Original subtitles

And Moses raised his staff unto the sky, and the Lord sent forth a mighty

tempest that thundered like... Come on now, Alice, that's a bit much.

Alice?

Today we hold an assembly for a dead lady you've never met, because this

wonderful, generous woman has left her entire estate to the school to fund a

music program.

This is a dream come true!

Um, uh, I'd like a word. My name is Joe Quimby III, Mr. DeHaan's homeroom. I go

to this school now.

Welcome, rich kid.

Maybe by music program instead of new instruments, Mrs. Glick really meant an

epic three -day music festival.

We could get performers like Little Smelly, DJ Breakfast, Jupiter Jerk, the

recently reunited...

This once -in -a -generation tornado of fun will become a reality when I am

elected as your student council president in next month's election.

No, no.

A festival is just one weekend, but a new music program will produce

and flautists forever.

We could be lectured by Lisa, or let's all kick off my son's campaign with free

frozen yogurt.

This isn't what Mrs. Glick wanted.

I've heard of frozen water and plain yogurt, but this is extraordinary.

Those Quimby's have run this town forever, and they've never had a day of

struggle in their lives.

What's for supper?

I was weeping in the fields when I found a turnip. Oh, blessed turnip.

Joseph O'Shaughnessy from Quimby Island.

Never seen an apostrophe in a name before.

Must be a typo. Welcome to America, Joe Quimby.

Someone ought to run against that rich little nipple Quimby.

Someone who cares about the school with real plans for the future. Someone

like... Me.

Two votes.

That's all you get. You and Milhouse, maybe.

I'm still doing my research.

The only candidate with a chance against Joe Quimby III would be Bart. Everyone

loves the cis Caucasian bad boy, and you should see his pulling.

Bart's playing well with all the demos. Bullies, nerds, winks, by which I mean

kids who like Twinkies.

So I have to get my idiot brother elected to save the music program?

Well, I guess if you want to win in politics, you gotta get your hands

Do we really want to spend the rest of our days scavenging through hearth

leavings for coins and buttons?

Fuck up, Joe.

Being a dunglark is part of the fast -growing gag economy.

And who else will hire us? No Irish can be a footpost, a beetler, a bodger, a

coal heaver, a garth man, a hello girl, a loblolly boy, a prop bobby, or even a

lowly scrimpshanger.

Well, at least we can watch the St. Patrick's Day parade.

This is a respectable parade.

Oh, there's Spallucci, the barrel king of Snob Town.

He looks like a good man. Perhaps he'll give me a job.

Ha! I never hire an Irish.

Farewell, you slightly different kind of Catholic dog.

Oh Celtic scum, what are you carrying?

I made you a corned beef sandwich.

Needs mustard.

After the accidental choking death of Rigatoni Spannucci, a will found on his

body states he's bequeathed his barrel factory to his dearest friend, Joe

Quimby. And bad news for Wall Street means a windfall for Quimby's new

Stockbrokers are losing the shirts off their backs and the suits that go with

them. Lucky for them, Quimby's barrels are there to cover their shame.

Quimby then bid it all to start his own movie studio.

Here he is at the premiere of his new hit barrel -based musical, Over the

Hey, Joe, stave a seat for me.

Joe, you've conquered so many industries.

What's next?

Well, I was thinking of running for city council.

The Irish barrel monkey wants to be in politics.

Know your place, you filthy Irish.

Son, I may be a barrel king and movie mogul, but to the people that hold the

strings, I'll always be a dirty Irish dunglark.

Not you. One day you'll wear these.

Trust me, boy.

You're going to be a winner.

Trust me, Bart. You're gonna be a winner.

I'm already a winner. I just got the high score.

Bart, you have to run for president.

Somebody's gotta stop Lil' Quimby.

Oh, but I don't want to be president, and I'm excited for that music festival.

He's getting the Chunk Mafia.

Chunk it up.

Are you guys chunking it up?

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

If you run for president and win, it'll drive Skinner crazy.

Huh. Chunk it up.

A cherry bomb in every toilet and a beehive in Skinner's car.

They're in my ears.

And we'll save Lisa's stupid music program.

No.

No.

Can our school risk a president whose name rhymes with

fart?

Six, five, four, three.

need to smelt it. Next Thursday, vote Joe Quimby III.

He's killing us on the Bart Fart Rhyme Angle. This is exactly what took down

Kevin Kyria.

Hold on, hold on. If they're gonna fight dirty, so can we. With exhaustive,

negative opposition research.

The Quimby's have had so many scandals and nothing has stopped them. From

bootlegging to spare... and so much philandering.

Also, how many bridges can one family drive off?

Ugh, just keep microfiching.

Fish, fish, fish, fish.

Wait a second.

Bouvier?

That woman who married Mayor Quimby looks a little like mom.

Oh, and that flower girl is mom.

Yeah, that's me in the picture. And the bride is my Aunt Beatrice.

And I don't want to talk about it.

Uh, okay.

But I just have a couple more questions.

Sorry, I can't hear you.

I think a fork fell in.

I'm not afraid to tell you the hard truth.

The rich deserve tax breaks for yachts and Leroy Newman paintings and fancy

dinners like this one.

Terrific speech, son. You've grown up to make me, your mother, and my five

mistresses very proud.

Here, uh... Oh, Donkey Kong Jr., maybe we'll both live up

to the expectations of our barrel -cursed fathers.

You're blowing your chance to do real good for the people of Springfield.

Who the hell are you?

Beatrice Bouvier. I get coffee for the person who gets you coffee.

Look, your family money and your pretty boy good looks aren't going to win you

this election.

You think I'm pretty? You can make a real difference, but oh no. You just

to please your rich daddy and his lobster -rattling friends.

Who am I kidding? The first casualty of politics is hope. I quit.

Don't leave, you lippy dame. If you want me to stay, you have to hit the real

neighborhoods and meet the people you'll be serving.

Okay, but you're driving. There's a lot of bridges between here and there.

This is Slobtown, the working class heart of Springfield.

My father left this neighborhood as soon as he could.

What is that?

That's a Slobtown meat cone.

A waffle cone full of beef stew.

Yeah, these people are animals. Thank God they don't get to vote.

They do. And the cone allows them to hold stew in one hand while hooping a

barrel with the other.

Oompa, oompa, slap your son.

Oompa, oompa, lots of fun.

My father would sing me to sleep with this song.

The widow drowned herself in tears. Oompa, oompa, fun for years.

I did it now. Politics is about improving the lot of working folks.

Beatrice, will you be my campaign manager?

Will you promise to be the best version of yourself?

You're the first person I've never wanted to lie to, so I'm not lying when

yes.

I may be a lemon -telted simpleton, but that feels like real growth.

Elect me and we'll have more money for parks, education, and inspiring murals

ethnically diverse children getting along.

Meat cones for both of you. On the house.

Would you like a napkin?

No, because it ain't a slob town meat cone unless you're wearing it.

As E .T. the Extraterrestrial said, We phoned home with a message of hope, and

the voters told us we have the eye of the tiger.

Yeah!

You've always vetted my policy proposals, but this one's all my own.

Beatrice Bouvier, will you, uh, um, uh, uh, um... Yes! Yes! A

thousand focus groups! Yes!

Are you tired of band -aids in the jello?

Playground slides with exposed bolts?

An entitled rich kid trying to run our school?

It's 3 a .m. Whose finger do you pull?

Next Tuesday, vote fart to fart symptom.

Dude, way to flip the fart narrative.

Oh, genius ad, Lisa. And get this. In the school papers poll of four square

players, you're tied with Quimby two to two.

It's weird, but it turns out I love popularity.

Excuse me. I got a rope of kindergartners begging for the fart man.

Do you, Joe Quimby Jr., take Beatrice

Bouvier to be your lawfully wedded wife?

Yes, I do, and there's no M's, R's, or I's about it. I now pronounce you man

wife. You may kiss the bride.

Joe, your father wants to talk to you.

Marrying a slob -toned girl will help us with the unions.

Smart move, son. I married her because I love her. Never say that on the record.

Now, there's one thing your image needs.

What?

Mistresses? Uh, Mary, my dad says being a philanderer is an essential part of my

hyper -masculine political image. But don't worry. I told him I would never

cheat on you.

Oh, thank God.

He'll be happy as long as the press catches me in bed naked with many, many

ladies. But I will commit neither hanky nor panky. So you'll respect me

privately, but humiliate me publicly?

I don't have a choice.

I'm sorry, but whatever my father wants, my father gets.

Oh, you broke my heart, Joe Quimby.

Are you going off to your magical castle?

Princesses aren't real, and there is no happily ever after.

Let's check the lunchroom map.

It all comes down to the girls who sniff Sharpies and that sad boy who's always

throwing up.

I'm hearing all the votes are in, and we can now call the election for Joseph

Quimby III.

They rejected my music program.

Who cares?

They rejected me.

Joe! Joe!

Joe! Joe!

Fail your music, please.

That's the best I'll ever sound.

I need to talk to you.

I thought you did an amazing job on Bart's campaign.

The way you linked me to chocolate milk inflation.

Negative. Unfair. And I wish I'd thought of it.

Compliment noted.

Lisa, my father has endless plans for me. And now those plans include having

on my team.

Why would I work for you? You deepfaked a picture of my brother picking his

nose. That wasn't a deepfake.

Oh, that makes sense.

My father wants you. And whatever my father wants, my father gets. I need

answer by Monday at recess.

Don't sweat this decision too much. Just remember, it's all just a game.

It's all just a game. You spend your whole life chasing sashes, and then it's

over.

Mr. Mayor, something amazing has happened. Beatrice came back?

No, you forgot about your televised debate. It starts in five minutes.

Oh, right. I'm running for governor now.

Mr. Mayor, some critics say you're skating by on your family money and

boy good looks. How do you respond?

I say I love you,

Beatrice, and I'm so sorry I hurt you.

I want the voters to know I'm not having sex with an endless parade of nubile

beauties. I only want to have routine, reliable intercourse with the woman I

love. And even then, not that frequently.

If he can't even cheat on his wife, how can he repave our highways? I say we

turn on him.

Dad, other than that last question, how do you think I did in the debate?

I stole the family turnip. I left the land of my birth. I killed a man with a

corned beef sandwich.

All to make our name in this country.

Okay, all pretty positive so far.

But you've ruined all that.

You'll never be more than the mayor of a two -bit town. You're a failure. And

you've forever brought shame to the Quimby name.

There was only a way to make this right.

Have a son and raise him to succeed where you failed.

Thanks for reaching out,

Lisa. I've only heard about your family through your aunts, Patty and Thelma.

How's your morbidly obese alcoholic father dealing with his chronic butt

Um, he gets by.

One more question.

Why is your mom just standing in the doorway?

Because when I was four, he told me that princesses aren't real and there's no

happily ever after.

Oh, gosh. Did I say that?

Yes, and I wasn't ready to hear that my dreams would never come true.

And that's why I married the first... I love your dad.

Great guy.

Marge, I'm so sorry.

But you should know what happened that day. I had just found out that the love

of my life betrayed me.

I never saw him again.

Or ate meat out of a cone.

He chose his father's ambitions over his love for you.

I'm so sorry.

Poor Joe.

He never stood a chance against his dad.

His son wants my help. And I think I know how to give it to him.

Joe? Joe!

Joe, I finally understand your family, and I've written the first speech of

administration.

Oh, I love it.

Let me introduce my son and your new president, Joseph Fitzgerald Shriver

Onassis Schlossberg Quimby III.

Joe! Joe! Joe!

Ever since my grandfather got rich making barrels, my family has been

over those barrels and hitting them with hammers. What?

But we have never been able to escape them because those barrels are filled

ambition instead of love, and often they are on fire.

It is true.

I can play this game no longer because my soul has run out of quarters.

I'm stepping down, but I leave you in the worthy hands of... Bart Simpson.

What up, Springfield? We did it. Chunk it up.

Bart, Bart, Bart.

Sorry, but the school constitution says that the next in line of succession is

the chief hall monitor.

That's Martin Prince.

Suck it, Simpsons. And I'm saving the music program.

Hit it.

Oh, I'm sorry I let you down, Father.

Burn your eyeballs, lot of man.

I've never been more proud of you.

Bart, we broke a 100 -year cycle of emotional trauma.

So what?

History is boring.

Don't they say it just keeps repeating itself?

Sure, but each time it's a little different.

Chunk Mafia.

What? Chunk, Chunk.

Chunk, Chunk, Chunk it up. Chunk, Chunk, Chunk it up. Chunk, Chunk, Chunk it up.

Chunk, Chunk it up.

Chunk it up.

Chunk, Chunk, Chunk it up. Chunk, Chunk it up.

Chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk it up!