Original subtitles

- sync and corrections by Mr. C - - www.addic7ed.com -

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D'oh!

George, I'm sorry to see you up here.

Well, yes, but I died for a worthy cause.

As we speak, my body is about to be dissected

by a budding young scientist.

Let's observe the dedication to learning

of this ten-year-old scholar by the name of Bart Simpson.

♪ Stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, die ♪

♪ Stab, stab, die, die, death, kill. ♪

Well, his passion is undeniable.

Yes, very... very impressive.

By examining my specimen's pyloric sphincter valve,

I deduced that she had an affinity for fruit flies.

By examining my specimen's natty dreads,

I was able to deduce that he was a jammin' Rasta-frogian.

My body, my little green body.

Okay, but surely his portrayal

of Rastafarianism will be culturally sensitive.

Pass the Dutchie.

We be smokin' slabba slabba with the Babylon.

Ribbit, ribbit, mon.

Come now, George.

At least this Scottish groundskeeper

will give your remains a respectful burial.

Into the crapper you go, useless froggy garbage.

Are you going to put a good spin on that, too?

Hmm? Are you?!

Well, are you?

Well, uh... ribbit?

I can't put these grades on the refrigerator.

I can't even put them on the garage refrigerator.

It's not my fault.

- I blame "so-key-ity." - What?!

You know, so-key-ity.

That's what everyone blames for everything.

You mean "society"?

- Yeah, that's the guy. - Honey,

I know you're a bright boy,

but if you don't try harder in school,

you could end up...

...not a success.

Oh, that. Don't worry, Mom.

As long as I can stand on a corner

and spin a sign reading "new condos,"

I'll be just fine.

All that pacing isn't gonna fix the boy.

Just get him some pills.

Two pinks and a blue, and it's off to the races.

Everything we've tried with Bart has failed.

What if there's nothing we can do?

Mm, "nothing we can do" is a whole lot better

than "it'll take all we've got."

I wonder if anyone talks about parenting online.

Look at this one!

They're skiing.

Skiing means happy.

Hmm, an expert with a new book to promote.

Oh, I wonder if she'd be willing to speak to a group for a fee.

Getting your child established

on the path to success isn't easy.

I was driving my daughter from her falconry tournament

to lute class when she turned to me asked...

...which is Mandarin for, "How do you do it?"

She and I are learning Mandarin.

The answer?

Positive reinforcement.

In a recent study, this mouse was denied food

whenever he failed to find his way through a maze.

The mouse ended up dying... of low self-esteem.

I had a nightmare where that happened to Bart,

but I never told you about it.

I love it when you don't tell me things.

This mouse was given food

whether he got through the maze or not.

And this fall, he'll be in a lab at Harvard.

Low self-esteem can cripple your child's chances of success.

praise.

Praise they can hold in their hands.

Certificates, ribbons and, yes, even trophies.

Trophies.

So that's the easy answer.

If Ralphie's shelf says he's a winner,

then he'll be one!

And Moe yells a third thing to feel part of the group!

Yes! Trophies-- that's what Bart needs.

This is how we save him.

Give Bart a trophy? What for?

Most boogers wiped on a bedroom wall?

They're giving trophies for that now?

I weep for this country.

Bart's future is at stake.

Besides, I'm tired of Springfield missing out

on every parenting trend, like the time-out and the diaper.

I never got a trophy when I was a kid,

and I turned out just...

...fine.

He's my son, and he's getting a trophy for nothing.

You hear me? For nothing!

Huh. Huh?

Good morning.

How's my special little winner?

How'd you get that thing in my bed without waking me up?

Because you're a champion sleeper.

It's the craziest thing.

She will not give up on that kid.

Trophies can boost self-esteem.

If you actually win them, like I did.

But what's the point

of just handing out unearned statues?

And statuettes.

Well, it's just a waste of gullible parents' money.

Waste of gullible parents' money.

Gullible parents' money.

Money. Money.

Hmm.

Step right up! Every kid's a winner!

The more you spend, the more you love!

Mm-hmm.

I thought you agreed that trophies should be earned.

money.

Remember, folks.

Nothing but a genuine Trophyland trophy says

to your kids that...

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ever keep you down ♪

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ever keep you down ♪

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ever keep you down ♪

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ♪

♪ Ever keep you down ♪

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ever keep you down ♪

♪ You're the best. ♪

These stupid, loving parents will buy trophies

for any accomplishment.

Not wetting the bed, using your inside voice,

even "go watch TV in the other room."

I still think these things are good for their self-esteem.

Not to mention the self-esteem

that comes from wad riffling.

Look, I even put the boy to work.

Well, then he should get a trophy for that.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!

We have a saying in the participation trophy business.

"Don't get high-- self-esteem--

on your own supply-- of self-esteem."

I don't care. I'm giving him this.

What? Why did it break?

The parts are of the highest quality.

They come from the China of China: India.

Boy, did you glue this trophy together with bubblegum?

Eh, sticky is sticky. I'm taking my break.

See? Giving him trophies did nothing.

You've showered him with praise,

and he's just as lazy as ever.

Shh! What if he heard you say that?

Hey, if Bart is as bad at eavesdropping

as he is at everything else,

we've got nothing to worry about.

I say we keep talking loudly.

But what about his confidence?

Face it. Our son is a screw-up.

He was born a screw-up, and no matter how hard he tries--

which he never will--

Bart will always be a screw-up.

And have you ever heard that sound he makes when he's sad?

Pathetic.

Queen's bishop Lomotil takes king's Ativan.

Oh, looks like I'll be having a panic attack

on the toilet tonight.

Look at that whimpering little crybaby.

Wah! Wah!

Abe, that's your grandson.

Come visit me!

I'm so lonely!

Wah! Wah!

What's got you down, kiddo?

My dad says I'm terrible at everything.

Oh, he's just repeating what he heard as a boy from me.

Oh, I was an awful father, just like my old man.

Your dad didn't believe in you, either?

It wasn't his fault.

He was just focused on his career

as a professional child-beater.

Men would come from five towns over

to study my father's technique.

But no matter how many strangles he patented,

his father never approved.

Even if only a little bit of that really happened,

I'll never escape being a loser.

That's loser talk!

You're a great kid, and I'm gonna prove it to you.

Boy, this here's a real trophy.

Our family's most prized possession:

a Baumont Chrono-master Elite.

It's been a Simpson heirloom

ever since it was stolen off a dead body at Gettysburg.

In 1982.

Whoa!

Wait. Is this just another gold shiny thing

to trick me into feeling special when I'm not?

You are special!

You're like my prostate--

a spiky little troublemaker who plays by his own rules.

You don't take hooey from Louis.

Never have, never will.

I feel something.

It's like a sunburn on the inside.

It's called "pride."

Every tick will remind you

you've got a grandpa who believes in you.

The same way I believe

the retirement home has been taken over by robots.

I am not a robot.

I just have light-up sneakers.

Why is my trophy the smallest?

You all lost-- to me!

Lisa, are you suggesting we engage in excellence bias?

She's loser-shaming me.

Why do you always have to make trouble, ya wee harpy?

How am I supposed to stay silent

when parents are just blindly chasing the latest trend?

Ugh, parents.

Those lazy lunch-packers.

They just want to be told what to do.

And there's no shortage of experts who want to tell 'em.

No shortage of experts.

Experts. Experts. Experts.

LISA; Another parenting expert, eh?

Clearly, this is a community in the grip

of an addiction to trophies.

Now, parents,

I warn you, too much praise creates millennials--

a generation of soft, entitled narcissists,

who drop out of college to become deejays.

That only pays well at the very highest levels.

Instead of showering your kids with gifts,

you should prod them to greatness with GRIT.

Get up. Retry.

I don't care if you're...

Tired.

He's got a word made of other words.

He must know what he's talking about.

Oh, it is an end to praise.

Praise Vishnu.

Remember, GRIT also stands for:

Get Rid of Idiotic Trophies.

Another word word! He did it again!

Why does the word "of" sometimes count in the acronym

and sometimes not?

Shut up, Mel! Your kids live in Nebraska with your mom.

No more trophies! No more trophies!

Uh-oh.

You are scum, sir!

Burn in hell!

Kill him with GRIT!

Hi, Homer. How's the trophy business?

Nobody wants them anymore, thanks to GRIT.

Stupid parenting method I can't exploit for money.

Actually kinda makes sense.

Hate it so much.

I know that.

That's my dad's old pocket watch.

How did you get it?

Oh, Grampa said I earned it.

I guess someone in this family's proud of me.

Oh, you didn't want it, did you?

Yeah, right.

That watch means nothing to me.

Really? Then how do you explain that case you made?

I built it to always remind me of what not to want.

What about your self-published novel?

Well, the character of John Homer

is only partly based on me.

Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were obsessed

with getting Grampa's watch.

Ooh, thanks for the analysis, Dr. Freud.

Next you'll be telling me that this whole trophy business,

and in fact, all my get-rich-quick schemes

over the years, are born of a desperate need for approval

from a father who couldn't show love.

Likely because of his traumatic relationship

with his own father, and his before him, and so on.

But, unfortunately, Dr. Freud,

that couldn't be further from the truth, Doctor.

If you say so.

Now I'm gonna take this out and see what life is like

with real love and encouragement ticking in my pocket.

Stupid watch.

Doesn't even have a fob.

Bart, where's the fob?

Bart, you look like a fool!

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ever keep you down ♪

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ever keep you down ♪

♪ You're the best around ♪

♪ Nothing's gonna ever keep you down ♪

♪ Down ♪

♪ Fight till the end 'cause your life will depend ♪

♪ On the strength that you have inside you ♪

♪ Ah, got to be proud, staring... ♪

No!

♪ You're the worst around ♪

♪ Everything's gonna bring you down. ♪

Okay, Milhouse, I'll drop a rock, you watch it come down.

That should be where Grampa's watch landed.

Ow!

Did you see where the rock landed?

In my eye!

Oh. That watch was the only thing that made me not terrible.

I can't lose it.

I'll drop another rock a few feet to the left.

My other eye!

Ow!

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

Not a single one has missed me!

What are you doing?

That expert at the school said trophies are bad for kids.

It's all part of GRIT.

No, no.

My trophies were earned.

Even the soccer one?

I went to most of the practices.

Yeah, but what happens when another parenting expert

comes along with a whole new theory on self-esteem?

Another expert?

Who are they? What are they saying?

Aw.

Okay, the watch is gone.

I guess I can live with being a useless, worthless nothing

as long as no one finds out.

Sweetie, your grampa's on the phone.

Hello.

Great news, kiddo.

Remember That magazine is putting out

their annual family heirlooms issue.

They want us for the cover.

You, me and the pocket watch.

Um...

It's a great story.

Passing a beloved heirloom from grandfather to grandson.

A gift that restored a child's faith in himself.

Uh, Grampa, there's something I have to tell you.

Hold on one second.

I'm just finishing up

a mandatory pre-article heart exam.

Doc says as long as I don't suffer

any major disappointments, I'll be fine.

Now, what did you want to tell me?

Uh, helmets ruined football.

Exactly! If you want to protect your head,

grow your hair long.

Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.

And you won't be late because you've got that watch.

Stupid parenting experts.

Why don't they write a book called Stop Buying These Books?

Everybody'd buy that.

Even if I was listening to what you said,

it doesn't matter; nothing matters.

My trophy business has failed

and Bart has the thing I wanted most:

Grampa's watch.

What watch?

The one you get for being a success.

Well, then I should have it.

Uh, that never really came up.

All that's left to do now is bring these to the needy.

Best I can do is charge you ten dollars

to throw them in my Dumpster.

How about I give you a trophy that says "Best Pawn Shop"?

Not unless I earned it.

Dad's watch!

Hey, dirtbag shopkeep.

How did this come to you?

Mm. Some kid brought it in.

Said he was mad at his friend

for dropping so many rocks in his eye.

That dude's seen a lot of living.

Yours for 20 bucks.

That's an insult.

You're talking about a self-worth-boosting antique

that's been in my family for generations.

Twenty-two?

You'll take it all and you'll like it.

Yes. I have it.

Some said it would never happen.

Most were unaware of the situation.

But I finally have my father's watch!

Oh, Bart, look what Daddy's got now.

Grampa was the only person who believed in me.

But when he finds out I lost the watch,

even he'll give up.

Stay strong, Homer.

Don't go soft on him now.

This is a once-in-a-lifetime face-rubbing-in.

Mm. Come on, foot.

Kick, damn you!

Son, I found something that belongs to you.

Grampa's watch!

No. I can't take it.

I didn't earn it, so I don't deserve it.

You were right.

I am a screwup.

But, boy, who screwed you up?

You.

It was you.

And those who came before.

It's stuck in your hand fat.

Oh. You got to wedge something in there to break the vacuum.

Okay.

Smile, my little watch watcher.

That was a nice thing you did.

Which parenting guide told you to do it?

Well, baby, sometimes you just

got to trust your gut.

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