CHOIR: ♪ The Simpsons ♪
(tires screeching)
D’oh!
(screams)
(tires screeching)
(clicking)
-(alarm rings) -(Homer groans)
(yawns)
Hmm.
I must be supposed to remember something.
Huh?
Huh. Hmm.
Come on, memory, wake up.
(grunting)
Is it our anniversary?
No, we don’t have one this year.
Hmm.
Hm-hmm...
(coughs)
Don’t forge?
Don’t forge what?
(coughs)
-Oh... don’t forget. -(giggles)
Don’t forget what?
Hustle your bustles, gang.
We’re going to the Senior Olympics to root for Grampa.
The Senior Olympics?
That’s what I was supposed to remember?!
(groaning): Oh...
Don’t you dare go limp.
Too late. The deed is done.
Kids, grab a fold.
(Bart, Lisa, and Marge grunting)
(door shuts, telephone rings)
MOE (on answering machine): Oh, hey, Homer.
Uh, I hope you didn’t forget that today’s our big day.
I sure am looking forward to my birthday fishing trip.
(chuckles) Well, I’ll see you soon.
This is Moe, big day.
Uh... waiting, feeling, uh, kind of fragile.
Moe, the birthday boy, listening for your car.
(sobbing)
(tired moaning)
I can finally win a gold medal.
I came close at the 1936 Olympics.
♪♪
I threw a javelin that barely missed Hitler.
But I did hit an assassin who was trying to kill Hitler.
What is this? Kill Hitler Day?
The next time I saw Hitler,
we had dinner and laughed about it.
♪♪
What’s with the lined composition book?
My report on a "Fascinating Springfielder" is due Monday,
and everybody I’ve tried to interview is so boring.
(Marge groans)
You could interview me.
I collect Absolut ads.
How many others do you have?
(gasps) There are others?
HOMER: This guy sucks.
He can barely make it to the top.
("Rocky the Flying Squirrel" theme music playing)
(applause)
(groans) 72 lousy events
and Grampa hasn’t won a single medal.
Well, it’s not fair
when Moleman uses his replacement legs.
(chuckles)
On your mark!
(grunting)
Oh...
Oh, it’s clouding up.
I better put on me rain poncho.
(wheezing)
Sir!
You dropped your munchers!
(yells, frightened)
(yelling in Scottish)
You’ll never take me alive, Grim Reaper!
(grunting)
(applause)
Yay, Grampa.
Take the boy. His soul is fresher.
(sniffs) I’ve never been happier.
("Star-Spangled Banner" plays)
Turn that hippie crap off!
I wonder if the dog thought about us while we were gone.
(sad music plays)
(gasps) Oh... I was supposed to take Moe fishing today.
Everybody hide!
Finally, that jerk Homer is home.
(tires screeching)
Oh, it’s just his car.
MOE: ♪ Happy birthday to me ♪
♪ I feel so damn lonely ♪
♪ Won’t someone kill me... ♪
(sobbing)
♪ And many more. ♪
Homer, we can’t scuttle like crabs
for the rest of our lives.
Says you.
♪♪
(dinging)
(moaning)
"Dear Pus Bag"?
Whoa, Marge, who’d you piss off?
It’s for you, Pus Bag!
(groans sadly)
MOE: Birthdays never meant squat to me.
Then you offered to take me fishing,
and like a stumblebum chump,
I dared to hope.
But you shattered my dreams
like a Duff tall boy in a bar brawl,
and you jammed the jagged neck right up my heart’s butt.
I guess I just wasn’t meant
to be happy or handsome or anything, really.
(sighs) What a deep, tormented soul.
(gasps)
DRIVER: Loser!
(sighs)
(sighs louder)
(thunder)
(sighs)
LISA: Moe!
You have a worldview both bleak and beautiful.
I want to write a report about you.
Wow, for the first time in my life,
someone’s taking a genuine interest
in what’s inside of me.
Heh, suddenly, this is my best birthday ever.
Still in the top three.
Still in the top ten.
How come you wanna do a report on me?
I ain’t no great man, like Bob Seger or Haystacks Calhoun.
Because I suspect deep within you is an artist’s soul.
Thanks. So here’s my digs.
Moe, you live in a hotel?
You’re just like "Eloise"!
Did someone say my name?
This vibrating massage chair feels great!
That ain’t a massage chair. It’s just full of cockroaches.
See?
LISA: Hmm...
Wow!
Moe, these fragments are fascinating.
"I was in the Christmas pageant once.
Mom showed up with a new boyfriend.
He called me Steve."
Oh... what you’ve got here is poetry!
(high-pitched voice): Ooh, Moe’s a poet!
He has a soul!
Flutter your wings!
It’s teatime in Buttercup Junction!
♪ Dee-dee-dee... ♪ (yells)
(groaning)
Moe’s the Princess of Lollipop Land!
-(groaning) -(cat meows)
He lunches on lavender and potpourri!
(yells)
(clattering)
Seriously, Moe, I think you have a gift.
Thanks, Homer. I love ya, man.
Ooh, you love a man!
You know, artfully arranged, these fragments could be
an epic poem-- like T.S. Eliot’s "The Wasteland."
What-which why-liot’s the who-now?
Whoa!
My brain-goo’s comin’ out all artistical, thanks to you.
How ’bout this for a title:
"Howling at a Concrete Moon."
That’s a terrific title!
It jumps out at you like a rat in your underwear drawer.
We make a great team there, Liser.
(sheepish chuckling)
"...my soul smells like a dead pigeon after three weeks.
I shut my window and go to sleep.
In my dream I eat corn with my eyes."
Philistines.
Lisa, I’m sorry you got a bad grade on your "Moe and tell."
I don’t care about my grade.
I’m gonna send Moe’s poem to American Poetry Perspectives.
Do not mention that publication in this house!
They never published my poem!
"There once was a rapping tomato
That’s right, I said ’rapping tomato’
He rapped all day from April to May
And also, guess what, it was me."
(grunts)
Hey, Chief, we just got a submission
from a brilliant poet no one’s ever heard of!
(grunting)
Hmm! Genius!
Pay him nothing, and run it on the cover!
Stop the presses! Send my wife some flowers!
And bring me an Advil! What do you mean you don’t work for me?!
You’re hired! Now that you’re hired, you’re fired!
Now that you don’t work here, we can be friends.
Now that we’re friends, how come you never call?
Some friend you are! God, I love this business.
Here it is.
Bad news, Maya Angelou: you’ve been bumped.
(indistinct yelling) ...you can’t bump me... ...bump you!
(indistinct yelling)
Moe, you’re a published author!
Wow, Just think: earlier tonight,
a newly-published poet cleaned up my barf.
(phone rings)
Moe’s Tavern. Who?
Where? To what?
Screw you, snail trail!
Who was that?
Eh, some jerk makin’ a prank call
with a gag name: "Tom Wolfe."
Tom Wolfe?!
He wrote The Right Stuff and Bonfire of the Vanities.
And coined the phrase "radical chic!" (groans)
Wait, wait, wait. Then that guy wasn’t squeezin’ my ’roids
when he invited me to the Wordloaf Festival in Vermont?
(gasps) The Wordloaf Festival?!
You’ll meet all the great American writers, Moe!
You have to go!
Yeah? Well, okay, all right, but uh... only if you come, huh?
Ah, I wouldn’t-a had none of this without you, kid.
(phone rings)
Hello. Oh, hey, Milhouse.
I’m not here.
Ah, a family trip with the family bartender-- what could be better?
How’s it goin’, Homer?
Oh, lousy.
I gotta go to Vermont for some stupid poetry thing.
Homer, don’t drink and drive!
Fine. I’ll drive between sips.
(tires screech)
(slurps)
(tires screech)
(slurps)
(tires screech, slurps)
Whoop!
They got an open bar at this thing, right?
Wow. Troopers from every state in New England.
Including Rhode Island!
We’re a small state, but we give big tickets.
Hey, guys, didja hear?
The Da Vinci Code just sold one hundred million copies!
(groaning)
(chuckles)
(elegant music plays)
(gasps): It’s Tom Wolfe!
He uses more exclamation points
than any other major American writer.
It’s true!
How ya doin’ there? Uh, Moe Szyslak.
Ah, magnificent Moe.
He stands, stoop-shouldered,
blinking in the light,
hollow-chested like a dough-faced fall guy
who’s made a career of taking dives but has decided
to get his manhood out of hock and take a shot at the title--
or at least go for the jaw and-- thwack--
hyperextend the champ’s pterygoideus
before kissing the mat good night.
MOE: You ever scrub your hands
real fast, and you think you’re seein’ a third one?
One time I looked down and there really was.
I gotta get a new lock for that bathroom.
(all laughing)
Moe, your debut poem is as refreshing
as a second pair of socks on a wet hike.
I must know how you came up with that brilliant title,
"Howling at a Concrete Moon."
Uh, well actually, I had some help on the title...
(all gasping)
You needed help to write your title?
Well, so have I, Gore Vidal.
1876 was the price I paid for gas once.
I thought of Burr
when I saw it written on an Eskimo Pie package.
I can’t believe it!
Those sound like terrible jokes!
Sir, I must ask you to pick up your gift bag and leave this festival.
I don’t need your sycophantic laughter!
I have some on tape.
(sycophantic laughter)
You still love me, Temple University Class of 1987.
So Moe, you were telling us how you came up with your title.
Yeah, well, I-I was just saying that um...
...that I, uh, I thought it up all by myself.
(gasps)
Ah, like a real writer. Outstanding, Moe!
To the hayride!
(all cheering)
♪ Let’s get it started ♪
♪ Let’s get it started in here, let’s get it started... ♪
(resounding clang)
But we were a team!
(cheering and laughter)
(sobbing)
-♪ Let’s get it started... ♪ -(laughing continues)
I’d like to introduce our panel:
Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, and Moe.
Whoa, clear water.
Swanky! Whoo-hoo.
Now we’ll open the floor
to fawning praise and obvious questions.
(Lisa grunting)
Uh, yeah, first of all,
I’d like to thank all of you for your brilliant work.
(applause)
Yes, yes.
My question is, who are your biggest influences?
I’d have to say my good friend Jonathan Franzen.
I thought his novel The Corrections needed none.
Cha-bone...!
Well, in turn, I’d have to say my biggest influence is...
Albert Camus.
You were supposed to say me.
I blurbed you.
Yeah, and it looks real sweet on my dust jacket.
How do you like me now?
Fran-zone...!
Moe, who inspired you to become a writer?
Jack Kerouac? Charles Bukowski?
Me, Tom Wolfe?
Well, I dunno, uh... the only book I ever read
was Super Hounds: The Ultimate Greyhound Betting System.
So, uh, any of you, uh, Wet-Naps write that?
(laughter)
Mr. Szyslak, there must be some person,
possibly in this very room,
who believed in you when no one else did.
Oh, uh, yeah, I get what you’re gettin’ at.
Um... nope.
But how can you...?
Now, now, he’s answered your question.
I declare this panel dismissed.
-(bangs gavel) -But I deserve acknowledgement.
-(bangs gavel) -I said dismissed.
Lisa, grab your sightseeing shoes.
We’re going Vermonting.
It’s gonna be awesome.
Man, couples in this state sure like to clink glasses.
(sighs sadly)
You guys go ahead.
I don’t think I’d be very good company.
Hey, thanks for the heads up.
We’ll see you when we see you. (sighs)
I love these covered bridges.
It’s like driving through cute little houses.
That was my house, you moron.
Oh, I’m sorry.
We should exchange insurance information.
I have none.
(geese honking)
(grunting)
No food for you grad students
till you grade 3,000 papers.
(yelling)
Hey, hey, there you are.
I’ve been lookin’ for ya.
I need a brilliant new poem for the farewell dinner.
So if you could turn these into one of those
and then don’t say nothin’ while I take all the credit,
I’d really appreciate it, though I’d never admit that.
And, look, I got you started.
Huh? Huh?
Moe, you’re a heartless jerk.
Huh? Whoa, where did that come from?
Oh, right, right, my actions.
Well, let’s see if I can put this poem together.
Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.
Hah!
Hey, hey, hey.
Hey, st-stupid geese, you’re eatin’ my brilliance.
-(geese squawking) -Hey, hey, I will break your beak.
What... Get... Hey... Look at me.
It’s supposed to be my big triumph,
and I’m standing in mud, fightin’ with geese.
Well, if I’m gonna fight, I might as well win.
(gunshots, geese honking)
Yeah, go on, you cowards.
Fly off in a "V."
Hey, Lis, we learned so much scootin’ around Vermont.
Did you know that candles are made by losers?
And we went to the Vermont Teddy Bear Factory.
Look what we got.
Hmm? Hmm?
(crying)
Oh, honey, don’t cry.
They’re not made from real bears--
just their fur and noses.
Moe marginalized my contributions.
(both gasp)
(crying)
No one makes my daughter sob and run.
He ruined her first Wordloaf.
Look at me, sittin’ here depressed when I’m surrounded
by the happiest people in the world: writers.
-(clinking) -Before Moe reads
his keynote poem, I would like to stake my claim
to any unfinished garlic mashed potatoes.
So please, if you would pass them clockwise up to table one,
I will collect them later.
Now, I give you Moe Szyslak.
(applause)
Uh, this here poem is called "Elevator Capacity."
(Moe clears throat)
"Elevator capacity: 2,400 pounds.
Inspection Certificate available
in hotel manager’s office."
You just pulled that off the wall of the elevator.
Yeah, well, uh, uh, here’s another one you might like.
(clears throat)
"Channel 61: Family Favorites.
Channel 62: Adult Desires.
Channel 63: In-Room Checkout.
Chan..."
You know what? I got a different poem for yaz.
(shocked murmuring)
Ode to Lisa: Pointy-headed mini-muse
More friend than I deserved
You pulled me from the dirt
And made me the beautiful flower that I am.
But some flowers can stab you in the back
For which I should send you flowers
Which I will, but they were closed
You’ll be getting them tomorrow.
Oh, Moe.
Lisa, if you could just forgive me,
you would make me the happiest man in Vermont.
Except for those two dudes I saw gettin’ hitched.
Not my thing, but I wish ’em well.
Make my daughter cry, will ya.
Eat syrup, jerk.
Wha...?
Dad, no!
I’m not mad at Moe anymore.
Uh, Homer, would it make you feel better
if, uh, any of that hit me?
HOMER: No, not now.
I’m gonna walk away then. Okay?
Wow. You couldn’t make this stuff up.
Well, you couldn’t.
That’s it, Franzen.
I think your nose needs some corrections.
(both grunting)
Ooh, you fight like Anne Rice.
Well, Moe, I guess we’re friends again.
That’s great.
Now what do you say we do some regional duck pin bowling?
I’d like that.
I’d like it a lot.
Aw, that’s sweet.
I hate sweet.
I need photos. Photos of Spider-Man.
This is a poetry journal.
Okay, then poems about Spider-Man.
And I want them finished before you start.
And before you finish, get me some coffee.
And the poems should have the following rhyme scheme:
A-B-B-A-A-B-B-A-C-D-E-C-D-E.
What are you waitin’ for, Chinese New Year?
♪♪
Captioned by VISUAL DATA
Hmm.
Maple syrup.
Sleigh on the label-- very good.
Rich maple color, good swirl.
(sniffing)
(slurping, gulping)
(nonsense sounds)
(gargling)
(nonsense sounds)
Oh... Jemima!
(groaning)
Touched in the head, is he?
A-yup.
Shh!
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