04x16 - Vuuck, as in Duck

[bunniefuu]

Please, Mr. Desmond.

My baseball team's
the only thing

that's ever meant
anything to me.

I'll find some way
to pay back your loan.

All I need is time.

As your evil banker,

it delights me to inform you
that you have no time.

Your medical records...

I took them off
the Internet.

[screams]

I've only got eight minutes
to live?!

Oh, sorry, my laser printer's
been acting up again.

That should be a three.

[gasps]

Since you'll be dead

and therefore unable
to pay off your loan,

in 30 short days,
I, Simon Desmond,

will foreclose on your team,
knock down your stadium

and thus begin construction
of Desmond Acres,

a lovely gated community
for senior citizens

loosely based
on Andersonville.

Three minutes to leave
my Triple-A ball club

to someone who truly cares
about the sport.

But who?

[gulping and belching]

Ah, base-a-ball.

The single greatest sport
of all time.

Next to bullfighting
and roller ball, that is.

Or at least it used to be.

Now it's ruined, bastardized,

son of a bitch-a-rized!

And you know who's to blame?!

The fat-cat owners!

It's not about the game anymore!

It's all about the money
and the merchandising.

Baseball is really about the sun
on your back

and the feel of the ball
hitting your glove,

and the smell of the grass,

and the laughter
and cheering of children.

[grunting]

You're a real
baseball fan.

Just the kind of guy
I'm looking for.

[gasping]:
Quick!

Give me a pen.

Felt tip or roller point?

Doesn't matter!

Blue or black ink?

Dying... oh!

[gasping]

Hmm.

"I, Gene Vuuck,
hereby will to you

"my lifetime subscription
of Groin Pull Monthly,

"a hat made out of cheese,

and my Triple-A baseball team
the Dixie Cups."

I... I don't believe it.

It's too good to be true!

I've inherited the one thing

that every red-blooded
American male dreams about!

Oh, and a baseball team, too.

[growling]

Room for one more?

Excuse me. Sorry.

Excuse me, excuse me,
sorry, excuse me.

Congratulations
on your bequest, sir.

My card.

Pity the team isn't
a more lucrative venture.

In fact,
you're losing money

faster than a Tom Arnold
kissing booth.

This is baseball, Flauntleroy!

Who gives a rat's rump
about money?

Gosh, I only wish
more people

could use
rodent anatomy metaphors

to such witty effect,

but since there are
no posteriors in the seats,

I'd postulate these contests

will only be enjoyed
posthumously by posterity, hah!

Perhaps if we instituted a
series of promotional nights

attendance
would increa...

Promotional
nights?

I don't think
that's a very good idea.

Well, sure it is!

We could give away snakes and
M-80s and nail g*ns to the kids.

Wait! Did you say
promotional night?

That's a marvelous idea.

You'd best get started
right away.

Careful, Duckman.

Given your history of wildly
inappropriate schemes

and type A
personality traits,

you could be heading
for disaster.

Spare me the setup,
Cornopolis.

This is one team owner

with nothing but good,
solid, sensible ideas.

WOMAN:
Oh, my God!

[glass breaking, screaming]

A pleasant good evening,
sports fans.

Chick Hearn here, inexplicably
announcing Triple-A baseball,

for heaven's sakes.

Before we begin
tonight's matchup,

let's chat with the Dixie Cups'
flamboyant new owner,

and I'm speaking
about Duckman.

How you doing, Vin?

Great. Thanks for asking.

Duckman, one of the ways
you've tried to increase

Dixie Cups' attendance
has been with a series

of promotional nights.

First there was
Weasels on the Field Night.

[snarls]

[players screaming]

And then
Free Cinder Blocks Night.

[yelling]

Dixie Cups rule.

Dixie Cups rock.

Please don't crush my head
with your free cinder block.

By the way, where
did you get all
those cinder blocks?

Uh...

Rosalind, someone stole
our cinder blocks.

Mm, nowhere.

Who will ever forget

Louisiana Mud-Bog Hell Night?

[grunts]

Yeah, that was one of my faves,
too, scooter.

But I've saved
the best for last.

For in addition
to Glass Shard Visor Night,

tonight's also
Blow Up the Field Night!

CROWD:
Five, four, three, two...

one!

[loud expl*si*n]

[sirens wailing]

Thanks for coming.

Come see us again.

Tell all your friends.

[groaning]

Bad news, Duckman.

Due to the brutality
of your promotions,

the entire team just
walked off the job.

Sissies! Pee Wee Reese
could have been blown up

a hundred times a season and
he'd still come back for more.

Don't worry, Corno,
I'll have a new, improved team

faster than you can say
something short.

[hydraulic whirring]

Damn Honduran androids!

Next time I buy American.

Duckman, I've just
crunched the numbers.

After factoring in the cost
of promotions, salaries,

emergency exploratory
surgery for the players
and animal cruelty fines,

we've lost an average
of $14,000 a week.

At this rate, we'll
be out of business in...

Two hours!

What is it with these fans!

I've given them
everything they want!

Except for baseball.

Duckman, you seem to be
getting further away

from the simple purity and
heartfelt innocence of the game.

No use talking anymore, 'cause
I've already stopped listening.

I have a brilliant idea!

Give me that.

All I have to do
is give baseball fans

actual baseball players
who can actually play something

that resembles actual baseball.

Simplify, simplify, simplify!

Thoreau?

And hit and catch
and run, too.

Corny, this is
the new Dixie Cups roster.

Oh...

my...

God.

Ah, splendid!

You must be the world-famous
supermodels.

Veronitia, Scylla, Dina,

Cloche, Taang, Tantalea,

Simonia, Fabiolara,

and is it... Suson?

It's Susan.

Whatever. Ladies,
welcome to Dixie Cups Park.

Bless you all for coming.

I'm the illustrious Duckman,

owner/operator
of the Dixie Cups.

Hi. Now where's the child?

Child?
Oh, uh...

We got a call from the guy at
the Grant-A-Wish Foundation.

He said there was
a terminally ill child

whose last wish was
to see us play baseball.

There's nothing we wouldn't do
for sick children.

[chuckles]:
Well... funny story.

That was a lie.

[all complaining]

Loser!

Ah, the old fake
dying kid line.

I knew it.

First, James Caan,
now this guy.

No, wait!

Remember, there's two things
that every kid loves:

baseball and high fashion.

And kids are always getting one
terminal disease or another.

So it's practically a sure thing

that some kid someday's
going to have a dying wish

to see nine gorgeous supermodels
play a little baseball.

And when that time comes,
what if you're busy,

or stuck in traffic?

The little tyke could croak
before you get there.

But if you play now,
I'll videotape you,

and that way, you don't have
to schlep back here.

You see? See how completely
reasonable and logical it is?

DINA:
I don't know about this guy.

Me neither,

but playing baseball

would give us
the perfect opportunity

to re-invent ourselves.

People always
dismiss supermodels

as just
savvy businesswomen.

They forget that we have
bodies, too.

This could be our chance
to prove it.

Mr. Duckman,
let's play ball.

Hi, everybody.
Chick Hearn here,

and this is the first game
for the Cups' new line-up:

nine world-famous supermodels,

none of whom have ever
played ball before.

What could Duckman
have been thinking?

[crowd cheering]

Okay. I know
what he was thinking.

Uh, playmates...

uh, Playboys...

play, uh...

go do whatever you want,
you savage cuties.

Hi.

Good luck.

[makes kissing sound]

CROWD:
Aahh!

CROWD:
Oohh!

St-rike one!

Strike two, strike three,
strike four, strike five...!

Face it, guy,
you'll never hit it.

You're out!

[crowd cheering]

[scattered cheering]

[crowd roaring]

[chanting]

I don't know where
Duckman could be, ladies.

I apologize.

DUCKMAN:
Yay-lo!

Duckman, where are you?

Up in the owner's box. Why?

Practice was scheduled
for 9:00.

It's almost 10:30.

Cornucopia!

You're losing sight
of the big picture.

Tickets are selling
like hotcakes: in stacks!

Now I have to license
merchandise,

arrange cross-promotions,

meet with the people
doing the CD-ROM,

and most important,
audition call girls

for the new Dixie Cups
VIP club.

I'm trying to run
a baseball team.

Don't bother me
with baseball problems.

You're Joe Jock.

You lead the practice.

He, uh...

is very busy.

["Macarena" playing]

DINA:
Doesn't Duckman care

if we improve
our baseball skills?

You're not supposed
to win games

just because
you're attractive or sexy,

or curvaceous,
or... Brobdingnagian!

You're supposed to win
because you're good!

We'll never be good.

Come on, it's back
to the runway for us.

Hey, wait--
don't talk like that.

Remember, you're
not just models.

You're supermodels.

That means you can do anything
you put your minds to.

Do you really think so?

Absolutely.
Here, I'll show you.

Let's start
with the fundamentals.

[whir of machinery]

[crowd cheering]

For tonight's big game,

I took the liberty of hiring
a third-base coach.

Duckman,
meet baseball connoisseur

and conservative pundit,
George Will.

Go ahead, George,
show him your stuff.

[crowd cheering]

I got some Japanese investors
up in the box.

I'm trying to set up
a tour for the girls.

Have 'em play
some of the local kimonos.

Pure show biz, of
course, but mucho yen!

Don't you want to say
a few words to the players

before the game?

Uh, whatever.

Gals, if you could just
bring it in here a second.

Form a semicircle,
or a pentagram,

or whatever it is
you people do.

I want you to know that
it really doesn't matter

if you win or lose...

Oh, wait, of course,
it matters.

If you win, I stand
to make a fortune,

and that's what this
game's all about.

So, go out and win,
you spunky little firebrands.

Make daddy rich!

Hello, ladies.

Hi. Who are you?

You might say
I'm a fortune-teller

and my prediction
for tonight's game

is that you will... lose.

You're crazy, mister.

We're the Dixie Cups.
We're winners.

Oh, that would be
a shame.

It could be hazardous
to the health... of these.

[mewing and purring]
MODELS:
Ohh!

Kitties!

You wouldn't dare!

Oh, wouldn't I, would I?

I simply can't afford
to let you win.

Throw the game,
or the pussycats get it!

[cocks g*n]

Hello, fans, I'm Chick Hearn

and this has got to be a day

Wineburg fans
thought they'd never see.

The Cups are just one game

away from the pennant,
and that game is today

against
the Victorville Tomahawks.

Hey, look who's here--
the man himself.

So, DM, got any predictions?

Well, Bob, you can never predict
how a game'll go

and we've worked too hard
for too long to get cocky,

but I got to say,
my girls are ready

to focus on fundamentals,
do what it takes

and give 100%, and we have to

because the Tomahawks
came to play,

but we are as ready
as we'll ever be.

Well said.

What do you have planned
for the off-season?

There is no off-season.

That's right, folks,
even during the winter,

when there are no games here,

you'll still be able
to pay admission, come in,

buy some Dixie dogs
for the wife,

or a tall, frosty beer
for the kids--

maybe even make it
a Dixie Cups Christmas.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I've got just enough time
before the game

to Ty my Cobb,
if you know what I mean.

Actually, I don't,
but that's okay.

And now, ladies and gentlemen,

your Dixie Cups.

[organ fanfare]

Whoo-hoo-hoo!

Look how excited they are!

You actually think
they look excited?

Of course.

Every woman
I've ever made love to

looked just like that
beforehand.

Get a load of Dina.

She is really turned on.

[sobbing]

Ladies and gentlemen,
will you please rise

as Ajax sings
our national anthem.

[clearing throat]

[phlegmy intake of breath]

[smooth, womanly falsetto]:
♪ Oh, say, can you see

♪ By the dawn's early light ♪

♪ What so proudly we hailed

♪ At the twilight's
last gleaming... ♪

[gasps]

[microphone feedback]

♪ O'er the land of the free ♪

♪ And the home of the...

[jumps two octaves]:
♪ Brave.

[crowd cheering]
Thank you.

Play ball!

Ha!

["Macarena" playing]

[gasping]

[panting]

[buzzer sounding]

And that's the half.

Folks, there's just one word

for the way the Cups
are playing today

and I can't say it on radio.

As Duckman takes his team
into the locker room,

wouldn't you like
to be a fly on the wall?

[buzzing]

You know, it's possible

that I took too much for granted

so I never explained to you

the idea
behind today's little exercise.

We're supposed to win!

We're supposed to spend
the next three months

in a hotel suite
signing 500 baseballs a day!

We're supposed to be spitting up

limited edition
numbered Dixie Cups used chaw!

We're supposed to be making
Brobdingnagian sums of money!

You girls are playing
like a bunch of, well, girls!

Let me tell
you a story

about a fellow I
went to school with.

A boy named George Gibb.

George couldn't run very fast,
or throw very far,

or hit, or catch.

He was too small and weak.

So...
we b*at the crap out of him,

sometimes three,
four times a day.

He enlisted to go to Grenada,

determined to show
he was man enough.

Instead, he lost both his legs
in a car accident

on the way home
from the recruiter's office.

And if you don't win today,
I swear to you

I will go to George Gibb's home

and b*at that legless
little bastard to a pulp,

so, go out there,
and win just one for the Gibber.

Whoo! Whoa-ho-ho-ho!

Hey!

Hah.

[crying]

What is it?

What's got
you so horny?

It's not that.

It's... it's...

Some guy threatened
to butcher a box full of kittens

if we didn't throw the game.

ALL:
Adorable kittens!

Ah. So, you're saying
if we k*ll the kittens,

he won't have anything on us.

Um, I'm sure what
Duckman meant to say

is that there is
an alternative plan

that's a tad
less monstrous.

Ice-a cream!

Get-a you tuttsi-fruitsy
ice cream!

How about-a you?

You want a nice-
a tuttsi-fruitsy
ice-a cream?

I don't want tuttsi...

I-I mean, no!

I got lots-a flavors.

I got rasp-a-berry,
I got strawberry,

I got-a what's-a
the other berry?

Boysen?

No, it's-a
safe to eat.

Hey, that's-
a good, eh?

I make a joke.

Just go away.

Leave me alone!

If-a you say so.

Hey, Desmond,

what's the matter,
Taang got your cats?

Oh, curse you, supermodels!

Curse you!

[yowling]

[cheering]

Come on, girls,

we've got a
game to win.

[kittens yowling]

[crowd cheering]

[purring]

Mr. Desmond,

I have something for you--

the entire mortgage, paid in
full from tonight's receipts.

This is one ballpark
you're not getting.

But I deliberately didn't
tell you about the mortgage

so you'd default.

How did you find out?

Where else? The Internet.

I regularly browse
"alt-villains' greedy schemes."

[dramatic sob]

My profits
could have been Brobdingnagian!

Oh, for heaven's sake.

Brobdingnagian.

Adjective.

"Of immense or enormous
size or quantity."

Boy, Desmond,
I feel sorry for you.

All you see is money.

Baseball is really about
the sun on your back,

and the feel of the ball

hitting your glove,
and the smell of the grass,

and the laughter
and cheering of children.

Who cares
about money?

I said the same thing.

Seems like
a million years ago.

I became no better
than the people I despise.

[microphone feedback]

I forgot that this
is supposed to be a game.

It's supposed to be
simple and pure.

It's supposed to be fun.

Thank goodness for supermodels.

They remind us
of what's really important.

And, so, I officially give
the Dixie Cups to you--

the people of Wineburg

because you, the fans,
are this team.

Just promise
you'll always protect it

from people like me.

Perhaps today,
we planted the seed

for a new beginning.

[crowd cheering]

CORNFED:
The next day,
the citizens of Wineburg

sold the Dixie Cups
to Simon Desmond

and the Amalcon
Media and Munitions Corporation

for $120 million.

[organ fanfare]

["Macarena" playing]

DUCKMAN:
Damn Honduran androids.

CORNFED:
Oh, for heaven's sake.

DUCKMAN:
So horny.

So s-s-so s-s-so-so

so s-s-so s-s-so-so horny.

DESMOND:
I didn't get
to peel off my head!