03x18 - The Longest Weekend

[bunniefuu]

[whistles]

I'm happy.

Maybe it has to do
with getting fried last night

and passing out with my hand
on my crotch

watching some kind of fire
on TV.

I think it was TV.

It wasn't.

Ah, well, life's an ever
unfolding blah-blah-blah.

The point is,
I've had an epiphany.

You mean
a sudden revelation

about the essence
of existence?

Oh, uh... no.

What's the word?

Colonic.

This morning, I feel
refreshed, revitalized

and reeking of happiness.

Now, I know what you'd say
if I let you say anything.

"Duckman, how can you feel good

if you're not
making others miserable?"

How shallow.

If history teaches us anything,

it's that our happiness

need not
cause others pain.

[tiny screams]

That, and never bet on a race

if you can't remember
which horse you drugged.

And now, to begin
my perfect day.

D'wah!

My car's gone!

D'wah!

D'wah!

D'wah.

Street cleaning?

This is the same garbage
I dumped here a month ago.

How come I have to spend
all that time and effort

avoiding taxes for services
the city never gives me anyway?

[yells]

Talk about irony.

Public transportation--
what a farce.

No one rides except a bunch
of loud-mouthed vandals.

Damn bus wouldn't even stop

till I screamed at the driver

and spray-painted
the windshield.

Duckman, we have
a client.

What's it this time--

some rich broad
offering a reward

for her diamond necklace
that's caught on her belt?

Why, that's remarkable.

I did lose
a diamond necklace

and I'll pay $50,000

to anyone who can find it.

Actually, it's
caught on your...

Hey, I'm a detective.

I got better things to do
than try to solve

wild-goose-chase impossible-
to-figure-out mysteries.

Why don't you just see if you
can detect someone who cares?

They towed my car, Corny!

And for no other reason
than it was illegally parked

and had $1200
in unpaid tickets.

Also, you stole it.

It was dark.

How was I supposed
to tell the difference

between a parking lot
at the mall

and a Mazda dealership?

URANUS:
Ooh, look,
isn't that it?

It's hanging
from your belt.

I see it...

Quiet! I can't
hear myself lie.

They changed
the street cleaning hours!

Can they do that?

I mean, without some kind
of notification?

What?

What?

Nothing.

You know, Duckman,
regulations like that

are made by
the city council.

Maybe you should speak
to your representative.

City council?
Representative?

Until Esperanto comes back,

you want to ease off
on the foreign mumbo-jumbo?

They're English words, Duckman.

Well, we don't live
in England, do we?

The council is a body of men
and women who govern our city.

Wait! Did you say
"women" and "body"?

It's my fault.

I was attempting
an actual conversation.

You could go tonight and speak
against the new regulations.

Maybe I'll do that, Cornfed.

Maybe I, Duckman, will strike
a blow for the common man.

Maybe I, Duckman,
will prove that anyone--

even I, Duckman--
can make a difference.

Bikini Babe Battle
got canceled?

Those damn implant recalls
have devastated the sport.

MAN:
There's an evil cabal
running this city!

A ruthless group
who loot our treasury

to finance their goal of world
domination through p*rn

and the proof of this
is the proposal

that the intersection
of Beacon and Third

have a 22-second walk cycle!

And I want to know the names
of the unholy pagans

who spent their nights making
offerings to their dark lord

and their days voting

for mandatory
feline distemper sh*ts!

I've never heard such a bunch

of penny-ante, dime-a-dozen,
two-bit half-wits

exaggerating their enemies,
and bellyaching

over the tiniest, stupidest
personal problems.

It's your turn.

I want to talk about
the most vicious, heartless,

cold-blooded traitors
in the history of mankind

and how they changed my block's
street-cleaning hours!

[whimpering]

I think it went pretty well.

Still, in case none of them
awake from their comas,

you might want
to speak to the mayor.

Nice notion, Pork-face.

Hey, May!

I live on North Phlegm Avenue--

'cept for
warrant-serving purposes,

in which case, I escaped
to the islands

with Robert Vesco
in the mid-70s.

You're a politician.
You know the drill.

Anyhoo, I want street-cleaning
hours changed back

or I'll find out where you live
and hunt you down like a dog.

No offense.

That sounds like
a marvelous idea.

I'm going to give
it top priority.

Well, that was easy.

That sounds like
a marvelous idea.

I'm going to give it
top priority.

Dad, you haven't moved
for a month.

When the mayor
said she'd change

the street-cleaning
hours back,

she didn't necessarily
mean during your lifetime.

My elected representative
made me a promise.

Dad, I need a favor,
but it's a little awkward.

Go ahead, Ajax. You know
you can ask me anything.

Could we brick you
into the wall,

so we don't have to smell you
when we come in to watch TV?

Of course, son.

Just be sure
to brick up my faith

in the democratic system
while you're at it.

A-okay, Dad.

Hey, some workers from the city

are out there
changing all the street signs.

I knew it. I knew it!

Yes, yes.

Democracy in action.

"No standing,


[clanging]

D'wah!

D'wah!

D'wah!

D'wah.

I was thrown

in the mildewed,
ferret-infested cell,

forced to survive on gravel soup
and rancid jujubes,

beaten every half hour by blind,
east European circus clowns

and brought to a public square
where I was put in stocks

and pelted with back issues
of U.S. News & World Report.

Duckman, you're supposed
to be telling us what happened

after you got towed
by the city truck,

not showing slides
of your vacation.

Fine.

We'll finish another time.

I'll tell you what
happened to me.

I was treated
like a common criminal!

Like an animal!

Like an ameba!

Like a geological substrata!

If it hadn't been
for the foot massage,

I might not have stayed.

What about me?

They made fun of my clothes,

then took photos
of my many abnormalities.

It was the most degrading
and humiliating experience

I've had since that medical exam
in the alien spaceship,

which, it turns out,
is not covered by Medicaid.

As a psychiatrist, I found
the experience quite intriguing,

because,
as a psychiatrist, I write

many psychiatric papers
which we psychia...

Oh, shut up.

Citizens of North Phlegm,
are we so apathetic

that we let
a faceless bureaucracy

treat our fellow neighbors
this way?

ALL:
Yes.

Point taken.

Still, at my request,
the mayor's office

has sent someone to
explain what happened.

Yowza.

The new street-cleaning
hours are a result

of lobbying by
your neighbors--

the Dutch Elm Street
Block Association.

Those magnificent bastards!

Well, two can play
at that game.

I say we do the same thing.

I say we... uh...

What did they do again?

Organize a
block association

which can perform
many valuable functions

and be an important source
of civic pride.

We could plant trees,
spruce up lawns.

Improve lighting,
institute a crime watch.

And destroy Dutch Elm Street!

[cheering]

Neighbor fellows, is
it not, or is it is

time to unite against
the common enemy?

ALL:
Duckman.

No, in this case,
it's not Duckman.

The Jews?

BOTH:
Dutch Elm Street.

Yes, and to help us get started,
I've called upon an expert

on organizational structures--

a completely legitimate
businessman

who assures me
he's not a scam artist

currently wanted in 18 states--
our own beloved Art Disalvo.

Thank you.

As I travel around
this land of ours,

one thought comes back to me
again and again.

These people are nuts!

To protect themselves
from their fellow Americans,

Americans use a wide range
of group structures.

Turn off the lights, Ajax.

My pleasure, Mr. Disalvo.

That's okay.

I forgot the slides.

First, our economy plan--
the militia!

For this, all you need
is a bunch

of unemployed white guys

and their weight
in unregistered firearms.

Next! The skinhead.

This is a militia
with a funky team b*at.

There's no leaders,
but you must have

a kindergarten education
to participate.

Finally, our premium level--
the congress.

For this, you have
to live in luxury,

write laws that benefit
your wealthiest contributors,

and steal
everything you can find

till you're indicted.

Gee, sounds
good to me.

[murmuring in agreement]

Excellent choice.

I'll be here after the meeting

to hand out
the information package

and take your checks.

Just make them out to Cash.

That's my maiden name.

Thank you, Art.

The next order of business
is to elect a leader.

I'd like it to be someone who
won't cause me physical pain.

I think it should be someone
with a degree in psychiatry

who's also a psychiatrist.

I propose it be someone
really stupid,

so that we could lull
Dutch Elm Street

into a false sense
of superiority.

All in favor
of Duckman--

As a... psy...

an observer,
I question the choice

of such
an obviously unbalanced...

Oh, what is the medical term?

Moron.

What makes you qualified
to lead a block association?

Well, I was president of a
South American country.

I stopped King Chicken

from de-evolving the
city into nothingness

and I was worshipped as a god
by an alien civilization.

Well, yeah.
That sounds good.

Okay. Get over to Dutch Elm
and tell them

their days of ruthless
zoning changes are over

because we now have a strong,
united block association

with a fearless,
hard-driving president.

Now, you
mucus-covered pipe cleaner.

[yells]

[door slamming]

Snapple?

[funky jazz playing]

[pastoral music playing]

[warbling]

Hmm, nice mailbox flags.

Mr. Duckman! I had
no idea you were coming.

I'm looking for someone
with the block association.

Tad Venom. You know,
I don't think our block

has an association,
but please come in.

This meeting of the Dutch
Elm Street Block Association

will now come to...

Kids' playroom--
no one's there now.

Say, congratulations

on being elected
president of your block.

How did you know?

I didn't.
Not a clue.

Please, sit.

Not there.

Springs are sh*t.

Look, I'm here because...

I'm sorry.

May I interrupt
you for a moment?

Thanks. Please go on.

You...
Please, call me Tad.
Look, Mr. Duckman,

I promise that we don't
have a block association

and I'm not president.

No. "Promise" is the
wrong word. "Pretend."

Can't thank you enough
for stopping by.
Please come back soon--

though I will be out of town
for the next 30 years.

I...

Ooh, you silver-tongued devil.

Bye.

Well, I don't think
we'll be having

any more trouble from him.

[horns blaring]

I can't believe it.

Even after the tongue-lashing
I gave Venom,

his block association got the
zoning changed on our street,

so that their street wouldn't
have every truck in the city...

every super-charged


every cattle drive
in the city...

[truck horn blares]

[brakes squealing]

You realize, of course,
this means w*r.

Be seated.

You are all North Phlegmers.

North Phlegmers love to win
and will not tolerate a loser.

You're about to go on a mission

to take out Dutch Elm's
cable television.

You may wonder
if you'll chicken out.

Don't worry.

When you put your hand
into a bunch of goo

that a moment before
was your wife's radicchio patch,

you'll know what to do.

I'm proud to lead
you wonderful guys

anytime, anywhere.

Unfortunately, right now,
I've got this thing...

Your problem,
Mr. Duckman,

is that you're
a miserable coward.

That happens to be
a lifestyle choice.

Okay, son, that's enough
grease on your face.

Grease?

Where did you get grease?

[shouting]

Oh, my God!

Not toilet paper!

[screaming]

Charge!

You k*lled my lawn!

You k*lled my lawn!

[yells]

Ow.

Okay,
we've got

to lull them to sleep.

Stein...

[new age
keyboard music playing]

[snoring]

How are things
on your end?

Fine, since
the sores healed.

Animals... they're animals.

All you have to do is look
at them to see

they don't have the same
feelings as us.

Dad, what's the signal

for when we're in
tremendous danger and
about to be captured?

[shouting]

[screaming]

[barking]

[doorbell ringing]

Oui, monsieurs?

You've got
to hide us.

You are Americans.

I do not like
this terrible w*r.

Oui, I will hide you.

Walk this way.

Do it and you're off
the series.

It is not,
how you say..? The Ritz,

but I think you will be
uncomfortable.

DUCKMAN:
You mean comfortable.

No.

Thanks, Marie.

The girl's
a treasure.

Would you mind strapping
yourselves down?

I could call Igor,
but he tends
to break people.

You know how it is.

You volunteer
to make lemonade,

you end up running the w*r and
torturing everybody yourself.

Okay, here we go.
There's still a few bugs,

but hopefully,
this will hurt a lot.

[channel changes]

What the...?

Damn. Nothing works right
since Windows 95.

Tad Venom,
this is Cornfed.

In the name of humanity,
will you agree to peace talks?

Okay.

CORNFED:
As the mayor's representative,

I'm happy to do my best
to arrange negotiations.

But I do have
one preliminary request.

Could you please stop
torturing Duckman?

Damn, I just got
it working.

Again?

Mr. Venom, my plan is to sit
both sides down at a table.

What kind of table?

Any kind.

Not rectangular.

I'm not sitting across
from a Phlegmer.

All right, round.

Round? What kind of man
do you take me for?

Triangular?

Octangular.

Rhomboid?

Tetragon.

Dodecagon?

Trapezohedron.

[gavel pounding]

Thank you, Cornfed.

Now, I have an idea

for ending this w*r quickly
and easily and quickly.

I propose that Dutch Elm Street
annex North Phlegm Avenue.

[shouting disagreement]

Venom, that is the stupidest
idea I've heard

since the Indians claimed they
lived here before Americans.

Actually, I feel it's
worth considering.

Yes. It might be fun to live
under the strong

yet benevolent leadership of a
genial tyrant like Mr. Venom.

I never considered
the idea before,

but I feel it's an idea
worth considering.

Something funny's going on here.

It's about time.

I'm getting sick
of all the social commentary.

Hey, everyone...

Expensive home
electronic equipment

and thick wads of cash
are being delivered

to three houses
on Phlegm Avenue.

[gasping]

Traitors!

Let's book.

The whole south side
of the street

just joined up with Venom.

Who cares?

We're not intimidated
by any south North Phlegm scum.

Eat fluoride, lawn jockeys.

[screaming]

D'wah!

Hey, that's enough
with the d'wahs.

I do the d'wahs, okay?

Yikes!

Excuse me.

I just wondered
if you'd considered

the metaphorical implications

of tearing apart your own home
to fight your neighbors.

Never mind.

We're doomed! Doomed!

I have an idea, Dad.

What? What?

If they made
tugboats bigger,

they could be the boats
other boats tug.

We're out of weapons.

We need something large
and heavy to throw at them.

[breaking wind]

You heartless guttersnipe.

I meant something other
than my mother.

That's it, Shmuckman.

Get out of my living room.

What?

You heard me.

This living room belongs
to me and the kids now.

No way.

We the sovereign residents
of the western end
of the bedroom wing

refuse to live any longer
under the tyrannical yoke

of the recreation
and eating areas.

Come on, men.

Who cares?

I don't need any of you,
you hear me?

Not any of you.

I get the kitchen.

[blows raspberry]

Hello?

Hello?

I don't believe it.

It's over.

They destroyed themselves.

The entire neighborhood
is in ruins.

The only things left
are me and my refrigerator.

I won! I won!

Ya-hoo!

Ya-hoo!

Ya-hoo!

Ya-hoo!

These people are nuts!