all the social commentary.

Hey, everyone...

Expensive home electronic equipment

and thick wads of cash are being delivered

to three houses on Phlegm Avenue.

(gasping)

Traitors!

Let's book.

The whole south side of the street

just joined up with Venom.

Who cares?

We're not intimidated by any south North Phlegm scum.

Eat fluoride, lawn jockeys.

(screaming)

D'wah!

Hey, that's enough with the d'wahs.

I do the d'wahs, okay?

Yikes!

Excuse me.

I just wondered if you'd considered

the metaphorical implications

of tearing apart your own home to fight your neighbors.

Never mind.

We're doomed! Doomed!

I have an idea, Dad.

What? What?

If they made tugboats bigger,

they could be the boats other boats tug.

We're out of weapons.

We need something large and heavy to throw at them.

(breaking wind)

You heartless guttersnipe.

I meant something other than my mother.

That's it, Shmuckman.

Get out of my living room.

What?

You heard me.

This living room belongs to me and the kids now.

No way.

We the sovereign residents of the western end of the bedroom wing

refuse to live any longer under the tyrannical yoke

of the recreation and eating areas.

Come on, men.

Who cares?

I don't need any of you, you hear me?

Not any of you.

I get the kitchen.

(blows raspberry)

Hello?

Hello?

I don't believe it.

It's over.

They destroyed themselves.

The entire neighborhood is in ruins.

The only things left are me and my refrigerator.

I won! I won!

Ya-hoo!

Ya-hoo!

Ya-hoo!

Ya-hoo!

These people are nuts!