08x03 - Poetry and Pastries

Episode transcripts for the TV show, "Newhart". Aired: October 25, 1982, - May 21, 1990.*
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d*ck Loudon and wife Joanna relocate from New York City to a small town in Vermont, where they run the historic Stafford Inn.
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08x03 - Poetry and Pastries

Post by bunniefuu »

- Yeah, uh-uh.

Yeah, well, Steph, I know you've
only been in Newport a few days,

but being Apartsville
is k*lling me.

Without you by my
side, life has no meaning.

You're right, I am droning
on and on about myself.

How are you holding up, Cuppers?

That much fun, huh?

I thought baby showers
were just a lot of women

yacking it up about...

Your dad hired musicians?

Well, sure, they were okay
once, but, without John,

they're just another
Liverpool garage band.

Don't worry about me,
Cuppers, I'll bear up.

You just keep having
the best time of your life.

No, no, I do not
want to talk to Yoko.

Okay, bye.

It's not fair.

Steph's off hobnobbing
at a baby shower

with the Fab Three and
I'm stuck here with you.

- Tragedy strikes
some people so young.

- Michael, you know
showers are for women only.

- So are Sweet 16 parties

but it didn't stop
me from having one.

- Michael, what do
you want us to do?

Throw... throw a shower for you?

- Would you, oh, would
you? Could you, could you!

- No!
- Oh, thanks, d*ck.

Set me up just to knock me down.

- Well, you know, why shouldn't
the father-to-be have a party?

It might be fun.

I could make my
famous potato salad.

- Uh, ix-nay, Mrs. ick-Day.

There'll be no skirts at
this soiree, right, d*ck?

- Yeah, you know, let a
woman into a-a baby shower

and the... the next
thing you know,

they're crashing our
swim-nastic classes.

- So true. Okay,
let's divvy it up.

I'll do the guest list
and you provide the rest.

And serve whatever you like.

You know, quiche,
finger sandwiches.

- Artichoke hearts in
a-a creamy vinaigrette?

- You sly dog, you've
thrown one of these before.

Adios!

I'm having a shower!

- So? I've had four
today and I still feel dirty.

Hello, d*ck, Joanna.

- Miss Goddard.
- How are things at the library?

- Quiet!

Ha-ha!

That joke never fails
to yield a hearty laugh.

- It's your delivery.

- Anyway, as you
know, I wear two hats.

The hat of head librarian,

and the toque of president
of the local pastry club.

Today I'm in the latter
guise to extend a rare honor.

- "The pastry club
proudly presents

"an evening of
poetry and pasties."

- That can't be right.
That should say "pastries."

- Either way, it sounds
like a fun evening.

- You said something
about an honor?

- Well, as you know, every
other poetry competition

is judged by Talcott Harding,

the town's reclusive
poet laureate.

- Honey, you've seen Talcott.

You know, that
sweet little old man

with the long white hair.

- Oh yeah, I met him
at the market once.

He... he bit me when
I took the last bottle

of herbal conditioner.

- Ordinarily, Talcott
would jump at the chance

to judge the contest again.

- What... what's stopping
him from jumping?

- He's dead.

- That... that would
make it dicey.

- So, who will be
judging this year?

- d*ck, we feel the next
logical choice would be you.

- No, thanks. I-I hate poetry.

- So did Talcott Harding,
but he showed up.

- Look, I-I can't tell a-a good
poem from... from a bad one.

- Well, you won't have
to, I win every year.

- Well, that'll certainly
make it easier.

- Then you'll do it?

- No, like I said...
- Good.

I hope that we won't have

another unattractive
display of tears

when you lose again this year.

Well, see you Saturday.

- Gee, honey,
if I win this year,

I hope people won't think

you gave me
preferential treatment.

- Well, you... you
won't be winning.

- Why not? Don't you think
my poems are good enough?

- Good is, you know,
such a... subjective term.

You know, while most people like
what William Shakespeare wrote,

I'm sure there are
some people that...

you know, that don't.

- So, you're saying
that even though

you don't care for my
poetry, some people might.

- Yeah, right.

- How can you stand
there and criticize my poetry

when you just admitted

you can't tell a good
poem from a bad one?

- Well, you make
it easy, sweetheart.

- Well, love of my life,
how kind and sensitive

and compassionate you are
to tell me my poems are stupid.

- You see, stupid is, I
mean, you know, it's such a...

a subjective term.

- Invite for the innkeep.

And you'll note
each is hand-painted

and numbered by the artist.

- This must've set you
back a small fortune.

- Well, not me, you're
the host of this baby bash.

Figured you'd be proud
to pop for this poppa-to-be.

Not to worry,
Dickums, let me explain

the Circus of Stationary's
easy monthly billing plan.

Thirty-six low, low
monthly installments

followed by a modest
balloon payment.

- I'm not footing the
bill for... for your shower.

Besides, I have to judge a
corny poetry contest Saturday.

- Pardon, but perhaps
you can persuade

those pentameter-pushers
to postpone.

- Michael, I'd rather turn
you down than Miss Goddard.

I've seen her bench
press over 200 at the Y.

- Well, fine, go listen
to your sissy poetry.

I'll be bonding with the boys
over watercress sandwiches.

- Oh, you're still here.

- Yeah, I was just going
to go the lobby to get, uh...

no.

- Well, then you'd
better uh... hurry.

- All right.

- Where you going?

- To, uh... get the... nah, no.

- Don't let me, uh... keep you.

Morning, Joanna.

If you're doing your crossword,

I can help you with
"Fiddler on the blank."

- Actually, George,
I'm working on a poem.

- Oh, for the contest.

I can't help you with that.

But if you want, I could
hot-glue the tassels

on your pasties.

- George, they're pastries.

Besides, I'm not
entering this year.

- Why not?

Now that Talcott
Harding's passed away,

Miss Goddard isn't
a shoe-in anymore.

Unless she's carrying
on with the new judge.

- d*ck is the new judge.

- Uh-oh.

And he uses the same
herbal conditioner Talcott used.

The kind that gets Miss
Goddard all hotted up.

"The Big Hurt."

Gee, I tried to write a poem
once called "The Big Hurt."

Did you drop an engine
block on your foot too?

- This isn't about
a physical hurt.

It's about my personal feelings.

- Can I read it?

- Well, it's not
really polished yet.

I mean, the imagery
might be a little off.

Also, the rhymes
are a bit forced.

- It's beautiful.
- I thought so too.

- This is even
better than that poem

Miss Goddard wrote last year.

"Ode to a Glistening Ploughman."

You've got to enter this poem.

- With d*ck judging,

it'd be like
spitting in the wind.

- But, this should be
shared with the world.

And if it means taking a
facefull of spit, I'm your man.

- "Take thy beak
from out my heart,

"and take thy form
from off my door.

"Quoth the bluebird

"'Nevermore.'"

- That was absolutely haunting.

- And I thought he
peaked last year

with his "Tracy at the Bat."

- Mr. Rusnak, are you sure
you actually wrote that poem?

- What are you implying, judge?

- Well, it's just that your
poem is, you know...

reminiscent of, uh, Edgar
Allen Poe's "The Raven."

- My poem is about a bluebird.

Anybody hear me say
anything about a raven?

No.

- I don't think d*ck knows
any more about birds

than he does about poetry.

- Our next piece is
a collaborative effort

by Jim Dixon and
Chester Wanamaker.

- Isn't it unusual for two
people to write a poem?

- Not when they share
the same poetic soul.

- Yeah, we're two
bodies with but one mind.

- Well, whoever
is using it tonight,

will you please begin?

- "Pals."

A poem by Jim Dixon...

- and Chester Wanamaker.

- "As kids, we too
shared everything

"from baseball bats to gals.

"And from that time,

"we've always been
the very best of..."

- "Friends."

- "Years later, we played poker
at our next-door neighbor Hal's.

"And helped each other win
because you always help your..."

- Friends.

- "If you want to know the
secret of our very high morales.

"It's I've got him
and he's got me

"and that's what makes us..."

- Friends.

- Excuse me, fellas, but
I couldn't help but notice

you... you never used
the word, uh, "pals."

- That's poetic license, d*ck.

- Come to think of it, Jim,

the word "pals" would
have rhymed here.

- Oh yeah.

- And here. And here.

Why didn't you think of that?

- Well, why didn't you?

- Because you made
me do all the typing.

- That's because you
kept making me add

wheat Chex to the party mix.

- That's only because
you kept taking them out.

- Well, you should've let me
eat them straight from the box,

like I wanted to.

- Jim Dixon, you're really
pushing my angry button.

- Fellas, fellas.

All right, our... our last
contestant is Miss Goddard.

Miss Goddard?

- Thank you, Judge Loudon.

Might I add that your hair

smells particularly
herbal this evening.

- I...

wondered why you
were sniffing me before.

- "The Entwinement,"
by Prudence Goddard.

"Weaving and churning
and heaving, they went

"until they were
spent and filled with

"the scent of passion
and moisture and fever.

"Swooning and sighing
and crooning they lay

"for most of the day,
they rolled in the hay

"while he swore that
he'd never deceive her.

"Groaning and
gasping and moaning,

"they shrieked until
their loins creaked.

"The two lovers peaked.

"How ironic that soon
he would leave her."

- Thank you. Thank you,
Miss... Miss Goddard.

- I've got a better idea of
what k*lled Talcott Harding.

- Well, I think...

I think that's
about all we have.

I know... I know
I've heard enough.

- Wait, d*ck, I've got one.

- Well, looks like we have a
surprise entry from George...

George Utley.

- I hope it's a
haiku, I'm hungry.

- "The Big Hurt."

"My hurt comes from
a flame no one can see.

"It's seared away
the hope inside of me.

"Time heals most things.

"I'll scar where
I've been b*rned.

"But what I've lost
can never be returned."

- George, I-I had no idea you
were so... were so p-profound.

- Joanna's the profound one.

She wrote this poem.

- Profound?

This is the woman who
holds the town record

for the number of
times she's checked out

60 Days to a Tighter Tummy.

- I thought I held that record.

- I wrote that poem.
Doesn't anyone believe me?

No.

- Well, you believe
me, don't you, d*ck?

- I-I... I don't don't... I
don't know about you folks,

but I sure w-wouldn't
mind hearing " Pals" again.

- "And he's got me and
that's what makes us..."

- "Friends."

- So, do you believe
I wrote my poem?

- Honey, I-I'd like to.

But that... that
poem, it just isn't...

your style.

It's so, um... good.

- And I tried so
hard to make it bad.

George, tell these people
that I wrote that poem.

- She sure did. I was there.

- Did you actually
see her write it?

- No, but I did see her read it.

- Maybe the judge's wife is
not aware of the difference

between reading a
poem and writing one.

- But it's mine, I swear it.

- Give it up, woman,
that ship has sailed!

- This is so damn stupid!

- Oh dear, profanity
in a public library!

I wonder what commandment
she'll be breaking next.

- I don't think we're
treating Joanna very fairly.

- Thank you, George.
For your sole support.

- Why don't we let her
write another poem,

while we sit here and watch?

- George is right.

Our opinion of Joanna
should be based on her ability,

and not on her gutter mouth.

- This is appalling.

d*ck, don't you think
this is ridiculous?

- Well, you know... I'm...

you know, ridiculous is
such a subjective term.

- Well, I guess
rational thinking

has no place in this room.

No.

- Nobody can just sit
down and write a poem

without any inspiration.

- I can.
- So can I.

- We weren't inspired at
all when we wrote "Pals."

- Come on honey, dash one off

and we can all get out of here.

- With all these people
sitting here staring at me?

- Seems Little
Miss Inexperienced

needs her privacy.

Everyone, turn your backs
on the Loudon woman.

- You might want to steer
clear of your usual stuff

about clowns crying
the saddest tears of all.

- Now that our backs are turned,

she'll probably just have George
knock off another one for her.

- All right. That's it.

- Took you long enough.

- Okay, Joanna, lay it on us.

- I refuse to be degraded
by some small-minded people

who get some perverse
joy in passing judgement

just so they can fill up
their own empty lives.

- Well, I don't like it,
it doesn't even rhyme.

- It's not a poem!

It's what I'm feeling.

Angry.

Hurt.

Like what I felt when
I wrote that poem.

- So, all... all that burning and
searing was because of our...

our little... little tiff.

- Tiff?

Sounds like you
were branding her.

- I feel another poem coming on.

- So, the reason that your...

That your poem was good
w-was be-because of me.

- Get a load of this guy.

First, he humiliates his wife,

now he's trying to take
credit for her beautiful poetry.

- What a disgrace!

- A damn disgrace.

- Damn damn disgrace.

- Here. A little
bedtime reading.

- d*ck, make a decision.
Who's the winner?

- Well, it's a...
it's a tough call,

but the winner is my... my
lovely and talented wife, Joanna.

- I can't believe it.

After all these years of
never even coming close,

the one year my
husband is the judge

is the year that I finally
win this prestigious honor,

and I am just
about the happiest...

- Jo-Jo-Joanna, you're babbling.

- girl in the world.

- Well, that... that
puts an end to our...

- Not so fast.

You still have to judge
the pastry competition.

- The... the pastry competition?

- Poetry counts for
10%. Pastry for 90.

- It's a biathlon.

- You mean... you mean
all this... this poetry crap

w-was just a-a-a warmup
for a pastry competition?

- Well, why do you think
the pastry club hosts it?

- Wait until you sink your
teeth into my hot sticky buns.

- Don't listen to her.

I made my cranberry crisp.

- What's that?

- d*ck, it's your favorite.

You know how much you
love my cranberry crisp

with a big cup of coffee.

- How else am I
going to worship Don?

- No, I understand. Yeah, sure.

Same thing happened to,
uh, a few of the other guys.

Yeah, well, I'm sure
the pressure really cooks

when you're boning
up for a bar mitzvah.

Sure. Bye, Mohammed.

- Honey, I'm sorry Miss
Goddard won, but you know,

your cranberry crisp was
a-a touch on... on the dry side.

- Well, it wouldn't
have been dry

if you hadn't taken so
long judging the poetry.

- Joanna, th-there's no shame
in... in coming in dead last.

- I prefer to think of it as a
distant ninth, Judge Loudon.

- Is it just me,

or does this shower
seem kind of slow?

- I guess the concept
of an all-boys shower

was just too New Age
for this one-Porsche town.

At least you dudes showed up.

- Well, around here, George
and I are the vanguard

of everything hip and trendy.

- Anybody got their name
on this bowl of sauerkraut?

- It says George Utley now.

- Oh boy.

- Don't you want to consume
that kraut with your cronies?

- If you don't mind, I'd rather
party hearty alone in my room.

I've got some
late-night reading to do.

"The Branded Handyman."

- Well, goodnight.

- You're leaving too?
Don't you feel sorry for me?

- No more than usual.

- Oh, I get it. You'd
rather be with Joanna.

- Anybody got their name
on those cocktail wieners?

- Those dogs say d*ck!

- Great shower.
- Thanks.

Care for a white wine spritzer?

- No.

- Bite of baklava?
Baked it myself.

- No.

- So, where's my shower gift?

- I didn't get you any.
- Oh.

- Well, 'night, d*ck.

- I wonder if his
poetry is this good.

- Meow.
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