03x03 - Bad News: Dude's Dead

[bunniefuu]

♪ Wanted out again ♪
♪ Wanted you, so fun... ♪

(door bell jingles)

So you remember Jimmy, right?

Oh, my God. Gretchen.

Tough titties, it's a free country.

Anyway, I have to have this really sucky conversation with him and I don't want to at all.

Your appointment isn't until next week.

You cannot just show up places.

Well then, stop Foursquaring yourself every time you leave the house, like the Mayor of Thirsty Town. Also, stop using Foursquare like the Mayor of 2011.

Okay. So you need something from Jimmy.

Yeah. I need his dad to have seen a cardiologist!

Ha-ha, snap.

He d*ed?

I'm so sorry. When?

Okay.

So here's the part where you feel like total dog sh*t.

Remember you made me open my mail?

Well I did. And boom.

There's his dad's obit. And I'm like, "Well, sh*t! How am I supposed to tell him?"

So how am I supposed to tell him?

You haven't told him?

No! Ew! I couldn't!

He was so stoked about selling his book.

And then I got busy and forgot for a couple days.

But then, I was gonna tell him, and I got preoccupied by this iguana on Instagram (chuckling): who is just so over it.

It's gonna suck so bad.

I get it. It's tough.

The idea of seeing Jimmy in pain...

Jimmy? No, this is gonna suck for me.

We've been having hella fun lately.

Boning like crazy.

(chuckles) I tricked him into giving me backrubs, saying that it made me horny.

Jokes on you, dummy. I'm horny already.

Here's an idea: what if I just never tell him?

I-I don't like to tell my patients what to do, but Jesus Christ, you have to tell Jimmy his father d*ed.

What if he cries, and I see the sad little boy inside?

I don't want to tell him.

I know. And I've met Jimmy... that sounds disgusting... but you have to.

(sighs)

Fine.

I suppose you want me to pay you now.

Ugh, you owe me a five spot.

♪ ♪
♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway ♪
♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway ♪
♪ Gonna leave you anyway. ♪

Jimmy: Right. Remember, the look we're going for is jocund but... profoundly tormented. Okay?

Uh, what's going on, Jimbo?

Jacket photo. It's a bit early.

But I'm planning on going full D'Onofrio once the advance money comes in.

Can you take a little break?

God, no, woman! There's too much to do, now that the starting g*n on the Grand Prix has sounded, the instant that I take my foot off the proverbial gas to celebrate, shall materialize five other writers in my side mirror just ready to pass me on the Autobahn that is the publishing industry... to clumsily mix European race car metaphors.

As a veteran writer girlfriend now, you know that the work is never-ending.

But you spent the last few months drinking and jerking it to the Lane Bryant shoe catalog.

If I have to explain this one more time: it's all writing.

Um, I'll be quick.

(groans)

Listen, Jimmy...

No, I'm sorry. Look, this is gonna be a very long, arduous... yet certainly rewarding... journey for you, at my side, so before the madness begins, as a pre-ward, I want to take you on a restorative trip.

Like a cruise?

Can we go on a cruise?

Um...

That's my dream vacation!

(pants) My parents always thought it was tacky.

Okay. Well, if your idea of paradise is succumbing to Norovirus on a floating red state, then sure!

(screams)

(laughs)

There-there is a water slide and-and a musical revue and if the grown-ups are busy gambling, you hang out with the other kids and just color!

Okay, I need to get back to my sh**t. I have a liquid brunch with my editor, so we can plan marketing strategies.

Sounds fun!

Gretchen.

Every mimosa is a chore.

Okay? Every sip is a brick in a literary wall that I'm painting...

Got it. Yay! Cruise!

Okay, back to work. Props.

♪ ♪

Ooh, you hungry?

I could eat.

♪ ♪

P.A.: May I help you?

Gretchen and Lindsay: We're with the network.

So, how's your gimpy husband?

Poor Paul. He's off the couch, but his wound keeps getting reinfected somehow.

I poked around there with my fingers, and couldn't find anything.

I feel guilty because of how much he suffered.

And because you stabbed him on purpose.

I didn't want to k*ll him, I just snapped.

Oops...

I knew it!

Lindser! Oh, my God, I thought I was scared of you that time you yelled at that cop in Tijuana.

You should be scared.

And it was so easy.

I was just like...

Poking some cheese.

(Kn*fe clatters)

Gretchen: Poking some cheese?

It's spooky. Afterwards, I kept telling myself I didn't do it, until I actually believed it.

Like how Oprah can eat bread now.

You don't love Paul.

That was true for Old Lindsay.

New Lindsay can put any thought in her brain.

(gasps) Like that upside down movie with Juno and the dreidel and Tom Hardy with the tight pants.

(groans)

If I can incept myself I didn't s*ab Paul, maybe I can incept myself into loving him.

How are things with the Jim-dogs?

Oh, suck-balls. His pops croaked.

Yawn.

So what's the probs?

I haven't told him yet.

And now my therapist is making me.

You can't tell him, Gretch!

The second those words come out of your mouth, You are no longer Jimmy's fun sex hole.

You're the guys at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan who make the moms fall down.

You're right!

That titty-sucking bitch is trying to straight "Lemonade" my relationship.

What do I do?

Get some other sucker to tell him.

(excited chatter in distance)

Colby! Travis!

You two know the policy on roughhousing.

I don't care if you are best friends.

Ten more minutes and I'm coming in there!

As I was saying, we've got a k*ller special.

$49 for three yoga sessions, or three Pilates sessions.

We also have a cutting-edge new lineup of the hottest new hybrid workouts. Piloxing: Pilates and boxing, yogitsu: yoga and jujitsu, spowing: spinning and rowing, Zustified: that's Zumba while you binge-watch Justified, it's actually not really...

Edgar, shut up.

We need to tell you a secret.

No, no, no, no, no. I-I don't want any secrets.

You love secrets.

Secrets are your favorite thing.

Oh, this is a really bad time. Okay? I've been stuck with processing some events, like the time we got pinned down outside of Tikrit, and we had to improvise body armor with t*nk shrapnel.

That's not so bad.

Or like, the time I was so thirsty I sh*t a camel.

Because the humps have water?

Because you thought there was water in the humps?

Yeah. Turns out they don't work like that. Anyway, seriously, I-I don't have any room in my heads for any more dark...

Jimmy's dad d*ed, and he doesn't know.

Jimmy's dad what?

Oh, God.

Poor Ronny, poor Jimmy, poor camel.

Poor Bing Bong.

Everything's bad, you guys.

Everything's really, really bad.

So you'll tell him, yeah? Thanks.

No, no, no way! I...

I told enough people that someone that they love d*ed.

(gasps) I have an idea. When my parents got divorced, they told us at Benihana's so we wouldn't cause a scene. The chef put a shrimp in his hat.

How'd that work?

He just put a shrimp in his hat.

No, I mean, telling you in public.

Oh. It totally made us not freak out as much.

Except later, I drank my mom's mai tai and climbed on the table 'cause I forgot it was a grill. That's why I don't have footprints.

(slurping)

Gretchen: Okay.

So, maybe I invite a bunch of people over, and then everyone tells him together.

And then he associates the sadness with you jerks, and not with me.

That suddenly sounds bad for us.

(sniffs) I got to go, you guys. I'm late teaching Treadsparent.

It's running on a treadmill while you watch...

We get it.

(grunting)

These hand-crutches were all Lindsay could find at the medical supply.

I don't like that place.

So many weird toilets.

Mmm.

I love sneaking an extra dessert, don't you?

One's for me, one's for my baby.

I'm not giving my dessert to your baby.

Oh, right, you meant my baby.

That's right, I'm still pregnant.

Check it out.

Looks like a normal vest with a ton of pockets, right?

Wrong.

Harmonica vest.

Ever since I Venmo'd a year's salary to some chick in the Ukraine, I can only have hobbies that cost less than $25.

♪ ♪

Hell yeah!

♪ ♪

Gretchen: Hey, everybody.

Uh, thank you so much for coming to Jimmy's surprise/congratulations-you-sold-the-book party.

Um, small change of plans, though.

Jimmy's dad passed away.

(all gasp)

What a major tradge, but happens every day on my operating table.

Someone dies every day on your operating table?

Not literally every day, dummy. On average.

Our condolences, Gretchen.

We should let you two grieve in private.

Gretchen: Oh, no, no, no, no! Stay.

Um, in fact...

Wait, crazy idea.

Um, why don't we tell him together?

He doesn't know?

Well, it happened in England.

And there's a time difference, so...

Yeah, uh, so, when he comes home, I'll give the signal, you guys drop the b*mb, and boom... it's your fault.

Thanks so much for doing this. Eat cheese, have fun.

(harmonica playing)

Can you imagine?

He was almost my father-in-law.

Of course, I'm much closer to the whole thing now that I'm going to have a daughter.

That's right.

We're having a girl.

Aah!

Isn't that amazing?

Can't you just die how cute we're gonna be together?

Mm.

Of course, it's such a shame that our gender-reveal party was spoiled when those North Korean hackers stole Vernon's identity.

Becca, we all know Vernon was a money-sl*ve.

What? No, no, no.

No, that was just a story he told, because he was embarrassed.

Bad passwords.

Poor Jimmy.

I lost my dad, too.

Your dad d*ed?

No.

I just lost him.

Last week, we were at the Beverly Center and he told me to go look at puppies while he went to Sunglass Hut.

I think we both knew what was about to happen.

Oh, no.

So, I've been living alone, sleeping in his bed.

I'm not ready to be an adult.

Contemplate the sundry ways a society handles its elderly and infirm. For instance, the noble Eskimo sets himself adrift on an iceberg.

Mm, he's so smart.

You love this smart, smart man.

You love his jiggly body and square face.

You really do.

Gretchen: He's here!

Get ready.

Gretchen, that brunch was a nightmare.

The publisher just kept telling me, "When I write the book..."

Plus the "bottomless" in "bottomless mimosas" means nothing if the waitress disappears for ten minutes at a time.

Jimmy, look who's here.

Huh. You invited people over.

Is it Oscar night?

Well, keep it down. I, of course, must handcuff myself to my laptop until my book is written.

Good-bye, all. See you in the spring.

Wait, Jimmy, uh...

Just stay a moment.

Um, everyone's here for you.

You're here to celebrate my book sale.

Well, it would be positively unsporting of me to deny you the pleasure of basking in my success, even though nothing good happened to you.

I never understood that impulse, really.

Though we do tend to gather around a fire.

No, Jimmy, you don't understand, um...

Hey, everybody, could we, um...?

And, Gretchen, my partner in crime, the diminutive, mole-lipped Lillian Hellman to my Dashiell Hammett.

You have been so supportive.

No problem. Uh, the people would like to tell you something.

So, I was gonna surprise you.

But I did some research.

And I think I found the perfect cruise for you.

It's called "The Famous Pets of Instagram Cruise."

What?!

Sombrero Iguana?

(sobbing)

Bus Stop Goat!

Cookie Pig!

They're all gonna be there for me?

Edgar: When are we delivering the package, you know?

The top secret intel?

Shut up.

(whispers): After he buys the tickets.

This is the greatest day of my life!

I am gonna meet Grumpy Cat!

I sold my book!

We're gonna live forever!

♪ ♪

Lindsay, I got champagne in my wound.

The bubbles, they sting!

You have to flush it for me.

Okay, Bear, let's go to the sink.

It hurts so bad!

Does it smell funny? If it smells like eggs, you have to take me back to urgent care!

You love him. You love him.

Want to get stupid?

How can you party like this when you know someone d*ed?

I work at a hospital, dude.

Just 'cause a busload of dead kids rolled up, doesn't make it not Margarita Monday.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪

(indistinct chatter)

Congratulations, Jimmy.

It is really great to see you so happy.

Mm.

You have always been a success in my book.

Oh.

(singsongy): Okay.

I picked out an ocean suite with a porthole so we can smoke and I added a meet and greet with Sarcastic Llama.

They take Apple Pay. You just have to put your thumb on the thing.

They don't want me to succeed.

Oh, no, Jimmy, before you turn, can you just put your thumb on the thing?!

Look at them.

No!

Jimmy: Sirens singing, "Come play with us."

But really they just want me to pilot my literary schooner into the rocks of do-nothingness.

I invited them!

Exactly!

If you all didn't want me to fail, then you would've listened when I said I have to write!

They're desperately afraid that I will shine so brightly, it will illuminate how dim their lives are by comparison.

Congratulations, Jimmy.

Unaccepted. This is attempted criminal derailment.

I don't know what you're saying, but it sounds jerky.

Yeah, and I'll be sure to return the favor and sabotage your eventual attempt to do something useful with your life like finish your GED or dance in your adult tap recital.

It's Afro-funk fusion.

Listen here, buster.

Lindsay is my bride, she's pregnant with my offspring, and she deserves respect!

You love him.

(laughs): It worked.

Apologize.

I will do you one better.

I'm gonna go downstairs and get my heckle file.

And after I put you all in your place, once and for all, I'll be free to get to work, sans distractions.

Yes.

Gretchen: Okay, everybody.

Clock is ticking. Let's rip off the Band-Aid.

Mm, we're going home. Vernon?

But I want to get heckled.

Fine, you can Uber home.

But only the cheap carpool one.

I can't wait to see him cry.

(British accent): Oh, no, me Da.

Go tell him, Gretchen!

No, Edgar's gonna do it.

Remember?

I-I can't.

Just do it!

I'm dealing with some major sh*t.

Delivering tragic news is a kind of service.

To sacrifice your own comfort so they can have the gift of truth?

That is true nobility.

Like when I was born dead, I vividly remember the pain in the doctor's voice when he told my parents, "I have good news and I have bad news.

"The good news...

"it's a boy and he's hella hung.

Bad news... dude's dead."

You're right.

Jimmy deserves to know the truth.

Thank you. You're a hero.

Now, get down there.

Ooh, and remind him about the cruise afterwards.

Oh, no, wait.

Maybe it's too early.

Yeah, hold it.

Go!

(chuckles)

More like dim... (laughs)

Hey, Jimmy.

I'm afraid some of these heckles are a bit out of date.

"Paul, nice It's Pat cosplay. Edgar, I liked you better when you writing and starring in the hit musical In the Heights. Becca, heaven must be missing an angel, because an angel saw your stupid face and blew its brains out." (laughs)

That one's evergreen.

Uh, so you know how, uh, people come into your lives and, and they touch you?

Is this about you being molested?

Boo-hoo. Every neighborhood had a handsy fishmonger.

No, Jimmy, it's about your father.

Has Gretchen been infecting you with her therapy?

See, unlike Gretchen, my father is a non-entity in my life. If this is about anything, it's about my need to disprove the notion that at the core I'm just sh*t, which all started when I was a kid and...

Oh, my God.

This is about my father.

Yeah, okay, see...

No wonder I can't take a moment to enjoy my triumph.

I-I wouldn't...

He's my true enemy!

Instead of heckling my friends, I am gonna call that old twat and tear him to pieces.

Uh, no, no, J-Jimmy!

Thanks, Edgar.

Do not do that.

This is the first good idea you've ever had.

Oh, no, Bing Bong!

Bing Bong!

Dad...

Oh, no. Oh, this is bad.

This is bad.

Is he crying?

It's really snotty and moany, isn't it?

Bye! I'm gonna move to Arizona and sell turquoise jewelry.

No!

He's gonna call his dad!

Wait, wait! You didn't tell him?!

Not at all.

Holy crap!

We have to stop him.

Or maybe we don't.

Think it through.

One of the trash-bag sisters picks up.

Confusion, confusion.

(British accent): Oy, ya daft fart. We sent the obit. Da's dead.

And boom! A couple of weeks from now, I have a tan line shaped like Grumpy Cat, because she's been sitting on my lap on the cruise deck...

Gretchen, you don't get to be in charge anymore!

What? You can't do that.

My man takes charge.

Everyone who's not currently on hobble sticks, go down there and stop him from calling his dead father!

A ghost picks up the phone, I'm gonna sh*t my pants.

Edgar: Oh, God.

We're too late.

Shh, what's he saying?

Hey, Ronny, it's your son.

You're probably at the pub passed out in your stool over a half-eaten scotch egg in lard sauce, but I just wanted to let you know...

I sold a book, Daddy.

(phone beeps)

Good luck.

Thanks for sticking up for me earlier.

Of course.

That's my job.

I love you.

(laughs)

Ow...

I think my wound is weeping again.

Hey, dude?

Can I give you my profesh medical opinion?

Yeah.

You need some help.

I know.

(playing "Taps")

(bottles clank)

("Taps" continues in distance)

Hey, um... (clears his throat)

Just got off the phone with my father.

Sure gave it to old Ronny.

First, I jabbed him about his illiteracy and then his pulmonary oxygen absorption rate.

Jimmy, your dad d*ed.

Yeah, when I heckled him so hard.

This came in the mail. I'm so sorry!

(quietly): I'm just gonna...

♪ ♪
♪ I'm taking off ♪
♪ I've closed the door ♪
♪ As cold as stone ♪
♪ Can take no more ♪
♪ To be alone ♪
♪ Is where I go ♪
♪ I choose to walk ♪
♪ This lonely road ♪
♪ Change the f... ♪