Original subtitles

Yeah.

Uh -huh.

Yeah. Oh, Steph, I know you've only been in Newport a few days, but being apart

still is killing me.

You're right. I am droning on and on about myself. How are you holding up,

Cuffress?

That much fun, huh?

I thought baby showers were just a lot of women yakking it up about your dad

hired musicians.

Well, sure, they were okay once, but without John, they're just another

Liverpool garage band.

Don't worry about me, Cupbers. I'll bear up. You just keep having the best time

of your life.

No, no, I do not want to talk to Yoko.

Okay, bye.

That's off hobnobbing at a baby shower with a Fab 3, and I'm stuck here with

you.

Tragedy strikes some people so young.

Michael, you know showers are for women only.

Or sweet 16 parties, but it didn't stop me from having one.

Michael, what do you want us to do? Throw a shower for you? Would you? Would

you? Could you? Could you?

No. Oh, thanks, Dick. Set me up just to knock me down.

Well, you know, why shouldn't the father -to -be have a party? It might be fun.

I could make my famous potato salad. Ah, ickday, Mrs. Ickday.

There'll be no skirts at this soiree, right, Dick?

Yeah, you know, let a woman into a baby shower, and the next thing you know,

they're crashing our synastic classes.

So true.

Okay, let's divvy it up.

I'll do the guest list, and you provide the rest. And serve whatever you like.

You know, quiche, finger sandwiches.

Mmm, artichoke hearts in a creamy vinaigrette.

You sly dog. You've thrown one of these before.

Adios.

I'm having a shower.

So? I've had four today and I still feel dirty.

Hello, Dick. Joanna.

Miss Gotti? As you know, I wear two hats. The hat of head librarian and the

toque of president of the local pastry club.

Today I'm in the latter guise to extend a rare honor.

The pastry club proudly presents an evening of poetry and pasties.

That can't be right. That should say pastries.

Either way, it sounds like a fun evening.

You said something about an honor?

Well, as you know, every year the poetry competition is judged by Talcott

Harding. Honey, you've seen Talcott. You know, that sweet little old man with

the long white hair?

Oh, yeah. I met him at the market once. He bit me when I took the last bottle of

herbal conditioner.

Ordinarily, Talcott would jump at the chance to judge the contest again.

What's stopping him from jumping?

He's dead.

That would make it dicey.

So who'll be judging this year?

Dick, we feel the next logical choice would be you.

No, thanks.

I hate poetry.

So did Talcott Harding, but he showed up.

Look, I can't tell a good poem from a bad one.

Well, you won't have to. I win every year.

Well, that'll certainly make it easier. Then you'll do it?

No, like I said... Good.

I hope that we won't have another unattractive display of tears when you

again this year.

Well, see you Saturday.

Gee, honey, if I win this year, I hope people won't think you gave me

preferential treatment.

Well, you won't be winning.

Why not? Don't you think my poems are good enough?

Good is, you know, such a subjective term.

You know, while most people like what William Shakespeare wrote, I'm sure

are some people that, you know, that don't.

So you're saying that even though you don't care for my poetry, some people

might.

Yeah, right.

How kind and sensitive and compassionate you are to tell me my poems are stupid!

See, stupid is, I mean, you know, it's such a subjective term.

Invites for the innkeep.

And you'll note each is hand -painted and numbered by the artist.

This must have set you back a small fortune.

Well, not me. You're the host of this baby bash. I figured you'd be proud to

for this papa -to -be.

Not to worry, Dickens. Let me explain the Circus of Stationery's easy monthly

billing plan.

36 low, low monthly installments followed by a modest balloon payment.

Not putting the bill for your shower. Besides, I have to judge a corny poetry

contest Saturday.

Pardon, but perhaps you can persuade those pentameter pushers to postpone.

Michael, I'd rather turn you down than Miss Goddard. Well, fine. Go listen to

your sissy poetry.

I'll be bonding with the boys over watercress sandwiches.

Oh, you're still here.

Yeah, I was just going to go into the lobby to get... Nothing.

Well, then you'd better hurry.

All right.

Where are you going?

To, uh, get, uh... No, nothing.

Don't let me, uh, keep you.

Morning, Joanna.

If you're doing the crossword, I can help you with fiddler on the blank.

Actually, George, I'm working on a poem.

I can't help you with that. But if you want...

I could hot glue the tassels on your pasties.

George, they're pastries.

Besides, I'm not entering this year.

Why not? Now that Talcott Harding's passed away, Miss Goddard isn't a shoe

anymore.

Unless she's carrying on with the new judge.

Dick is the new judge.

And he uses the same herbal conditioner Talcott used.

The kind that gets Miss Goddard all hotted up.

The Big Hurt.

Gee, I tried to write a poem once called The Big Hurt. Did you drop an engine

block on your foot, too?

This isn't about a physical hurt.

It's about my personal feelings.

Can I read it?

Well, it's not really polished yet.

I mean, the imagery might be a little off.

Also, the rhymes are a bit forced.

It's beautiful.

I thought so, too.

This is even better than that poem Miss Goddard wrote last year.

Ode to a glistening plowman.

You've got to enter this poem.

With Dick judging, it'd be like spitting in the wind.

But this should be shared with the world.

And if it means taking a faith full of spit, I'm your man.

Take thy beak.

From out my heart.

And take thy form from off my door.

Quoth the bluebird.

Nevermore.

That was absolutely haunting.

I thought he peaked last year with his Tracy at the back.

Mr. Rusnik, are you sure you actually wrote that poem?

What are you implying, Judge?

Well, it's just that your poem is reminiscent of Edgar Allan Poe's The

Anybody hear me say anything about a raven?

I don't think Dick knows any more about birds than he does about poetry.

Our next piece is a collaborative effort by Jim Dixon and Chester Wanamaker.

Isn't it unusual for two people to write a poem?

Not when they share the same poetic soul.

Yeah, we're two bodies with but one mind.

Well, who's ever using it tonight, would you please begin?

Pals, a poem by Jim Dixon and Chester Watermaker.

As kids, we too shared everything from baseball bats to gals. And from that

time, we've always been the very best of friends.

Years later, we played poker at our next -door neighbor, Hal's, and helped each

other win because you always help your friends.

If you want to know the secret of our very high morale, It's I've got him and

he's got me. And that's what makes us... Friends.

Excuse me, fellas, but I couldn't help but notice you never used the word pals.

That's poetic license, Dick.

Come to think of it, Jim, the word pals would have rhymed here. Oh, yeah.

And here.

Why didn't you think of that?

Well, why didn't you?

Because you made me do all the typing.

That's because you kept making me add wheat checks to the party mix.

That's only because you kept picking them out. Well, you should have let me

them straight from the box like I wanted to.

Jim Dixon, you're really pushing my angry button. Fellas, fellas.

All right, our last contestant is Miss Goddard. Miss Goddard?

Thank you, Judge Loudon.

And might I add that your hair smells particularly herbal this evening.

I wondered why you were sniffing me before.

The Entwining by Prudence Goddard.

Weaving and churning and heaving, they went until they were spent and filled

with the scent of passion. passion and moisture and fever.

Swooning and sighing and crooning, they lay for most of the day. They rolled in

the hay while he swore that he'd never deceive her.

until their loins creaked, the two lovers peaked.

How ironic that soon he would leave her.

Thank you. Thank you, Miss Goddard.

We've got a better idea of what killed Talcott Hardy.

Well, I think that's about all we have. I know I've heard

enough.

Wait, Dick.

I've got one. I hope it's a haiku. I'm hungry.

The Big Hurt.

My hurt comes from a flame no one can see.

It's seared away the hope inside of me.

Time heals most things.

I'll scar where I've been burned.

But what I've lost can never be returned.

I had no idea you were so profound.

Joanna's the profound one. She wrote this poem.

This is the woman who holds the town record for the number of times she's

checked out. 60 days to a tighter tummy.

I thought I held that record.

I wrote that poem.

Doesn't anyone believe me?

Well, you believe me, don't you, Dick? I sure wouldn't mind hearing pals again.

And he's got me in that...

That's what makes us friends.

Phil, do you believe I wrote my poem?

Honey, I'd like to, but that poem, it just isn't your style. It's so, um,

good.

And I tried so hard to make it bad.

George, tell these people that I wrote that poem. I was there.

Did you actually see her write it? No, but I did see her read it.

Maybe the judge's wife is not aware of the difference between reading a poem

writing one.

But it's mine!

I swear it! Give it up, woman! That ship has sailed!

This is so damn stupid!

Why don't we let her write another poem while we sit here and watch?

George is right. Our opinion of Joanna should be based on her ability and not

her gutter mouth. This is appalling. Dick, don't you think this is

Well, you know, ridiculous is such a subjective term.

Well, I guess rational thinking has no place in this room.

Nobody can just sit down and write a poem without any inspiration.

We weren't inspired at all when we wrote Pals.

Come on, honey, dash one off and we can all get out of here.

With all these people sitting here staring at me? It seems Little Miss

Inexperience needs her privacy.

Everyone, turn your backs on Loudon Woman.

You might want to steer clear of your usual stuff about clowns crying the

saddest tears of all.

Now that our backs are turned, she'll probably just have George knock off

another one for her.

All right, that's it.

Took you long enough.

Okay, Joanna.

Lay it on us.

I refuse to be degraded by some small -minded people who get some perverse joy

in passing judgment just so they can fill up their own empty lie.

Well, I don't like it. It doesn't even rhyme.

It's not a poem!

It's what I'm feeling.

Angry.

Hurt.

Like what I felt when I wrote that poem.

Oh, so all that...

Burning and searing was because of our little tiff. Tiff? Sounds like you were

branding her.

I feel another poem coming on.

So the reason that your poem was good was because of me.

Get a load of this guy. First he humiliates his wife, now he's trying to

credit for her beautiful poetry.

What a disgrace.

A damn disgrace.

Damn, damn disgrace.

Here,

a little bedtime reading.

Dick, make a decision.

Who's the winner?

Well, it's a tough call, but the...

The winner is my lovely and talented wife, Joanna.

After all these years of never even coming close, the one year my husband is

judge is the year that I finally win this prestigious honor, and I am just

the happiest. Joanna, you're babbling.

Girl in the world.

Well, that puts an end to our... Well, not so fast.

You still have to judge the pastry competition.

The pastry competition?

Poetry counts for 10%. Pastry for 90%. It's a biathlon.

You mean all this poetry crap was just a warm -up for a pastry competition?

Well, why do you think the pastry club hosts it?

Wait until you sink your teeth into my hot sticky body.

Don't listen to her.

I made my cranberry crisp.

What's that?

Dick, it's your favorite.

You know how much you love my cranberry crisp with a big cup of coffee?

How else am I going to wash it down?

No, I understand.

Yeah, sure.

Same thing happened to a few of the other guys.

Yeah, well, I'm sure the pressure really cooks when you're boning up for a bar

mitzvah.

Sure. Bye, Mohammed.

Honey, I'm sorry this bothered one, but, you know, your cranberry crisp was a

touch on the dry side.

Well, it wouldn't have been dry if you hadn't taken so long judging the poetry.

Joanna, there is no shame in coming in dead last.

I prefer to think of it as a distant night, Judge Loudon.

Is it just me, or does this shower seem kind of slow?

I guess the concept of an all -boy shower was just too new age for this one

Porsche town.

At least you dudes showed up.

Well, around here, George and I are the vanguard of everything hip and trendy.

Anybody got their name on this bowl of sauerkraut?

It says George Utley now.

Oh, boy.

Don't you want to consume that kraut with your cronies?

If you don't mind, I'd rather party hardy alone in my room.

I've got some late -night reading to do.

The branded...

Handyman. Well, good night.

You're leaving too? Don't you feel sorry for me?

No more than usual.

Oh, I get it. You'd rather be with Joanna.

Anybody got their name on those cartel wieners?

Those dogs say Dick.

Great shower.

Thanks.

Care for a white wine spritzer?

No.

A bite of baklava? Baked it myself.

No.

So where's my shower gift?

I didn't get you any. Oh.

Good night, Dick.

I wonder if his poetry is this good.