07x14 - Forty Percent Leadbelly

[bunniefuu]

Planet Express Discount Prisoner
Transfer at your service.

Take a good look,
Dr. Brutaloff.

This prison is where you'll be
spending your SOB-year sentence.

Yeah, until you're defrosted
and wake up refreshed,

unaware of any time
having passed.

He heard you!

Oh, please. It's probably just
the carbonile thawing slightly.

Take him down to processing while
I stay here and get hooted at.

Ooh, yeah, baby!

Oh, stop.

Fry, look!

That's Silicon Red, the
universe's greatest folk singer!

There's your wallet, your
guitar, and your g*n.

You're free to go.

Ah! Still cocked.

So, he's a folk singer.
So what?

So what?

Have you forgotten my lifelong
dream of being a folk singer?

Because I sure have
until right now.

Silicon Red! Silicon Red!

Hey,
I have a lifelong dream, too.

Of not being left alone
with a frozen super-villain.

Don't try anything, Dr. Brutaloff!
I know karate.

Then I sh*t him and
stabbed him and stole all his gold

And I tried on his face
while his body turned cold

Lovely. Just lovely.

New topic.
Can I have your autograph,

and also you tell me everything
you know about folk singing,

and I'll take
your guitar, too?

Old Salmonella? Son, lought
to k*ll you for asking.

We met doing hard time on
a Mississippi chain g*ng.

And she'd been with me
through 30-odd convictions.

Thirty? You must be quite
a bungling lowlife.

Anyhow, about the guitar.

Aw, come on! I can't be a famous
folk singer without a cool guitar.

Can I at least get a photo?

And before you answer that...
{CAMERA CLICKS)

Now I'll just have someone
duplicate your guitar.

Thanks, sucker.

You're the
sucker, sucker.

See, with all Salmonella
and me been through,

her sound is unique.

All your fancy technology will
never be able to copy this guitar.

Using my fancy technology, I can
make an exact copy of this guitar.

Tell me, Dr. Beeler.
Will I need to thr*aten you?

Not at all.

You see, nowadays we can take
a unique and beautiful object,

and easily reduce it to a
formula for mass production.

I call the process "science."

I'll just need to locate that
guitar image on your file system.

Whoa, that's a lot of p*rn. Where'd
you store the guitar picture?

I don't know.
I mainly hang out in here.

Ah-ha!
Your folk singing folder.

I'll just double-kick
on that.

Got it.

Now I'll convert that guitar
image to a wire-frame model.

There, like so.

And send it wirelessly
to my 3-D printer.

By laying down layer after
layer of nano-plastic,

it can turn your wildest
dreams into ordinary reality.

Witchcraft! Sorcerer!

Neat.

So, how long will it take?

Four or five hours.

Shall we adjourn
to the p*rn folder?

I call my new guitar
Bender Mae

because Bender may be the
greatest folk singer of all time!

It looks pretty authentic.

You bet it's authentic.
See this scratch?

I tell people she got it
while I was doing hard time

with a New Hampshire
chain g*ng.

I have a scratch, too.

From where Dr. Brutaloff slashed
me with his finger knives,

right after he thawed
out of his carbonite,

and right before he froze
me in his carbonite

because you deserted me.

You're always getting frozen in stuff.
It's your thing, man.

Benden you're not a folk singer
just 'cause you have a guitar.

And a flannel shirt.

I claim I won it in a
Kn*fe fight at J. Crew.

It must be interesting
to win a Kn*fe fight.

I wouldn't know.

The point is, do you even
know any actual folk songs?

Pfft! Actual folk songs
are all public domain.

Where's the money in that?
I'll just make up my own.

But, robot, you can't
just make up folk songs

like you can
a medical diploma.

They have to
come from the heart.

Wrong again, Zoidberg.

While you were yakking,
I downloaded

every folk song
in the universe

and analyzed them.

There are only
a few basic patterns.

For example, 36% of all folk-song
heroes work on a rail road

and are named "Big" something.

Next slide, please.

75% of these big rail road men
have bad-hearted women

who done them wrong, usually
with a smooth-talking rambler.

There's a lot more,
but in the end,

somebody kills somebody...
Blah, blah, blah.

Somebody kills
somebody Blah, blah, blah

Catchy!

Not what I meant, but don't
perform it without my permission!

Anyway',

using this simple formula,
I can generate

as many hit folk songs
as I want.

All I need is an audience.

And that's where
Silicon Red comes in.

Man, all this corncob pipe smoke
is irritating my s*ab wounds.

Ladies and gentlemen,
I'm proud to present,

fresh from another down-home
authentic prison term,

the universe's
greatest folk singer,

Silicon Red!

Thank you.

Silicon Red, everyone.

I'm Ramblin' Rodriguez, the new
greatest folk singer ever.

And I'm gonna sing
my new masterpiece,

The Ballad of Me,
Ramblin' Rodriguez.

Well

My bad-hearted woman
loved a smooth-talking gambler

So I ran him
over with my train

Lord, Lord Yes, I ran
him over with my train!

That name again is
Ramblin' Rodriguez.

Why are they
booing me, Silicon?

'Cause your song
was insincere, boy.

Now, get out
and don't come back

till you've lived a life
worth singing about.

Yes, sir.

And don't go to prison.
That's my shtick!

If ailed at my
lifelong dream again.

How can I be so bad at everything
I try, and still be so great?

Bender, you have
a lovely baritone,

and you sure can strum
that plastic guitar.

But you can't write
a real folk song

about experiences
you haven't had.

Yeah, you should write a
song about a heartless robot

who leaves his best
friend to be m*rder*d.

Look, Leela, I'd love to write
about my own experiences...

The heartless robot is Bender.
The best friend is me.

How can you people
be so blind?

But I've never picked cotton
or been on top of Old Smokey

or worked on anything all the
livelong day, let alone a rail road.

Then go live among
the rail road men, why not?

You'll come to
understand them,

just as I now understand
the ape-men of Earth.

As stupid as Zoidberg's idea is,
it's brilliant when I have it.

I'm off to the rail road
to become a folk singer.

Uh... I'm looking for
the wrong side of the tracks.

Then you've come to the
right side of the tracks.

Have a seat, stranger.

My name's Bender Rodriguez

and I want to learn
the railroading business.

Big Caboose.

I'm a steel-driving man working
the trans-universal line.

Wow, you've had the exact experiences
I want to steal for my song.

Oh, heck,
I'm nothing special.

Just a down-home robot
with a big old hammer.

Hammer,
that should be easy to rhyme.

You done time in the slammer?

Uh, nope.

Been to Alabama?
Sorry.

How's your grammar?

Praiseworthy.

Bender, meet Fast Frank Brogan.

Daredevil engineer
dies in the crash of Old '88.

Dandy Jim and Gus.

Gentlemen hobos
with a story to tell.

I once got drunk
and ate my big toe.

Can't say I miss it.

And good old Cookie,

the crusty comically inept
geological surveyor.

Jiggers! I dropped
my sextant in the stew.

Been up north

Been down south

Got a real weak back

I got a real big mouth

So while Bender goofs off
at some rail road camp,

I have to deliver dynamite
to a rail road camp myself.

And it's the same
rail road camp.

I mean,
the irony is palpable.

Cups!

Whoopsie!

My bad.

Dibs on the toes.

So how's it going with
the real-world experience?

Have you found a rail road man
to write a song about?

Yep, my good friend
Big Something here.

Caboose.

I'm a steel-driving man, and there
ain't much more to say about me.

Not till now there wasn't

Well, Big Caboose was
a sleel-drivin' son of a g*n

Til! a bad-headed
woman he spied

But, Bender, I never spied
no bad-hearted woman.

In my song you did, a temptress
named, I don't know, Jezebel.

Wow, creativity's hard work.

Ah!

You know my favorite part
of your song?

The part where it ended.

Then settle in, 'cause that's
about a half hour from now.

Well,
Jezebefs heart did wander

When she saw
that ramblin' man

He was tall
and dark and shiny

And a native Mexican

That sleazy rambler sounds
an awful lot like you, Bender.

Hey, thanks for noticing.

Just for that, I'm gonna
slip you into the 57th verse.

You can be my best friend who
abandons me when I need you.

Now, that's a verse
we can all enjoy.

Well, Rodriguez
ran to his best friend

Said, "Help me or
I'll surely be k*lled"

Fry laughed and he said,
"You deserted me once

"Now it's your turn to
feel the chill Lord, Lord

"Now it's your turn
to feel the chill"

You've accurately portrayed
the nature of my grievance.

Big Caboose went
lookin' for Rodriguez

Straight to
New New York town

He cried...

Bender, guess what.

I met a fabulous girl and
we're engaged to be hitched.

That's great, Caboose.

Come on in
and set a spell.

No time.
I got someplace to be.

See you soon, honeybunch.

Okay, dumpling.

My man's gone! Gone!

Oh! I'm so lonely and easy.

Ooh!

BENDERI Whoo! Whoo!

Oh, yeah. This is definitely
going in the song.

He cried, "Rambler,
you slept with my Jezebel?

Hey, what's your name, anyhow?

Jezebel.

Oh, good, I won't
have to change any words.

Yeah, you're right. It's getting late.
I'll get your coat.

Oh. Hey, Big Caboose. What
are you doing here on Earth?

I'm here for to see
Ramblin' Rodriguez.

Well,
he's at the rail road camp.

I know,

but some strange force drew me
to New New Yorktown.

That rambler slept
with my Jezebel

Now I'm comm' for to sh**t
him down Lord, Lord

Comm ' for to
sh**t him down

Guess I'll go back to
the rail road camp now.

That's weird, he sounded a
lot like Bender's folk song.

Not a lot like
Bender's folk song,

exactly like,
et cetera, et cetera.

His song is
coming true somehow.

Oh, my God, reality is
infringing Bender's copyright.

I'm comm' for
to sh**t you down

No, wait.

Pm comm' for
to run you down

With a train

Get it?

It's over, Jezebel.
Grab your things and get out.

I didn't bring any things.

That's what I like
best about you, baby.

Rambler, you slept
with my Jezebel,

and I'm comin' for to run
you down, Lord, Lord.

I'm comm' for
to run you down

Fry, help, let me in.

Bender? What are you doing?
It's 3:00 a.m.

I don't care if it's 3:00 p.m.
Open up and hide me!

I don't think so, Bender.

You deserted me once, and now it's your
turn to, quote, "feel the chill." Ha!

Breaker, breaker.

Hola.

Professor, help.

The hero of my folk song
tried to run me down,

and Fry refused to save me.

That doesn't sound like me.

Fry?

But you just...
I'll figure it out later.

But first, I'll k*ll you!

Bender, stop. We've been
trying to warn you all night.

You didn't answer
your cell phone telephone,

so the Professor tried his CB.

Uh, scratch that,
Rubber Turkey.

We got a 20 on the tin man.
Toodle-oo.

But Fry betrayed me
at our apartment!

Just like in your folk song.

Somehow everything you sang about
is happening in real life.

Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Are you saying that
guy at the apartment

was some kind of
exact copy of Fry?

'Cause that's crazy.

He's a unique and
beautiful object.

The printer.

Oh! I must have left
the wireless connection

to your folk song
directory open.

Everything you wrote
in the song

got routed straight
to the 3-D printer.

Big Caboose, duplicate
Fry, even Cookie,

the crusty, comically inept
geological surveyor,

they're all made
of nano-plastic.

So, if Bender had sung
about, I don't know,

some crazy giant land
octopus attacking me,

it would have
actually happened?

Pfft! I can't even imagine
singing about such a thing.

Well

Fry. run!

Oh, relax, Beeler's stupid machine
takes hours to print anything.

No, it doesn't.

I improved it
using fancy modern technology.

Bender, whatever you do, don't
think about any more octopuses.

Octopuses?

I believe
the correct plural is octopi.

I'm sorry. "Octopuses"
is also acceptable.

Think about puppies, Bender,
cute, harmless, dead puppies.

Don't worry. I'll disconnect
him from the printer.

No, wait. I know how to save
Bender from Big Caboose.

All he has to do is write
his way out of this mess,

and the 3-D printer
will make it happen.

Like how?

Well, I don't know.

Make up another giant octopus
and have it k*ll Big Caboose.

What kind of
lazy ending is that?

I'm not gonna put
that in my song.

Hey,
I have a cool idea.

Create a duplicate Bender,

so when Big Caboose kills it,
it's not real, it's duplicate.

Oh! on! They did
that on Star Trek, TNG.

Cram it, nerd.

I'm not going to just copy some
feel-good TV show wrap-up.

I can think of a hundred
endings that'll save you.

Just pick one.

No, Dr. Beeler,
I won't just pick one.

My audience deserves better than
some crappy, formulaic ending.

If I must die, let me die in a
blaze of artistic integrity.

Well

Then the steel-drivin' man

Rammed his train
through the wall

And crushed him flatter
than a MacBook Air, Lord, Lord

Crushed him flatter
than a MacBook Air

But while you were all out
fighting with the giant plastic octopi

I copied myself, you see

Bender!
Bender!

And I cowered
in the bathroom

While that
steel-drivin' moron

k*lled a duplicate
instead of me

Lord, Lord

k*lled a duplicate
instead of me

Now, that's what
I call a great ending.

I made a copy of myself
and Big Caboose k*lled him.

But you said making a copy of
yourself would be a lousy ending.

No, duplicate me said that

See, I had to be
sure he wouldn't try

and weasel out
of getting k*lled

like I would, and did,

so I created him with a tragic
weakness, artistic integrity.

Of course.

How could we have thought
a guy with integrity

was you even for a second?

Because you're idiots.

Come on, Silicon
Red, let's sell out.

I'm the real Rodriguez
Will you please stand up?

He been workin' on the rail
road Ladies can't get enough

I made a 3-D version
of my worst nightmare

Sucker tried to stop the
printer and I found him there

Went 187 on his robot ass

Turned out to be
a copy of my robot ass

Now we're folk-singin'
players packin' Beaujolais

And makin' max contributions
to our 401K

Peace out.