01x23 - Deadline

Episode transcripts for the TV show "My Three Sons". Aired: September 29, 1960 - April 13, 1972.*
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Widower Steve Douglas raises a trio of boys.
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01x23 - Deadline

Post by bunniefuu »

Hello, Dad! Hi, Chip.

Hi, Dad!

Robbie did it again, Dad.

Oh?

Tramp, Tramp, heel. Now stop it.

Will you heel?

That'll be the day, wouldn't it?

What did Robbie do this time?

He threw my whole rock
collection in the backyard.

Oh... You going to
talk to Robbie, Dad?

Yeah, I'll talk to him.

Will you look at this?!

What is it? It
used to be a shirt.

Oh. That Robbie's the
toughest kid on clothes

I've ever seen in my life.

This thing's only a month old.

Now that will give
you a little idea

of what a friendly little game

of touch football will do.

There's not enough
left of this thing

to a make a collar
for a fox terrier.

Now, are you going
to talk to him about it?

Yeah, I'll talk to him about it.

Well, if it was me, I'd do
more than talk to him about it,

I'll tell you that.

Talk, talk, talk and no action.

That's the trouble around
here... Talk, talk, talk.

Nothing every
happens. Just talk.

Okay, Tramp,
it's your turn next.

What's your complaint
against Robbie?

I was only kidding.

I was just kidding,
Tramp, I didn't mean it.

Quiet...

Chip, Chip, take him
out, will you, please?

Okay, Dad. Come on, Tramp.

What a stupe. What
a mixed-up blockhead.

Hello, Mike. What's he done now?

Oh, what hasn't he done?

But this is the worst ever.

I wish we could get rid of
that creep once and for all.

Now, Mike, I think that
sounds just a little drastic.

Why don't you relax and
tell me what he's done wrong,

and I'll add it to the list.

And I'll talk to him about it.

Oh... Loos is the one
who should talk to him.

Loos? Who's Loos?

Mr. Loos... facility advisor
to the Bryant Bugle! Oh.

Hi, Dad. Oh, Rob, I
want to talk to you.

Well, gee, Dad,
Chip keeps putting

his clunky old
rocks on my bed...

Now wait a minute.

I'm not talking about Chip's
clunky old rocks this time.

I want to know how you
could possibly get in trouble

with the Bryant Bugle.

What do you mean, Bryant Bugle?

Well, Mike says...
Oh, not Robbie, Dad.

I'm not talking about Robbie.

Well, then who are
you talking about?

Stu Walters!

Oh.

Who's Stu Walters?

Yeah... yeah, who's Stu Walters?

He's supposed to
be the sports editor,

but a lot he knows about sports.

The only team he was
ever on is the debating team.

Here, read that.

"Mike Douglas looks
promising in the 440."

What's wrong with that?

Well, that's all it says.

It doesn't even tell
how I clipped it off

in 51 flat in practice.

And look who wrote it.

Agnes Finley.

Is that a stroke of genius?

He has her cover the track
meet and then assigns me

to cover the girl"
swimming team.

And all he ever does is
sit there in his swivel chair

and play merry-go-round.

So you see, Mr. Loos,
I'll be away four days.

The debate team
leaves on a Tuesday

and won't be back
until... Friday afternoon.

Well, Stu, if you're
faced with a debate,

you'd better forget
the paper for a week.

I'll appoint a
substitute editor.

Okay.

And if we find the right man,

I don't mind giving him
the job permanently.

I'm pretty busy for
the rest of the year.

Here's my stuff
for next week, Stu.

It's not too good, but
I want to get it in early

so I have have
a little free time.

And the typing's a little
sloppy, too, but I guess it'll do.

Just a minute, Russ.

How would you like to be
substitute editor for a week?

No, thanks. Bye.

Hold it a second, will you.

Look, Stu, I got too
much to do as it is already.

My grades aren't
what they should be.

My folks have been
after me all the time.

I'm doing everything I
can just to keep going.

Came down with the
flu twice this winter, too.

It set me back an awful lot.

Still got this bad
cough... headache...

I had to get off the
tennis team because of it.

Okay, okay, okay, forget it!

See you later.

Boy, every time Russ
faces responsibility,

he breaks out in a rash.

Have you considered
Mike Douglas?

Oh, I don't know.

How about you, Agnes?

I don't think so, Mr. Loos.

Giving up my creative position

in exchange for an
administrative one

would stifle certain basic
aesthetic needs which I...

Yeah. Besides, who ever
heard of a girl sports editor?

True.

But it might be an
innovation our page needs.

Mike Douglas... How
about Frank Gordon?

Is he still on the staff?

Why don't you give Frank a try?

He's... well, he's
great on organization.

He's got a nose for news.

A fine sense of humor.

Call Mike's house.

Frank's usually
there at dinnertime.

How do you know?

Larson 0-6719.

Hello.

Oh. Frank Gordon?

No, he isn't.

Hold on a second. I'll ask Mike.

And another thing this
stupid Stu Walters does

is try and get
funny in his column.

Hey, hey, Mike...
- Wait a minute,

Listen to this, Dad,

"And then there was the
girl who thought a foul ball

was a lousy party."

Ha, ha, ha, very funny.

This guy thinks he's an editor.

Does sound a little corny.
No organization, no balance,

no sense of news value.

Nothing but a big soft
seat in a swivel chair.

Hey, Mike, do you know
where Frank Gordon is?

Not there?

No.

You know... it
suddenly occurs to me,

Agnes might just be right.

Mike would make
a darn fine editor.

Mike's pretty busy
on the track team.

Yeah, but he's... he's
great on organization.

He's got a nose for news

and a fine sense of humor.

I never saw Mike quite that way.

Still, if you think
he deserves it...

It's exactly what he deserves.

Yes, sir. Good-bye.

Whoopee!

Bub, you're now looking
at the new sports editor

of the Bryant High Bugle!

Mr. Loos finally got around

to recognizing
some of my talent!

What talent? Ha, ha!

You'll see in the next issue.

Hey, what...? Dad! Dad!

I'm right there.

Oh, we made it, Dad, we made it.

Now we'll show him, won't me?

We sure will.

Who are we going
to show what to who?

Hey, Jean.

Jean, are you there?

What's wrong, Mike?

Well, it's finally happened.

After all this time slaving
away as a reporter,

I am the sports editor
of the next issue.

Gee, that's wonderful.

But won't it be too
much work for you?

No work at all.

I'll be the boss, see?

All I do is hand out
the assignments.

My staff does all the work.

And this way I can make
certain that Agnes Finley

doesn't write the
track meet story.

The deadline for the paper
is right after the track meet.

And that's the night
of the spring mixer.

Don't worry, I ought to be
through by half past 8:00 easy.

Robbie, I'm talking.

Yeah, well, I'm practicing.

Well, that's the best
dance of the year.

We don't want to miss it.

Big deal. Big
senior deal. Mike...

Not a chance. All I
do is edit the paper.

On Friday, after
I finish the 440,

I dash over to school and make
sure my staff is on the beam,

then I dash home, get
dressed, dash over to your place,

pick you up and we
dash to the dance.

Jean, there are too
many children around

to carry on an
intelligent conversation.

I'll talk to you later, okay?

Okay, Mike. Good luck.

You know doubt realize
that I'm the new sports editor.

Mike, is this obsidian?

No, that's tar.

Hey, don't you realize

that I'm breaking the way

so that you guys can
follow in my footsteps?

The lion heeds not the
yapping of the jackals.

Come and see me some
time in my swivel chair.

What's more, our sports page

is going to have
life, zip and novelty.

I don't mean this as any
criticism to my predecessor,

but in the past we have been forced
to suppress our creative instincts.

But in the issue, you're
going to have a chance

to express yourselves.

Really express yourselves.

So right now, let's start having

some of those
good original ideas.

That's a fine suggestion, Mike.

That's right.

This issue has to be unique.

I want something
absolutely compelling.

Now come on, staff, think.

On the baseball field
the mighty batter stood...

What's that?

I-I was just thinking that
poetry might be compelling.

You mean the classic
stuff like "Casey at the Bat"?

Oh, no, no.

I mean original poetry.

Some I'd write.

Mm-hmm.

Russ, what are your ideas?

Yes?

Come on, think, Russ.

Gee, I don't know, Mike.

I have so many other things
on my mind these days,

I just don't have time to think.

I suppose if I do do poetry

then that'll leave you without
a story on the track meet.

Oh, the track meet.

Well, you know,

that poetry deal might
not be so bad after all.

Yeah, it's
original... creative...

Yeah, why don't you
give poetry a try this week.

Thank you, Mike.

That's all right. Now, Russ...

Ratter tood... catter, catter...

Catter dood...
Matter? Matter would...

Of course, we can't
go completely arty.

We'll need some
straight reporting, too.

Russ, you'll cover the
track meet on Friday.

Oh, gee, I... Satter...

And there's plenty
of time until then,

so why don't you interview
a couple of the track stars,

you know, for the
personality column.

That means a
lot of interviewing,

and I just don't
have the time for that.

Well, you can get
in a little practice

by interviewing me,
as sort of a dry run.

And that takes care of the page.

Just remember that
everything is due in

Thursday night after school.

Except, of course, for the
story on Friday's track meet.

Any questions?

Oh, gee, I... Meeting adjourned.

Blatter tood... platter could...

Ratter dood...

Of course, I'm not too sure
about Agnes and her poetry.

But, uh, don't you think that
was a pretty diplomatic way

to keep her from
writing any more stories

about the track team?

Well, Mike, uh,

Stu Walters used a
different kind of diplomacy.

Oh?

He had Agnes writing
stories about the track team

to keep her from writing poetry.

See you later, Mike.

Gym... gym... gymnasium...

hypertusium... acadasium...

My eyes are burning...

spots on my tongue...
shaky knees...

Oh, I... Oh, yeah?

Then you better
sit down for awhile.

I got to get out to the field.

I missed practice
twice already this week.

And be sure to
interview Stiffy Brothers.

He's great in the sh*t put.

Stiffy doesn't like me
because Harriet Baker does.

Look, Russ, remember
the power of the press.

Just tell him you're
going to write about him,

and you won't be
able to shut him up.

Oh, hi, Stiffy. Hi, Mike.

36 feet tonight.

Not bad, huh?

You better get some towels.

Hi, Stiffy. How's it going?

Hear you're taking
Harriet to the dance Friday.

Yeah. Say, mind a few questions?

About what?

Writing a story about
you for the Bugle.

Yeah?

Well, what if I don't
want to be written about?

All I want is a few facts.

You know, like what
kind of stuff you eat,

what time you go to bed...

Are you insinuating I've
been breaking training?

No. No, look, all I want
to do is find out something

about your personal life.

You leave my
personal life out of this.

This was Mike's idea.

Don't go blaming Douglas now.

Gee, do you have to yell?

Don't tell me to shut up.

This is pretty stupid...

Who are you calling stupid?

Look, I got this
splitting headache!

Yeah? Well, I don't like
a guy that snoops around.

And I don't like
a guy that pries.

And I don't like a guy that
steals another guy's girl.

And I don't like to be
called stupid by any guy

that's so stupid he
thinks he can get away

with telling me to shut up.

The deadline for the
dummy is tomorrow night,

and the paper's out on Monday.

I've got Russ' story right here,

and he'll cover the track
meet tomorrow. No problems.

I finished the feature
column, Mike. Good.

Do you want to hear them?

I got one on football and
baseball and swimming...

That's funny.

And golf and tennis and track.

And what's wrong?

There's nothing here

but the practice
interview with me.

Oh, well, I've got
plenty for both columns.

I wonder if he could
have forgotten it.

Here, let me read
you this one on track.

I better call him.

See the sprinter on
the track, cinder track.

Oh, what a world of weariness
to win a wooden plaque.

Yeah. Russ?

This is Mike. Say, listen,

what happened to the
personality column?

Did you forget to
put it in the envelope?

I gave you everything I wrote.

Well, didn't you even
interview Stiffy Brothers?

Yes, I interviewed
Stiffy Brothers.

As a result, I've gone
into temporary retirement.

What do you mean?

I mean I've got a black eye.

Nobody's gonna see
me with it till it gets better.

But who's gonna
cover the track meet?

If you don't write
this story, who will?

Well, you're gonna
be there, aren't you?

The shrieking and the squeaking

of the yells!

On the first turn, Mike
Douglas led by five strides.

He swept into the
backstretch six strides ahead.

Four strides. Uh, three.

Mike Douglas,
cr*ck quarter-miler,

was leading at the halfway mark.

Going into the final
turn, he was ahead by...

Mike Douglas, favored
to win the 440 event,

came down the stretch toward
the tape neck-and-neck with...

er, a stride behind...

two... three strides.

Where's he going?

Despite his loss, Mike
Douglas ran a good race.

Despite his loss...

Mike Douglas ran a good race.

Hello, Mr. Loos.

Well, Jean, all set
for the big evening?

I'm set for the last half.

Have you seen Mike?

Oh.

Oh, Jean.

You were supposed to
meet me at the dance.

What are you doing
in your track suit?

Well, I didn't have time.

My clothes are right
down in the locker room.

And as soon as I get
this page put together...

How long?!

Well, not long at all.

Now that this is all in place,

all I do is glue it tight,
proofread the page,

write a small story for there,

and then paste in the
personality column.

I thought you said you
only had to edit the paper?

That your staff
did all the work.

Well, how did I know

half my staff was
gonna run out on me?

You go get dressed.

Who cares if the
paper's a few days late?

You... You promised to take me

to the Spring Hop weeks ago.

Listen, one of
our favorite songs.

Look, Jean, I've been five
hours putting that together.

Now if you'll just be patient

for another 30 minutes.

All right.

And I'll use that 30
minutes finding a partner.

Wait a minute!

There must be a
few stags in the gym.

Oh, Russ, have...

you seen Jean Pearson
within the last hour?

It's all I can do
to see Harriet.

Oh, gee, Mr. Loos, I've been
in there listening to the music,

and I got the most
wonderful inspiration

for a sport poem.

That's a nice experience.

The title of the one
I'm thinking about is

"After the Dance Was
Over, the Dance Was Over."

And it starts out,

"Oh, athletes at the dance,
prance, cha-cha, cha-cha!"

Do you like it?

I-I said, do you like it?

I thought that was
part of the poem.

Hi, Agnes.

I thought you were
going into hiding

till you healed?

I was. But I had a date.

If you can come to the dance,

I don't see why Mike had
to cover the track meet!

There.

You know, without your help,

I don't think I
would have made it.

Now what do we do?

Well, first I paste
everything down,

then I send it to the printers,
and I am through forever.

Gosh, Mike, I'm sorry.

Well, that's it.

I'm licked.

I couldn't get it to
the printers tonight.

We might as well go home.

And not have it
come out on Monday?

Mike, you can't.

Look, Jean, I've ruined
your evening enough.

You have not ruined my evening.

It's been fun working with you.

Besides, there
are three of us now.

These stories are all numbered.

We'll all have them put together
again quicker than you can say

"iambic pentameter."

There's still time, and
Mr. Loos will be up later.

All right, once more.

Jean?

Could I, uh... have
the last dance?

On one condition.

What's that?

You take off those spikes.

The dance is a dance...

is a dance is a dance.

Not where, not
why, not even who,

but only when, a
dance is a dance.

Well, there it is, Dad.

I made the deadline.

What do you think of it?

Well, "Mike Douglas
in sensational upset."

You made that up pretty big.

Well, just because
I was editor...

No, I understand.

You had to print the facts
no matter how unpleasant.

Oh, here's one here.

"What Mike Douglas
eats for breakfast."

That's interesting.

Yeah, but that
was the only story

Russ Burton turned in.

Oh, I see.

Uh, who wrote this one
here about Mike Douglas

taking over as guest
editor for a week?

Well, I needed a
little filler for that spot.

And besides, it
is a unique story.

Hmm. Something that
won't happen again, hmm?

That's right, never again.

I mean, it was good
experience and all that,

but I'm sure
glad it's over with.

Here's a poem on the
sport page. That's different.

And what do you know,
it's about Mike Douglas.

That was one of Agnes
Findley's wild ideas.

I had to humor her. Oh.

Hello.

Oh, yes, Mr. Loos.

What'd you think
of the sports page?

"I tried in vain to
search and find

"some words to
rhyme with 'Douglas'

"The only words
that come to mind

are 'wouglas,
youglas, zouglas.'"

But, Mr. Loos...

"How sad it is to bear the name

"the rhymeless name of Douglas,

"No poet can lift
that name to fame

with wouglas, youglas, zouglas."

Thanks, Mr. Loos.

Yeah, bye.

That darn Stu Walters!

Boy, talk about your plum deals!

What did he do?

Oh, he says he's too
busy to be the sports editor,

so Mr. Loos just gave
me the job permanently.

Congratulations, Mike.

You know, there
ought to be some word

that rhymes with "Douglas."

Luckless.

Luckless? Douglas?

That doesn't rhyme very well.

No, but it sure makes sense.

Of course, it'd be all right
if we changed our name.

Luckless Duckless.

Sounds kind of silly, though,
doesn't it... Steve Duckless?

Come home from a lot of
hunting trips that way, I tell you.

Duckless and gooseless.
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