All language subtitles for The.Simpsons.S34E17.1080p.WEB.H264-CAKES

Whee!

Uh-oh. Aah!

D'oh.

So eggs, which were bad,
then good,

then bad again,
are now good again.

And... Wait a minute.

Now they're bad again.

I can't believe you still watch
the local news, Dad.

Local news is great, sweetie.

It's just like
your precious Internet,

except you don't post
angry comments,

you yell them at the screen.

You call those lottery numbers?!

You call that a weather report?

In other news...

You call that a segue?

A heartbreaking story today

at one of Springfield's
oldest establishments.

Stupid local news.

Always making everything sound
like the end of the world.

Springfield's Bowl-A-Rama

is closing forever.

No!

Why does every place

nobody goes to anymore close?

Farewell, workout
of the working man.

The thunder of the pins,

the sweet smell
of shoe disinfectant,

the beauty
of a perfectly-dragged toe.

That alley was magical.

It's where I was initiated

into one of the greatest wonders
of my life.

Hey, little squirt.

You want to try these new things
called nachos?

Oh, big deal.

It's just a stack
of tortilla chips.

Is it?

I've licked the face of God.

Mmm.

Homer.

Wait, wait, wait.
Was that your daydream

- or little Homer's?
- It doesn't matter.

We can't let that alley
go out of business.

We'll go there, park our butts
on the manager's face,

and never, ever leave.

- Yeah!
- Yeah!

Their beer is the best.

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

If you do that,
then I'll go out of business.

- Eh. - Yeah.
- Mm.

This place is depressing.

Eh, what the hell.

Hey, look, don't blame me.

The lanes are so warped, people
just don't want to bowl anymore.

- So, I'm selling out.
- Relax, people.

I bought the alley
because I love the retro vibe.

Did you know John Waters
wears bowling shirts?

Yes.

I'm gonna
turn this amazing space

into The Bowl-A-Rama
at Springfield Yards.

You'll be able to live, work,
doom-scroll, cat-cafe...

- And bowl?
- No. No bowling. Ugh.

Hey, pal, if you don't like
bowling, you don't like me.

- I don't like you.
- Mm. Fair enough.

Terrence, give us one week

to make this alley
a going concern.

You'll have more bowlers
than a hat shop.

We'll prove you wrong.

Ugh. Can't you just
prove me wrong now?

I hate waiting for anything.

One week.

Well, I hate waiting,
but I love being proved wrong.

You're on.

We're here for the, uh...

"Night of Everlasting
Bowl-mates?"

Uh, maybe we'll just
skip the bowling.

Like hell you will.

I'm here for my birthday party,

which you said would be at the
Laser Tag and Crocodile Ranch.

How old is this place?

The soda machine
doesn't even take phones.

I'll have you know this place
is endorsed by a group

that's popular
with today's kids: ZZ Top.

How many of these lame-o
beard-os are still alive?

All of them. I think.

Oh, boy.

Oh, attendance is barely up.

And the fire department
won't even let me

lock people in.

- Let us out, please.
- Never!

Oh. Right.

Come on, Marge, help me out.

Let's bowl the night away.

I don't bowl, Homer.
It's your thing.

Please, I just want
one thing in this world

to be like it was.

When I drive down
Crypto.com Boulevard,

I can barely remember

which cannabis dispensaries
used to be Internet cafes.

I don't want to bowl!

Marge, are you concealing

a secret about bowling?

Bowling and life

begin in the hips.

Oh.

D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!

D'oh!

Um, there's something
I never told you about my past.

The past.

The past is past.

Do you want to know
every little mistake I've made?

- Sort of.
- Aah! Let's go bowling.

Now, the ball might seem
a little greasy.

Make sure you don't
drop it on your foot.

To put it in your language,

it's like rolling a Maggie.

Strike!
You got a strike.

Pretend you're hurling a roast
into an oven 60 feet away.

Are you gonna listen to me
or are you gonna bowl?

Watch out, pins.
Here comes Mama.

A baby split with company.

I got this.

Wow, Homer. Your wife bowls

like a 60-year-old teamster.

Thank you.

Ooh. I really need
to get back in water.

Marge, can we have
bronto burgers tonight?

Homer, you're not
Fred Flintstone.

Yabba dabba d'oh!

Mom!

Somebody get Mama a beer.

He's in that world
more than he is with us.

Homie, are you upset
that I'm good at your thing?

No, Marge. I am in awe.

You have a gift.

I could no more be mad at you

than at an angel
playing horseshoes.

You're a butterfly
that can kick field goals.

How in God's name
did you get so perfect?

- Aah!
- Attention.

I have an offer to make,

and like everything hipsters do,

it requires
everyone's attention.

Hey, you.
You're not looking at me.

Sorry.

Those pearls. That hair.

The game of the '30s played
by a dame from the '50s?

It's retro on kitsch
to the power of vintage.

- Oh.
- Here's the pitch, Marge.

You bowl one game against
the challenger of my choice.

Win, and the alley stays open.

Lose, and I turn it
into a coffee shop so expensive

your eyes will bleed.
Deal?

Deal.
You're going down, Terrence.

In your face.

Sorry. I sh-I shouldn't
have done that.

If there's any damage,
here's a Best Buy gift card.

Ah, Springfield's greatest
bowling mama.

Beppo, Guiseppe,
bring-a the meatball.

Hey, a picture
for Luigi's Wall of Fame.

Now chop it up.
It's today's special.

Tomorrow, into the soup.

Then it goes to the dogs.

Then, back into the soup.

What you doing, angel?

Planning for the match.

I can't believe you've never
taken a single lesson.

Aah!

Oh, this is so great.

You're saving the town.

I'm sleeping with the woman
who's saving the town.

Oh, okay, okay, fine.

I'll bowl the match,

no matter what the danger is
to our marriage.

That's my girl.
Sleep well, lady of the lane.

Now I have some mental work
to do of my own.

Mmm. Pizza.

Tastes as good off the ceiling

as it does off the floor.

We did to that ball
what we did to Hitler's bombs...

Got out of the way.

What's going on?
Mom's got the yips.

How do you know?

There's something in me that
senses when trouble is brewing.

It's a sign of early neurosis,

but it's irrelevant that
my feelings are always accurate,

and I've got to remember that.

Marge, you need confidence.

This calls for
the most exclusive level

of therapist there is:

a professional
bowling instructor.

Hello, Marge.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

Please be another fantasy.

Shoo! Shoo, shoo. Shoo!

Stop with the "shoo."
It is I, in the flesh.

You like the way I just said
that word, "flesh"?

I can make anything
sound erotic.

Garbage disposal.

Toilet plunger.

Lollipop.

Enough with the words.

What are you doing here?

I brought him.

Homer, do you know who he is?

I sure do.

He's the best darn
bowling instructor in the city.

I'm not sure
I'm comfortable with a...

French bowling instructor.

"Homair," may I speak
to your wife, please? Alone?

Hey, I don't need to know
how the sausage is made.

Just start grinding.

Going to Moe's.

Don't worry, Marge.

My interest in you
is purely professional.

Why are you in my ear?

Oh, would you rather I be
in your nose? I don't think so.

Quite frankly, Marge,
I'm hard of speaking.

How can I believe
your interest in me

is just professional?

If I am lying, may I...

never taste cheese again.

Wow. Wow.

See you tomorrow at 10:00.

And what if you show up
and I'm not there?

Then a good and decent man
who loves you

will suffer horribly.

I mean, of course, "Homair."

You mean Homer?

That's what I said... "Homair."

He needs you to win now,
more than "evair."

And don't worry.
We will not have an affair.

Because fair is fair.

And I love your hair.

And now I'm off in my Corvair.

Oh, I don't have a Corvair.
Horrible car.

It was the only one I could
think of to rhyme. Stupid.

Oh, you're still here.

Great teacher.
Don't wait up.

Imagine you are waltzing
with the ball.

Un, deux, trois.
Un, deux, trois.

What kind of bowling instructor
wears a turtleneck?

I don't say
"mark my words" often,

but mark my words.

He's up to no good.

Mark my words.

What? You're crazy.
I'm getting six beers.

So, should I start
my slide earlier?

A better question is what
are you still doing with him?

Clearly, he must have
changed his ways, huh?

Improved?
Lost a pound or 20?

Yes, he has, in too many ways
to mention, so I won't.

So, then he's not still
buying you bowling balls

for presents, is he?

He apologized for that.

Do you ever think of the night
you almost came to me?

I had showered four times,
I shaved my face twice,

I shaved my back once.

I was ready for you, Marge.

Later on in the evening
when the doorbell rang,

I closed my eyes, I opened
the door, and I kissed.

Unfortunately, I forgot
I had ordered DoorDash.

It was some 20-year-old kid
holding a roast beef sandwich.

Apparently, he came out
the next day.

You said just bowling.

I am the only one who can
help you with this match.

And if there's anything
a Frenchman wants

more than a beautiful woman,
it is to beat Americans

at the game they love.

And then, of course, a 12-course
meal, with a fine wine

and maybe a snail,

and somebody else at the table
to pick up the check.

- Are we gonna talk
or are we gonna bowl?
- Fine.

Are you worried yet?

Oh, I'd be worried
if I didn't know for a fact

that no man has ever lost a
woman to a professional bowler.

Ever.

Uh-oh.

Now, your power comes
from your shoulders,

which I notice, in your case,
are always bare.

Eh, let me massage them.

Don't worry.
It's strictly professional.

There we go. Here we go.

- Mmm.
- Let me just...

- Aw.
- Yes. Ow. Okay.

- Cut it out!
- Stop it now?

No more? Okay.

Son, how do I put this?

I was right!
I was right! I was right!

Now, son, if I need the 411
on someone one-one,

Old people
with nothing better to do.

You can learn anything you want
from discarded human beings.

Jasper, it's Abe.
I need any information you got

on a slick-shoed Casanova.
First name, Jacques.

On it.

We need the rundown
on this Marquis de Spare.

We'll lay him lower
than my earlobes.

Hang him as high as my pants.

There will never be
another Tony Orlando.

Take a gander
at his Facebook page.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God!
What the...

I don't know what
shocks me more... these photos

or that you know how
to use Facebook.

Let me in. Let me in!

No. I'm naked,
and if you see me,

you will feel inferior forever.

Americans don't know how to feel
inferior, even if we should.

I've been such a fool.

I was so worried
about the bowling alley

I lost sight
of what will always be

the most important thing
in my life:

my Marge.

I'll never take her
for granted again.

That is correct. Because
you have already lost her.

Oh, yeah?
As we say in my country,

en garde!

- Just let me...
- That was autographed.

Smash your head.

Now tell me the one thing
I have to know.

How far did you get with Marge?

We had brunch, no hot food.

Brunch? That's breakfast
getting it on with lunch.

Homer, wait!

Nothing happened with him.

You probably
don't even remember.

You had disappointed me
and I was upset.

Oh. Right.

I remember that exactly.

Geez, Marge, if you're
still here after all that,

plus some stuff
you don't know about,

you must really love me.

I do.
With all my heart. Mm.

Nothing worse than
a committed relationship.

I'm going to vomit.

You said it was
strictly bowling.

You swore on cheese.

I never cared for cheese.
What is it, even?

Is it an appetizer or dessert?
Nobody knows.

Some come, they look okay.

Other come,
they got holes in it.

Those are
the more expensive ones.

Why would you pay
more money for holes?

We're leaving.

Go ahead. Enjoy your endless
bourgeois celebrations

and your birthdays
and your anniversaries

until you crumble
into enviable bliss.

We will.

Help me clean up.

Oh, so, Marge,
word is your coach quit

and you can't get that
bowling arm out of its own head.

Wow.

Poor Marge. Aw.

My thoughts about bowling
were conflicting

with something personal,
but not anymore.

Huh. Nice practice strike.

Now let me introduce you
to the bowler you'll be facing.

Jacques?

Indeed. I was the master
and you the pupil.

Now, I'm still very good.

You are also good,
but inconsistent.

Like French tennis players...

Great on clay,
shambles on grass.

Hard court, an embarrassment.

Always hurting themselves.

"Oh, my knee, my ankle,

I've got to forfeit."

Now let us bowl.

Yes!

- Cutman.
- Are ya sure, Ma?

- Are ya sure?
- Do it.

I've seen a lot of bowlers
in my eight years,

but no one's got bigger pearls
than you.

That's it, Marge...
Le moment de vérité.

And if that weren't enough,
I am dying.

- Oh!
- No!

Ah, as we all are.

In the existential sense.
Not now.

Just roll.

D'oh.

My God.

She's left herself
a Greek Church split.

Which, though little known,

is actually the hardest spare
to pick up.

Oh, my God. I can read
what's behind those pins.

She still has feelings for him.

Ooh, she's been staring
at that ceiling for 40 minutes.

Eh. Still the most exciting
bowling match I've ever seen.

I have lost everything.

And we just found out
you're here

on an expired bowling visa.

You're going back
where you came from: Paris.

No, no, no. Paris?
There's nothing there

but sex and food
and all of August off.

No, no, no.

Ah, that's enough dirty talk
out of you, pal.

Well, looks like
you're gonna have

to keep this a bowling alley.

A very popular alley,
which I now own.

I'm gonna make it one lane only
with a three-month waiting list.

Hipsters rule.

Oh, Marge, you saved my alley,
you saved my ego.

You do love me after all.

Was there ever any doubt?

Yes!

- Mm.
- Mm.

Shh!

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