Happyish (2015) s01e10 Episode Script

So, yesterday, I decided to quit my job at MGT.
I'm trying to remember when exactly, at what point.
It may have been that morning, listening to Lee puking and thinking about my life.
Did I really want to waste the rest of my life writing ads? I mean, you're the shrink.
You're the psychiatrist.
How do you not know if the Lexapro makes people puke? A lot of people.
I mean, you're the doctor.
I went online.
I found this out in five minutes.
I went to you looking for some relief, all right? I went to you because I thought that maybe you could help me.
But instead what I found was myself facing the bottom of a toilet bowl all fucking night long.
It's 6:30 in the morning.
Call me when you get this.
Ugh! Should I stay home? No, no, no.
Don't, mm-mm.
I can't stay home.
I don't want you to stay home.
Got this agency meeting.
These 25-year-old Swedish idiots love agency meetings.
We're a family.
This corporation, this carnivorous machine that profits at the expense of everyone and everything around it, they say this is a family.
The Manson Family.
You know, unless you have kids, I don't care how much money you earn, what company you're CEO of, don't call your fucking company a family.
Thom, go to work.
- I can't stay home.
- I don't want you to stay home.
Should I just stay home? Or maybe it was that I finally started writing.
I had started writing this story a couple of days after Larry killed himself, actually.
I don't know what it means, and I haven't got the slightest idea how to end it.
I'm like God in that way great at starting worlds, no idea how to end them, and not really sure they mean anything anyway.
The story is called "Skidmark Jesus.
" It's about this guy, Simon Blackwall.
He's kind of a Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins type.
Scientist, rationalist, atheist, makes a killing on the lecture circuit.
And tonight, he's about to make one of the most important speeches of his career, refusing God and religion and establishing what he calls the Church of Exalted Existence.
"Millions saw the apple fall from the tree," said Bernard Baruch.
"Newton was the only one who asked why.
" Reason.
Not hocus The thing about Simon, though, is this he's got a beautiful house.
He's got a great career.
He's got a BMW 10,000 whatever I.
But he's miserable, and he doesn't know why.
He's been having these stomach pains lately, but the doctors, they can't find anything.
And then, that night, Simon's life changes forever.
Because there, inside the crotch of his underwear Jesus.
Is a skid mark.
A shit stain.
Jesus Christ.
That looks exactly, and I mean exactly, like the Lord Jesus Christ himself.
And Simon is freaked out, because it doesn't kind of look like Jesus, like when they kind of sort of find the Virgin Mary in a Cinnabon or something.
This is an almost photographic reproduction of the son of God out of shit, right there in Simon Blackwall's underpants.
And Simon, see, he's a scientist.
He's a rationalist.
But he can't explain this.
The likeness is too exact.
The odds are too miniscule.
The chances, too impossible.
Someone, he decides, some thing made this happen.
Morning.
You working on Wonderbra? No.
What are you working on? What does it matter? Well, Gottfrid and Gustaff have scheduled an all-agency meeting for 11:00, no exceptions.
Pretty sure that means you.
So the Wonderbra creative review has been moved to Friday, so if you were working on Wonderbra, then Lorna, I'm not working on Wonderbra! Shit.
Thom is gonna flip out.
- It's gorgeous.
- I know.
It's really gorgeous.
Okay, we've got, like, seven hours to turn this room into a writer's office.
Okay, so are we wallpapering and painting? How Martha Stewart is this project? No, no.
We're gonna keep this really simple.
We're just gonna shove all this shit into the basement.
We're gonna make a quick trip to Ikea.
- Ikea? - Just pick up a few things, bring 'em home, put 'em together before Thom gets back.
Lee, have you ever built anything from Ikea? It takes hours.
We'll never do it.
Yes, we will.
It's so easy.
We just need to get a chair, a bookcase, and a writing desk.
A desk? Honey, that's, like, a month and a half.
You know, that's how they torture prisoners - at Abu Ghraib.
- Shut up.
I'm serious.
They make them build Ikea furniture.
They work on it for months, and then they realize that they're missing two pieces and a bag of screws.
You okay? Lexapro.
That shit really kicked your ass, huh? Don't even get me started on my ass.
Ring of fire.
That's what you get for trying to be happy.
Okay.
Ikea, here we come.
I'm not kidding.
The prisoners are like, "Not Ikea again.
Can't you just waterboard me?" Or maybe I decided to quit at Gottfrid's agency meeting.
Yeah.
Okay, MGT.
So I have two pieces of good news, one piece, bad news.
- Which first? - Good! Okay, so we do good news, bad news, good news.
Some of you already know that there are some big changes coming to MGT, yeah? Gustaff and I have designed a new and exciting workspace, a space that will really make the industry stand up and take notice and say, "Whoa.
That is not the MGT we used to know.
" Yeah? It will take some time, though, to complete.
So, in the meantime, we thought we'd start with a small taste of what's to come.
Yeah? Because we are in the idea business, yes? - Yes! - Groundbreaking ideas.
Yeah? And business moves at The speed of ideas! You don't have to like it, but? You can't ignore it! Yeah! Okay.
Hold on.
Wait.
I just had a great idea for the Army, and business is moving at the speed of ideas.
I have to tell Gustaff.
But wait.
He's upstairs in the ideation room.
Gustaff! Gustaff! I have a great idea! Come quick! The new MGT.
MGT! MGT! MGT! MGT! MGT! Okay, so we have been through a lot together over the past few months.
We have lost some friends, but we gained some new ones.
Lots of new faces here at MGT.
And I really believe that that we are a team.
- Yeah? - Yeah.
More than that we are a family.
- Yeah! - Yeah? Family! Family! Family! And so, I'd like everyone, at some point today, to take a turn down the slide, and Gustaff will take a little Polaroid of you, and you write your name at the bottom, we hang it on the wall so we can all get to know each other a bit better.
Nice idea, yes? Okay.
- So fun! - Totally, right? And now, I'm afraid, for the bad news.
After a long and difficult process, I'm afraid we heard this morning that we did not win the Coke pitch.
We showed them great work.
We showed them great ideas.
Radical happiness, which I have to say is one of the best ideas we've ever come up with.
- We? - But, in the end, they went with Wieden and Kennedy.
And so Fuck them.
And now for the good news, yeah? I know many of you know Gustaff as a man of few words, but like most geniuses, the few words he does say are often quite brilliant.
So, as we were preparing for the J.
P.
Morgan pitch a couple of weeks ago, Gustaff came to me and whispered two words "radical capitalism.
" I'd like to show you the video we presented to the J.
P.
Morgan pitch last week.
Money tends to get a bad rap.
They never tire of telling us what money can't buy, while warning us in the same breath of all the ills it can cause.
Well, at J.
P.
Morgan, we say "bull.
" At J.
P.
Morgan, we love money.
We love the way money smells.
We love the way it sounds.
Let's get something straight.
Money isn't the root of all evil.
Evil is the root of all evil.
Money can't buy happiness? We say bull.
A Lamborghini will make you happy.
A mansion with a pool? Happy.
Caribbean vacation home? Happy, happy, happy.
- Money can buy health.
- - Money can buy families.
- It's time to stop apologizing.
It's time not just for capitalism, but for radical capitalism.
The next time you raise a fist in the air, make sure there's some cash in it.
J.
P.
Morgan.
Not just capitalism.
Radical capitalism.
J.
P.
Morgan called this morning.
Gustaff won it! That is fucking bullshit, Thom.
We showed "radical happiness" weeks ago.
Can they do that? Can they really do that? So the question is, "Who's the first one on the slide, huh?" Debbie! Debbie! Debbie! Debbie! Jon.
Jon! - Jon! Jon! - Hey, Thom! Your turn.
Everyone has to do it.
Not fucking now, Gottfrid.
Jon! He really doesn't like slides.
This is a lot of shit.
Ditch the lamp.
- Which one? - The floor one.
- Which is the floor one? - I don't know.
"Cockenballsen.
" Whatever.
Cockenballsen? I thought it was Felch.
- Is Felch the desk lamp? - Oh, my God.
- You okay, honey? - No.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
That is disgusting.
- She happens to be on Lexapro.
- Bella.
You know, I'm on Lexapro.
I don't vomit.
Well, side effects may vary, okay? She shouldn't come in here if she's sick.
What the hell are you talking about? Sick people are the only ones that come into this fucking place.
- Charlie.
- You have two carts.
Two carts of plastic shit you think's gonna make your life happy.
Who's the sick one here? Miss, let's get you to a restroom.
Here.
You know I'm gonna have to charge you for that bag.
Now, Blackwall, you see, he's fucked.
He's seen some sort of truth, some sort of meaning, and there's no turning back.
Ladies and gentlemen, Simon Blackwall.
Give 'em hell, Simon! There is no hell! "Millions saw the apple fall," said Bernard Baruch, "but Newton was the only one who asked why.
" Uh, but except except he didn't ask why, because Newton was a scientist and a coward, like all scientists.
Because Newton asked how not why, because all science has ever done and all science ever will do is answer how, and how is the least important question of all.
In fact, he's so overwhelmed by this incredible shit stain, that instead of extolling the virtues of science and rationality, he rages against what he now calls the cult of logic, the religion of science.
At least true religion has the balls to ask the bigger question! And stay out.
His career is ruined.
But Simon is elated, because though the rest of his world thinks it's foolish, he's found something of meaning.
That's as far as I got.
And that, now I think of it, is when I decided to quit.
Yeah, I'm sure he's pissed off.
What do you want me to do? Send him a fuckin' fruit basket? Hey.
Hang on.
I'm done.
You're you're done? Yeah, I'm done.
Done with what? With this fucking job.
With this fucking whorehouse.
I need to call you back.
- You're quitting? - I'm done, man.
I can't do this job anymore.
- The job of being a father? - What? Of being a husband? Is that the job you're quitting? Because providing for your family is your job.
Wow.
Holy fuck.
Jonathan Berg is about to lecture me on fatherhood.
I write poetry.
Did you know that? - No, you don't.
- I do.
On weekends.
It's kind of a "Philip Larkin meets Joseph Stalin" kind of a thing.
Good for you, Jon.
So should I quit my job and stick Dani with my bills? Is that real love, Thom? Sticking my beloved with another 20 years of work so I can pretend to be some kind of artist? Grow the fuck up.
Fatherhood isn't just about covering the bills, Jon.
It's about telling my son that he can be happy doing something meaningful, that money isn't the only thing that matters.
36,000 fiction submissions a year that's what "The New Yorker" gets.
Did you know that? Thom, what do they run? One, two stories per issue? One of 'em is some pretentious Steve Martin shit.
The other's some piece of crap that Woody Allen found in the bottom of his desk drawer.
You're a good friend, Jonathan.
I appreciate your support.
We can beat these Swedes, Thom.
We can beat them.
I don't want to beat them.
Well, then, they're gonna beat you.
You know, I love this idea that you can defeat something without becoming just like it.
Look at you.
You're 52 years old and you can't stop.
You can't stop working, you can't stop competing, dominating, winning.
You're an addict.
And you're only pissed off because I'm trying to go clean.
36,000 submissions a year, Thom.
Maybe you're the next Hemingway.
Bet you are.
Bet you're the next Joyce.
Bet you're the next William goddamn Faulkner.
Only "The New Yorker" never published any of them either.
You know, part of me thought you might actually be happy for me.
Happy for you? You have any idea how much it costs to raise a child these days? Pay for for braces, college, cars.
You wrote that fucking J.
P.
Morgan video, didn't you? Did I win the J.
P.
Morgan account? Did I save another 30 jobs including yours? Yes.
Did I let Gustaff take the credit? Yes, I did.
Forgive me.
So you go.
Go, write write your fuckin' novel, and then shove it up your ass, because it's the insurance from this fuckin' whorehouse you work at that's gonna pay to have it removed.
I'm out.
36,000 submissions, Thom! 36,000! Sometimes they're wrong, honey.
They get false positives.
I did all three.
Oh, my God.
Ugh! Hey, look, you know what? Some people like me and Barry, we've been trying for ages, you know.
You're lucky.
Oh, we were just getting out from under it, you know? I was just getting out from under it.
I was just starting to feel like a human again.
Fuck! And then yay.
And then fuck.
Yay, fuck, yay, fuck.
That's life.
I guess we should start taking this shit apart.
Yay.
I mean fuck.
Oh, my God! Lee.
Lee? Hey.
Oh, my God.
Is this for me? To write in.
Come here.
- Oh, baby.
- Hi.
- I got some news.
- Okay, me, too.
No, no, me first.
Me first.
I'm quitting.
I'm quitting.
It's you know, do I wanna spend the rest of my days writing ads? I had a vision this morning of my tombstone.
"Here lies Thom Payne.
He wrote that Wonderbra ad.
" You know, this is it.
This is what we wanted.
This is why we moved here, baby.
I know, Thom So I can you know, so I can, you know, write and you can paint.
Oh, my God.
You know, it's and and - Thom.
- It's okay.
Look, I figured it out.
I can earn extra money from freelancing, and we can show Jules that it's possible.
It's possible to to find happiness.
So I'm quitting tomorrow, - and I'll - Okay.
I'm gonna spend my days here, writing and being happy.
You're pregnant.
I'm so sorry.
Are you sure? Yeah.
- Oh, baby.
- I know.
- I know.
I - Fuck.
Fuck.
- Your office.
- I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I know.
- I'm so sorry.
- Hey.
Hey, hey, look at me.
Hey, hey, look.
Hey.
Hey.
Another little Julius.
I know.
Or Julia.
- You know? - Or Julia.
I guess I just fucked myself out of my writing room.
Yay.
Fuck.
- Oh, boy.
- Uh-huh.
Oh.
It was nice to quit.
Even if it was temporary.
I did, however, find an ending to my story.
Simon Blackwall stumbles through the streets, ruined, yes, but ecstatic, because he has at last found a reason to live, a reason for suffering all these slings and arrows.
Hey, what's the problem here? - Yes? - Oh, Father.
Oh, what is it, my son? Father, I have been so unhappy and empty, but but the Lord has called to me and opened my eyes.
Here, in my underwear.
It's a skid mark, Father.
A skid mark of our Lord, Jesus Christ.
And He has shown me the way to such joy.
But this is this is just an ordinary shit stain.
I I it got wet.
Looks like a shit stain to me.
No, no, this is a sign from God.
This is the reason for being.
How dare you come in here and pretend this is holy? This this this shit.
- I I swear.
- Hey! You heard the father.
Your shit isn't holy.
Your shit has no meaning.
Nobody cares about your shit.
Your shit isn't holy, you son of a bitch.
Your shit has no meaning.
- Your shit isn't holy.
- Your shit has no meaning.
- Your shit has no meaning.
- Your shit has no meaning.
- Your shit has no meaning! - Your shit has no meaning! "The New Yorker" is gonna love it.
Submission number 36,001.
Come on, Thom! Thom! Thom! Thom! Thom! Thom! We're with you, Thom.
You don't have to go down if you don't want to.
You don't have to do it for me, buddy.
You don't have to do it for me.
You gotta hand it to Stalin.
He didn't fuck around.
When he wanted to control you, he threw you in the Gulag or shot you in the head.
Nowadays, they give you a 30-year mortgage.
They give you an auto loan, credit card bills, and a Graco convertible crib with three-position mattress adjustment and a one-year limited warranty.
Yay! Fuck.
Yay! Fuck.