08x23 - My Husband, My Peasant

[bunniefuu]

- Hi, George. You're
in good spirits today.

- I just hung up a new
birdhouse in the elm tree.

Soon Mr. and Mrs.
Bluebird will move in

and make that house a home.

- Well, I hate to bring
you down, George.

But I just saw two
sparrows eyeing that place.

- Sparrows? Where's my shotgun?

- Relax, George. I don't
think they're moving in.

I think they're a couple
of, you know, lookie-loos.

- Salaam, sultan and sultana.

My Joanna, don't we look sheikh?

- Thank you, Michael.

I can never get enough
of your Arabic wit.

- There, there.

Little Stephy-wephy was
just hungry, wasn't oo?

- Nay-nay, Mommy dearest,
we agreed not to babble

in baby talk like other parents.

Okay, Cupper-wuppers?

- Of course, Mikey-ikey.

- Dicky's getting sicky.

- Hello, hello.
- Stephanie!

- Stephanie, darling.
- Darling!

- Libby, darling.

Scooter, darling.

Oh! What a darling surprise.

- You're the one who's
full of surprises, pet.

We were jetting in from Berlin,

big bash at the
Wall, don't you know,

when Ken and Anastasia DuPont
told us of the blessed event.

Really, dear? We never
got an announcement.

- Funny, I thought I sent one
to everyone who mattered.

- Water under the yacht.

Libby, you remember old d*ck.

- Of course. Who could
ever forget dear Richard?

We met in New York
at that society thing

for one of those causes.

And this must be your... - Inn.

We call it an inn.

And this is... this is
Joanna. We call it a wife.

- How do you do?

- Hello.

- My, what an unusual sweater.

But I suppose there's not a lot

to choose from
up here, is there?

- My wardrobe has suffered
so since my loom broke down.

- You must be the baby's father.

- No. No. Michael is the father.

At least that's what
Stephanie's led us to believe.

- That's George, the handyman.

This is my Michael.

- Howdy doody, Lib and Scootie.

- Backwards
banter, how I love it.

- Jumping Gibralter,
what a rock.

- Isn't it huge though?

Did you happen to
notice my little bauble?

- Yes, and I'm so worried.

I can't imagine how
you'll ever get it off

over those enormous knuckles.

- I don't plan to
take it off, sweetsie.

It's my wedding ring.

- Why Scooter, so you
actually married our Libby,

or should I say the
rowing team's Libby?

- This must be your baby.

She's just darling.

Too bad about her hair.

I'm sure she'll grow
some eventually.

- Well, let's hope it'll
be on her little head

and not on her chinny-chin-chin.

- By the way, you'd
never know it to look at me,

but Scooter and I have
had a baby too, haven't we?

- Well, you did all the
grunt work, precious.

- Now, now, where is
our little heiress, yes?

- Her name is Tiffany.
Isn't she just perfect?

- Well, she's a little zaftig.

- George, I-I think Libby
w-was talking about th-the baby.

- Oh, oh! I apologize
for that zaftig remark.

/

- Richard and wife, isn't
Tiffy the most beautiful

little girl you've ever seen?

- You're expected to say yes.

- Yes.

Uh, no.

Well, uh, sh-she's certainly,
definitely on my top-two list.

- You're putting Tiffany
in the same league

with that little bald girl?

- Well, thanks for stopping by.

- Oh no, we'll be
staying, old girl, yes,

we'd like two rooms, please.

One for Libby,
myself, and child,

and one for Mrs. Butterworth.

- Mrs. Butterworth?

I love your maple syrup.

- I've never heard
that one before.

- Come on Stephanie,
grab their bags

and we'll show
them to their room.

- Oh Scooter,
isn't this delicious?

Stephanie will be our
own personal sl*ve girl.

- sl*ve girl, how dare she?

Michael, carry their bags up.

- Yes, master.

- Stephanie, I had no idea

you were so good
at menial tasks.

If you ever need a job,
Scooter could find you something

in one of our fast
food restaurants.

Perhaps the position
at the drive-by window.

- Well thanks anyway,

but this is really
just kind of a hobby.

- Certainly seems
that way to me.

- Now be sure to treat
Mrs. Butterworth well.

She's used to having
excellent service at home.

- Well, then she
should get back there

as soon as possible.

- Your baby is a fussy
little one, isn't she?

- Well, maybe
it's just the scent

of rancid perfume in the air.

- Steph, I hate to
eat it and b*at it,

but I really should trot
over to the station for a tad.

- Michael is general
manager of WPIV.

And our little Stephy
owns the station.

- Really?

Our little Tiffany
doesn't need to work.

- Well, our Stephy
doesn't need to work either.

She just enjoys the
pleasure she gets

out of pushing people around.

I must admit your Tiffany
is pretty... considering.

- Cattiness looks so
ugly on you, Stephanie.

So, does most of her wardrobe.

But I understand your dilemma.

Your baby could
never be Tiffany's equal,

because her father
isn't a blueblood.

- Well! I may not be
officially blueblooded,

but I strongly believe I'm
as snobby as the next man.

- Once a mongrel,
always a mongrel.

Come along, Scooter.

Dear George promised
we could watch him

fix something.

- It's a shame we didn't bring
that damn cat of yours along.

Care to join us, dear Richard?

George is bound
to be good for a yuk.

- I'm pretty much
yukked up for the day.

- Michael, do you
think that it's possible

that baby Steph isn't
as perfect as Tiffany?

- Because Tiffany was all
quiet on the Stratford front

while little Stephy was
the kid on the River Cry?

- You can't compare babies.

They're both perfect
in their own ways.

- Leave it to Joanna
to try to soothe us

with a sunny observation.

Okay, what ways?

- Don't ask me, I might slip
and say something sunny.

- Well, uh, you know,
Tiffany has, uh, you know,

lots of curly hair and...
and adorable dimples

and the longest eye-eyelashes.

And baby... baby
Steph has a-a-a chin.

- Every baby has a chin.

- Yeah, but not that pronounced.

- Michael, Tiffany does
have bigger dimples.

- And gobs and
gobs of goldilocks.

- Face it, Michael, our
perfect baby's bald and bitchy.

- Noticing anything nouveau
about our babe in tow?

- Oh my, look at all
the hair she's grown

in the last two hours.

- Keep it under your hats,
cats, but those follicles are faux.

It's a tiny toupee.

It's amazingly lifelike,
don't you think?

- It kind of reminds me
of a drooling Ted Koppel.

- See, I told you we should have
gone with the Deborah Norville.

- Oh, what's the use? We
can't even fool these fops.

It's not fair, there is
a flaw in my ointment.

- Oh Michael, we
made a terrible mistake.

We married for love.

- Oh, stupid, stupid Cupid.

- There's nothing wrong
with marrying for love.

Look at us.

- Oh, stupid, stupid Cupid.

- You realize what this means?
- Yes, Michael.

- There's only
one thing left to do.

- Of course, Michael.
- Little Steph must never know.

- I understand, Michael.

- Then it's agreed?

- Absolutely, Michael.

- Would... would
you mind telling me

what... what the hell
you're talking about?

- Open up your ears, d*ck.

We're getting a divorce.

- Goodbye, Stephanie.

- Goodbye, Michael.

- Michael, Michael, freeze!

- You don't have to be
so dramatic, d*ck Olivier.

A simple "Wait a sec"
would have sufficed.

- What are you doing?

- Don't you listen to us
when we're hysterical?

We're getting a divorce.

I'll try to find a
nice lawyer, Steph.

- I will too.

- This is unbelievable.

- That we could find
two nice lawyers?

Justice JoJo's right.

We'll settle out of court,
Cuppers. You take everything.

- Oh Michael, I couldn't.

What would I do with all
your Family Circle magazines?

- Good point, pumpkin.

You take the cars,
furniture, stocks and bonds.

I'll take the mags and
we'll split the compact disks,

Simon for you, Garfunkel for me?

- Deal.

Oh Michael, our marriage
is slip-sliding away.

- I guess now there are
51 ways to leave your lover.

- Where will you be moving
so I can forward your mail?

- New York.
- Oh no!

Baby Steph and I
will be going there

to shop sometimes. We
don't want to run into you.

- How about Chicago?
- That'll be fine.

Nobody shops in Chicago.

- Th-That cinches it.

A-Are you two
o-out of your minds?

I mean, don't you want to
see your little girl grow up?

- Hm, that'd be nice.
Maybe Chicago's too far.

Is there a state that
borders Vermont?

- No. No, we're
surrounded by water.

- Then I'll rent a houseboat
off the coast of Vermont

and I'll get a job at
an offshore TV station.

Farewell, my former wife.

I'd ask for a lock
of our baby's hair,

but thanks to my dorky
DNA, she doesn't have any.

- She's whimpering.
I guess, you know,

one of us should say something.

- Well, you know me
and my sunny disposish.

I'd probably just make matters
worse by cheering her up.

- Stephanie, we,
uh, we n-need to talk.

- Oh, I know what
you're thinking,

that even though I'm
incredibly attractive

as a single mother,
I'll never get a date.

- No, that wasn't exactly what...
- Well, get this straight.

My eternal love for
Michael shall never die,

and I swear by all that's
holy that I shall never remarry.

Why, do you know someone?

- Look, I-I'm about to tell you
one of m-my long-winded stories.

Maybe you better sit down.

- Maybe I better lie down.

- Well, when... when I
was... When I was a-a boy,

I had... I had a
problem similar to yours.

I didn't, you know, I didn't
have a baby, of course,

but I did have a,
uh, I had a guppy.

See, Ethel was a-a purebred
and... and very beautiful.

- Like me?

- Scalier.

A-Anyway, Ethel was in love
with this other guppy, Maurice.

- Oh, a French guppy.

- Well, French Canadian.

Anyway, they had lots
and lots of... of babies.

All the other
guppies i-in the t*nk

used to laugh at Ethel
and Maurice's kids.

- Why? Did they wear funny hats?

- No. See, fish... fish
don't believe in sight gags.

- d*ck, is this story
going anywhere?

- It... it must be.

Oh, I-I've got it.

Ethel and Maurice loved
their children so much,

they didn't care if they were
the laughingstock of the t*nk.

They loved each other
and they loved their babies,

so much so that they
finally, um... ate them.

- Eww.

But you know, Ethel and Maurice
are a lot like Michael and me.

- They... they are?

- Except for their
names and their diet.

It's amazing how you paralleled
the upheaval in a fish t*nk

to the turmoil
in my family life.

- Well, you know,
that's... that's what I do.

- And nobody does it
better. Thanks, d*ck.

- I am good.

Maybe I'll write a
book of fish fables.

Ethel would have
wanted it that way.

- And Ethel and Maurice
had lots and lots of kids,

or snacks as they
turned out to be.

- Egads, the cads!

It is a fish-eat-fish world.

What's the drift
of this icky tale?

- Well, in his morbid,
long-winded way,

d*ck was trying to say

that fish can be
good role models.

- They ate their children.

I would never do such
a thing to baby Steph.

I mean, though on
occasion I may have said

I'd like to eat her up, I
would never eat her up.

- Well, what's gotten into d*ck?

He's losing touch with reality.

I only know that I
don't want you to go.

- I'm sorry Steph,

but for our sullied
seedling's sake,

this papa's got to
be a rolling stone.

- Did I just hear my
micro muffin call me Dada?

- No Michael, it was ga-ga.

- Oh.

- Michael, that time I
think she did say Dada.

Really?

- Yes, she's saying Dada.

- Mia bambina
sprechen ze me namen.

- She doesn't want
you to go either.

- Oh, double family whammy,

my mainspring and my
offspring want me to stay.

- See, she doesn't care
about your stupid old blood!

- Oh Steph, you
realize what this means?

I can paste my head
back into the family photos.

- d*ck, could Scooter and
Libby be making fun of me?

They seem to laugh
at everything I do.

- Well, they're
probably, you know,

laughing with you,
George, not laughing at you.

- But I wasn't laughing.

- Then they're laughing at you.

- What were you doing, George?

- Well, I was putting up a
"No Sparrows Allowed" sign

in the new birdhouse,
and a dog came by

chasing a cat, and
knocked over the ladder.

I tried to grab onto a branch

but there was a
beehive attached to it.

The bees started
stinging me so I let go

and fell into a bramble bush.

- Well, you don't look
any worse for wear.

- Oh, yeah? Every
inch of my body

is covered with bloody
welts and scratches.

- You want to see?
- No.

No thank you.

I'm still trying to get over
the image of your body

after you were
trampled by that cow.

- Libby called me a rube.

What is that exactly?

- George, it's a derogatory term
for a person from a small town.

- Well, I may be a hick and
I've been called bumpkin,

and once or twice I came running

when someone
yelled "Hey, yokel."

But it really galls me
when a la-dee-da snotnose

labels George Utley a rube.

- Harken home, boys.

We come bearing nifty news.

- We've decided
to stay together.

- So... so my story worked?

- Gulping guppies, Dickers,
you should be filleted

for that fish fable.

- It was baby Steph who
talked us into reconciling.

- Your five-month-old
spoke to you?

- Yeah, she said,
"Dada, whatever you do,

please don't go."

- Ah, there you are, George.

George, we were wondering
if you'd care to motor down

to the Hamptons for
one of our functions.

You'd be the guest of honor.

- It'll be loads of fun.

We call it a roast.

- No, thank you.

Maybe when you come
up again, I could invite you

to one of our functions.

We call it a tar and feather.

- Oh Scooter, what a
darling threesome they make,

just like a little
peasant family.

- Save your insults for
your servants, Libby.

Michael may not be blueblooded,

but we're together
and we're happy.

- That's what our two chefs
Christopher and Jeremy

keep telling us.

- Hi, I'm Larry.

This is my brother, Darryl,

and this is my
other brother, Darryl.

- Larry.

- Scoots.

- Lovely to see you
again, dear Lawrence.

I believe the last
time was at Leona's

"I'm Just Wild About
Harry and Larry" bash.

- That was some soiree.

We dropped by to
offer our congratulations

on the arrival of your heir.

And to see whether you require
our expert childcare services.

- Thank you, Lawrence,
but our little Tiffany

is upstairs in very capable,
albeit gnarled, hands.

- Well then, we'll
bid our adieux

and return to our
genetic experiments.

Darryl here is attempting
to cross a porcupine

with a pussycat.

Alack, the offspring tend
to clean theirselves to death.

Oh Scooter, do say
hello to your mom for us.

Our floors ain't been the same

since she stopped
scrubbing them.

- Pardon?

- Apparently, Scooter's
humility prevented him

from bragging about his mother's
proficiency as a scrub woman.

- Your mother was a scrub woman?

- Well, before she
met my stepfather,

we were a mite cash poor, so she

- That's quite enough, Scooter.

- No, it's not.

- So, Scooter, I
guess this means

you're not a
full-blood blueblood.

- Well actually
strictly speaking...

- I've never been so
humiliated in my life.

- Well, hopefully you'll
have plenty of other chances.

- Don't get so high
and mighty with me, pet,

lest you forget your grandfather

sold used pickup
trucks in Scranton.

- They were not pickup trucks.

They were recreational vehicles.

- Oh, this is so delicious.

- I'm going upstairs to pack.

Come along, Bernie.

- Oh, well, we're going to
start using our real names

are we now, Shirley?

- Keep a cot warm
for me, dear chum.

I may be bunking in for a while.

- It appears I have just
performed the function

of deus ex machina
in this little drama.

In Greek theater,
the deus ex machina

was raised and lowered on a rope

while the chorus explained
the offstage action.

Well, since our chorus
is relatively silent,

and our rope is holding
up Darryl's pants,

we'll settle for an
exit upstage center.

- Oh Michael, to think we
almost let Bernie and Shirley

break up our happy home.

- I'm reminded of the
immortal words of Toni Tennille

when she warbled, "Love,
love will keep us together."

- Come, my captain, let
us celebrate with a bottle

of d*ck and Joanna's
finest champagne.

- Or maybe d*ck and
Joanna's finest tap water.

- d*ck.

- d*ck! Baby Steph
called me d*ck!

I wonder what she wants.

- Meow.