All language subtitles for Letterkenny (2016) - S02E04 - The Native Flu (1080p HULU WEB-DL x265 MONOLITH)

You're out pickin' stones
with your pals the other day.

Sundays are for
pickin' stones.

KATY: Tale as old as time.

Would you rather pick stones
or pick worms?

Well, pickin' worms is done
at night

and it can gets rather brisk.

So I'd say pickin' stones

'cause it's in the sunshines.

There's been an incident
and I'd like to talk about it.

Get after it.

Well, Pitter‐Patter,
let's get at 'er.

Spit it out, big shoots.

I seen Stewart's horn.

What?

‐You seen his impaler?
‐His bobby dangler?

‐Well...
‐You seen his PhD?

‐His WMD?
‐Now, look, fellas...

‐You seen his friendly weapon?
‐His sticky grenade?

His ground squirrel?

Yeah, I seen
his ground squirrel.

You seen
Stewart's middle stump?

You've seen
his custard slinger?

Well, I'm comin' up the stairs

and he's comin'
out of the bathroom

just naked as a jay bird
for some fuckin' reason.

I round the corner and, yeah,

‐so I seen his, uh...
‐His hollow point.

DAN: His hard drive.

Well, his floppy disk
is what I seen, yeah.

‐Well, what's the evaluation?
‐Yeah.

I'd hear an assessment.

You wanna know what?

Looked like a tall boy can
of Red Bull hangin' there.

No.

Looked like a tube
of tennis balls hangin' there.

‐A four‐pack.
‐Shut up.

Looked like a fuckin'
policeman's flashlight

from the 1980s hangin' there.

You're joking.

That is no joke.

DARYL: Good job, Stewart.

That's what I said.
I said, good for him.

Good for you, Stewart.

Like I'm happy for him.

Yeah, it's really good
for him.

Well, it's
a terrific opportunity.

Good for you, Stewart.

KATY: Pump the brakes.

Stewart isn't
a really big dude.

Are you sure the size
of his horn

wasn't accentuated
by his really tiny frame?

Looked like a one‐liter
thermos hangin' there.

Because... Because, you know,
a really big dude

can have a massive horn,
but it would look really small

in proportion
to his gigantic frame, right?

Have you been
reading my diary?

I'll tell you what,
it looked like

a deflated football
hangin' there.

KATY: Fuck!

You wanna know what?

There's such a thing
as too much horn talk

and a fella ought
to be fuckin' aware of it.

(THEME MUSIC PLAYING)

Like, none of these
donkeys even dip, bro.

JONESY: None of these chumps
even chew, bro.

Like none of these dunces
ever had a dinger?

These losers
never had a lipper, bro.

Like chill out, have a chaw.

‐Peace out, have a pull.
‐Have a hogger.

‐Have a dang‐er.
‐Have a hammer.

Say hello
to Sergeant Spitter, boys.

‐Spitter!
‐Spitter!

Big roadie
this weekend, schmelts.

Let's see some heart.

‐Where we goin', boys?
‐You don't know?

Check the schedule.

This is senior A
whale shit hockey!

Do you think I check
the scheddy?

I don't give a shit
about the scheddy.

Take a lap, lifer.

Hang 'em up, hero.

Shut it down, Tom Scheddy.

Hit the showers,
Scheddy Vedder.

You're softer
than Scheddy Ruxpin.

Schmelts got jokes, Yorkie.

They won't be laughing
for long, Barts.

You're about
to meet the natives, boys.

The senior A natives.

BARTS: You thought the juniors
were tough?

The senior natives
will fuckin' kill you.

You got the native flu,
you little bitch?

Yorkie.

That's the native flu
if I've ever seen it, Barts.

Scholtzy.

You scared
of the natives, pussy?

Fisky.

Fever. Body aches. Nausea.

All symptoms fraidy‐cats fake

to get out
of playing the natives.

Boomtown.

I hate fraidy‐cats
like I love my wife.

Intensely.

I love her so much.

We do not have the native flu.

No?

So what's got you looking
like a fraidy‐cat,

you little bitch?

Yorkie.

Cacophobia?

The fear of ugliness?

Don't think so.

I'm gorgeous. Scholtzy.

Coprophobia? The fear of poop?

Nah. You both pooped
your pants

when we mentioned
the natives, pussy.

Fisky.

Alektorophobia?
The fear of chickens?

Uh‐uh. 'Cause you'd
be afraid of each other.

Boomtown.

Pentheraphobia?

Fear of your mother‐in‐law?

Fuck that.

I love my mother‐in‐law
like I love my wife.

I'm a good man.

It's not the native flu.

You're a cry baby.

You're barely off the tit,
you little bitch.

Yorkie.

Put the bottle away, Mom.

He still wants the tit.
Scholtzy.

You're scared
of the natives, pussy? Fisky.

Gutless.

Spineless. No heart. Boomtown.

I'm a good man.

Check the schedule, schmelts.

Know the schedule, schmelts.

Watch some Scheddy Murphy.

Pussy. Fisky.

Listen to some
Scheddy Van Halen. Boomtown.

Or Sched Sheeran.

My wife loves Sched Sheeran.

Schmelts have
the native flu, boys.

(LAUGHTER)

Those aren't real things.
I'm not checking the scheddy.

‐Fuck the scheddy! Fuck it!
‐Fuck it...

(YELLS)

Yeah!

How do you
like that, schmelt?

Let me go! No! No!

(UPBEAT MUSIC PLAYING)

(CAR DOOR CLOSES)

Let's do it.

We, uh...
We need to talk, boys.

‐Uh, but not to her, boys.
‐Piss off.

You were getting squeezers
from each other's

billet sisters
the entire time.

Dude, did you tell her
about those handys?

Who told her
about the glovers, bro?

You just did.

‐Shit.
‐Fuck.

Fuck it.

We got a roadie
to the rez this weekend, boys.

Big roadie to play the natives
this weekend, boys.

‐You got the native flu?
‐We do not have the

native flu.

We do not have the native flu.

Don't be scared to admits it.

Those natives are tough
as hell.

Yeah, those natives
are tougher than hell.

Look, we can handle
the natives in the rink, boys.

We know we got business
in their barn, boys.

But Tanis and her troops
are gonna be waiting for us

in the parking lot, so we...

‐We need back up, boys.
‐Hard no.

Aw, come on.
Where's your jam, bud?

Not my pig. Not my farm.

Where's the sacrifice?

Oh, get off the cross,
we need the wood.

We tuned 'em up on our turf
just a fortnights ago.

Yeah, we step back
on theirs now,

that's a suicide mission.

Mmm...

I heard Tanis wants the ban
on Letterkenny lifted, too.

Then she shouldn't
have burned down

the fuckin' produce stand.

Come on. Where's your
goddamn hustle, bud?

Let's see the hustle, boys.

When a man asks you for help,
you help him.

Pitter‐Patter.

Well, I guess I haven't been
in a scrap in a while.

We could go get bags
of darts, too.

And their venison pepperettes
are not to be missed.

I pert near popped
a street meat vendor

outside of a Jays' game
one time

for sellin' me a venison dog.

Ain't no goat‐da‐goddamn way
that's venison dogs.

‐No.
‐Well...

I'd go for a scrap.

We'll need reinforcements.

‐Joint Boy?
‐Yeah, you could call JB.

‐What about...
‐No.

‐Oh, you mean the Ginger?
‐Hard no.

‐But?
‐Now, everybody listen up

'cause I'm only gonna
say this once,

we never talk about it again.
You understand?

We all lay off the Ginger
and Boots now.

Because the Ginger and Boots
did not fuck an ostrich.

Yeah, I heard they fucked
two ostriches.

Allegedly.

Folks'll say that it takes
two people to fuck an ostrich.

Three even.

Folks are also saying
that it was a sick ostrich.

Allegedly.

WAYNE: Now, I went
on the Internet

and researched ostriches.

Firstly, ostriches can run up
to 70 miles an hour.

So catching one,

even a sick one,
is a super tall order.

Yeah, but there
was two of them.

Secondly, when
a male ostrich,

it's called a cock,

fights over
a female ostrich,

they're called a hen,

they're known
to kill each other

by head butting.

Probably should
wear hockey helmets.

Hockey helmets, buddy.

Well, they'd need
a race car helmet, likely.

Finally, ostriches use their
legs to defend from predators.

And can use them to kill even
their largest

and most deadly enemies,
which are fuckin' lions.

That's the king of the jungle.

Still just a cat.

So you'll see there is no way

the Ginger and Boots
could have fucked an ostrich.

Maybe they tranqed
the ostrich.

Like they roofie'd
the ostrich?

WAYNE: You wanna know what?

You should feel bad about
even suggesting

that the Ginger and Boots
fucked an ostrich.

Bad gas travels real fast
in a small town.

My research concludes

that the only way
the Ginger and Boots

could have fucked an ostrich
is if it was a dead ostrich.

Ginger and Boots (HORN HONKS)
a dead ostrich?

I thought it was just sick!
Oh, my! Ginny?

The Ginger and Boots
effed a dead ostrich.

Oh, bother.

Of course I know what the male
ones are called!

Check my browser history.

(MUSIC PLAYING)

Don't show
her weakness, Stewart.

I'm not. I'm sun burnt.

‐Hey, you!
‐Hey, you.

This is awkward but your shirt
seems to have

‐shrunk in the wash.
‐Not awkward.

Things shrink in the wash.
How do you explain your dick?

Quick wit. Valuable asset.

Must really serve a lady
of the night like you well.

‐He means you're a hooker.
‐Thanks, Roald. You speak?

(HISSES)

Heard a song this morning
that reminded me of you.

Really? So cool. What was it?

‐Die, Die, My Darling.
‐Metallica. Love 'em.

Actually, they have a song
that reminds me of you, too.

‐Oh?
‐Yeah.

‐Sad But True.
‐Hmm.

Why don't you run along
and get your essentials?

You know, long, smooth,
cylindrical‐shaped objects.

Actually, I'm just looking
for some

three‐inch screws
to hang a frame.

Hey, you know what three
inches looks like, right?

‐She skewered you!
‐Don't listen to him, Devon.

They wanted you
to go to debate school.

(MOUTHING)

(INDISTINCT TALKING)

Hey, what's up?

‐We... We're just goin'...
‐Kidding! I don't give a fuck.

Look like you got a bad case
of the native flu.

Should've brought
your fuckin' bodyguards.

We do not
have the native flu, okay!

It's not the native flu!

Right.

And one tit's better than two.

Tanis, what we want to do
is go inside,

rip a couple of snap bombs
and then go home.

Just wanna rip some snaps
and bury some claps, Tanis.

Hack some limbs
and rack some PIMS.

Lay beats and fill seats.

Yeah? Yous want
to get pucks deep?

‐Get pucks deep.
‐Yeah, get pucks in the net.

Shut the fuck up.

If yous think you're gonna
make it into that rink,

you're fuckin' stupid.

Do some damage, boys!

Wa'tsok.

Listen, we're four lines deep

of BFI's in there ready
to speed bag you space men.

What's a BFI?

Big Fuckin' Indians.

Not sure that's PC
but you said it.

If you chodes walk
out of there

with all your chicklets,
then I'm a fuckin' ferret.

Piss off.

Cool.

That's not cool.

You ready for a chin check?

Yup.

You can avoid it
if you want to.

Nope.

Hmm...

(CLEARS THROAT)

(EXHALES DEEPLY)

I want the ban
on Letterkenny lifted.

There's some good money

that can be made
selling smokes there.

Yous made your point.
We fucked off.

Point's not made yet.

It's not calculus.

Finite math is worse.

Trigonometry fucked me.

I forgot long division
in grade six.

Okay. Lift the ban
on Letterkenny.

We'll make a buck
and yous can cruise the rez.

‐Bags of darts?
‐Yeah, go to the casino.

Venison pepperettes?

Yes. Go watch a fuckin'
hockey game.

WAYNE: Mmm...

Nope.

FBIs coming.

‐Who's that?
‐Fuckin' Big Indians!

Now, one of yous farted right
before she got here

and she
definitely thought it was me.

‐Dan?
‐I'd admits it.

JB?

Would've went out my window.

Maybe she farted.

(GIGGLES) It was me.

Hey, since when did algebra
become a quick wank?

I once popped
my grade nine math teacher

over the Pythagorean theorem.

‐Did you get expelled?
‐Just suspended.

Yep, called probability
and statistics.

Like probably never gonna
need them

statistics in your whole life.

That's kind of like fractions.

Like multiplying
and dividing them.

Like who the fuck's
doin' that?

My friend David does tool
and dye and he uses fractions.

Should have
just got his fridge ticket.

David has his fridge ticket.

Then he should
just drive truck.

Well, it's never too late
to drive truck.

Oh!

Eyelash. Make a wish.

Wish you weren't
so fuckin' awkward, bud.

TANIS: Five minutes!

Yup.

‐You ready, bro?
‐Born ready, buddy.

You stretch it out, bro?

Good and limber, bro.

I say we get a couple
of shifts in

before we answer the bell.

Get a couple of shifts in
before tea time.

Get that first shot in
and just keep goin', buddy.

Don't hesitate, buddy.

Take a shift, schmelts.

Ooh!

Pulled salad in the scrum.

Got a mitt full, boys.

You get any good shots in?

Think I was on my feet
for a bit there, bro.

Hey, are you hurt
or are you injured?

(WHISTLE BLOWS)

Ah! Don't...

100% pure organic,

grass‐fed,
Triple A Alberta beef.

Better believe
it's 'Berta beef.

What you got there?
Top sirloins?

Yeah, the New Yorks
are grain‐fed.

Three times the omega‐3's
in grass‐fed.

Bought and paid for.

Well, you're gonna want 'em
aged if they're top sirloins.

Pump the brakes.

Two things. One.

We'll let those sit for
10 to 15 minutes

till they're room temperature.

Two. Where's the
salt and pepper, bud?

Don't you fuckin' start.

S and P, the choice for me.

I paid a C‐hair just
shy of 20

for each of these C‐suckers

and I will not be told
how to cook 'em.

You paid 20 apiece
for 'Berta beef?

‐Only 'Berta beef.
‐Well, no guff.

But I wouldn't pay 20
apiece for Japanese wagyu.

‐Always 'Berta beef.
‐Hard yes.

But I wouldn't pay 20
apiece for Australian wagyu.

Gonna want a rib eye
if it's a wagyu.

One‐inch thick top sirloin.

Grill at 400.

Four minutes a side.
Down the hatch.

‐You are fuckin' up, bud.
‐That's textbook.

Not without the S and P.

Those fine ranchers
in Alberta'd be a C‐hair away

from not sendin' it here
if they knew you were

sprinklin' salt all over
the C‐suckers.

You're a C‐hair away
from gettin'

C‐suckin' socked, good buddy.

Montreal steak spice really

should be a part
of this conversation.

One‐inch
thick top sirloin steak.

Salt and pepper heavily.

Grill at 400.
Four minutes total.

Flip each minute
to get the good grill marks.

Let sit for two minutes.
Down the hatch.

‐Flip twice.
‐Grill marks, bud.

‐Sacrilege.
‐I will strike you.

‐Blasphemy.
‐Do you wanna get striked?

Finish the whole thing off

with a real nice herbs
and garlics butter.

Don't fuck up
my steak dinner, Dary!

Any decent chef will tell you,

you don't even want to let
those things touch the grill.

Make it dryer than a fart.

What ya wanna do, pan sear it,

both sides,
finish her off in the ovens.

Well, see, now that sounds
like over‐handling to me.

You'd be over‐handling them,
Squirrelly Dan.

Well, he'd be
Squirrelly Dan'dling.

Oh, yeah, me and Gordon Ramsay
are both morons.

You wanna know what?
Meet half way.

All right,
no S and P, flip twice.

‐Good. Rare to medium rare.
‐Medium rare.

TANIS: Yo!

Ding, ding, pink dicks.

This one's mine.

Throw them steaks on, Dary,
this won't take long.

Oh!

(GROANS)

Remember me, boys?

Where's that 'Berta beef?

Grill marks, bud.

That's the two‐fight rule
for the win, boys.

Two fights,
that's your night, buddy.

Hmm. Hey, did you get
any good shots in?

No good ones, bro.

He fish‐hooked me,

so I chomped his finger.

He gave me
a pretty good seatbelt,

so I pinched the shit out
of the back of his arm, buddy.

I fuckin' hate
when that happens.

He did too, buddy.

Hey.

We would have dusted them
if they hadn't jumped us.

Proper dustin', ferda.

(GRUNTING)

REILLY: Oh, shit!
Fuck, buddy.

We would have dusted them
if they didn't jump us.

Proper dustin', ferda.

Hey, shirt‐tucker!

That doesn't really narrow
it down.

You. Meet me half way.

I'll level with you.
We have a BFI on stand‐by

‐that will fuck you up.
‐K.

‐He'll lynch you.
‐Good.

‐He'll end you.
‐That's redundant.

You can end this
if you lift the ban.

You burned down
our produce stand, Tanis.

(CHUCKLES)

Listen. I don't want
to call him.

‐You can call him.
‐Yeah, but I don't want to.

Ah, give him a call.

I'd rather work this out
with you.

‐Too much talk.
‐Wait, wait, wait!

(SIGHS)

We're having a really
hard time on the rez, okay?

And selling cigarettes

in Letterkenny
really helps us out.

And all of the money goes
back into the community.

This dude
doesn't exist, does he?

I want you to meet someone.

Dustin!

We don't have a lot of money.

And I'd sure like
to play baseball.

Please lift the ban, Wayne.

You can get a glove for free
at the Sally Anne.

Just have Mom or Dad drive
you down there.

(CLICKS TONGUE) Don't, uh...

Don't care much
for kids, so...

Bubba Wally!

The cupboards are bare
in the elders' lodge.

And we're so tired and sore.

Please lift the ban, Wayne.

I've got plenty of fresh
produce on the farm.

Yous are welcome to it.

Lego!

Oh, fuck...

A three‐legged dog.

And look, Wayne,
another three‐legged dog.

It's cute, huh?

Yous can come
back once per week.

Saturday mornings. Set up shop

in the farmers'
market parking lot.

We'll spread the word.

Nia‐wen.

Does this dude exist or not?

Mmm.

Pitter‐Patter!

(MUSIC PLAYING)

Hey, Katy.
Carrying lunch there?

Yeah. You want a bite?

Who's this?
He looks just like you.

You actually
look great today,

you know, in comparison
to this bag of shit.

‐Thank you.
‐You're welcome.

‐So?
‐So?

Still an unapologetically
promiscuous tart?

Yep. Still a heartbreakingly

inadequate
chronic masturbator?

‐No!
‐Hi, Roald.

‐Whatever!
‐Stewart,

you and I were a bad idea.

(SCOFFS) Evident.

But I still think you're cool.

Adios.

Hey, Devon.

Ugh!

Want a bite?

So what say that dude exists?

He doesn't.

Yeah, but what say
that he did?

What if he walks up and hoofs

you right in the nuts
like Joint Boy?

JB's right, it's him or you.

But a kick
in the undercarriage?

Did Tanis ever recover
when I hoofed her?

I think she kind of did...

Just kiddin'.
I don't give a fuck.

You still sweet on her,
though, Dary?

‐No.
‐Why?

Bonnie McMurray, that's why.

You're sweet
on Bonnie McMurray?

‐Oh, you bet I am.
‐Ha. Same.

Well, it's no
fuckin' mystery, Murdoch.

Better to be the dude doin'

the hoofin'
than the dude gettin' hoofed.

Or the girl gettin' hoofed.

Exhibit A. Tanis.

But a kicks in the cojones?

Well, it's too late once
you've been hoofed

in the nuts, isn't it?

You stand there holdin'
your ball sack

wondering why
you didn't hoof first.

Or you stand there holdin'
your box

wondering why
you never hoofed first.

So what you're sayings
is if that dudes existed...

We've already established

the dude doesn't fuckin'
exist, have we not?

You'd kick him right
in the pills?

I'm fuckin' irritated.

Would you kick him right
in the pillbox?

I'm gonna go see
what's on television.

We're just speakin'
hypo‐ethically here, bud.

Ain't no reason
to get upset, Wayne!

TANIS: Save me an Indian taco.

‐How're you now?
‐Does the dude exist or not?

No. Yous worked
through our finest.

No one else measures up. Yet.

‐Stay for a barbecue?
‐No, thank you.

TANIS: Stay.

‐What are yous cookin'?
‐Wagyu.

‐Wagyu?
‐Wagyu New York.

I was told you should go for
the rib‐eye if it's a wagyu.

‐Duh.
‐How you cookin 'em?

One‐inch thick wagyu,
New Yorks.

Heavily salt and peppered.

Grill at 400.
Four minutes total.

Flip once a minute for those
good grill marks.

Let sit for two minutes
and then down the hatch.

Flip once a minute, eh?

Grill marks, bud.

Grill marks, bud.

(MUSIC PLAYING)