Married with Children s08e09 Episode Script

Oh, quick, Bud.
Change the channel.
It's sweeps month so Christian Slater's gonna show America his butt.
Kelly, now, this may come as a surprise to you then again, the fact that people can ride upright in the backseat of a car came as a surprise to you.
There are far more important things than Christian Slater's butt.
Now, for instance, the president's giving an important press conference.
We interrupt the press conference for live coverage of Christian Slater's butt.
Move over, kids.
It's time for our favourite talk show.
But, Mom, we were watching the president's press conference.
That jogging's been doing him some good.
Live, from Chicago it's jerry Springer, the masculine feminist.
Good evening, women, I'm jerry Springer and I am proud to be living in your world.
Before we start, I wanna tak e a moment to apologize on behalf of all men for the disgusting way Burt has mistreated Loni.
Good move, Burt.
And Cop and 1/2? Good movie too.
I mean, when are men gonna realize that women are this world's most precious natural resource? Except, of course, for our sponsor.
I Can't Believe It's A Tampon.
It feels so natural you're gonna wish it was always that time of the month.
A masculine feminist.
What does that mean? It means he likes show tunes.
Would that they all did.
Jerry has the hottest talk show around.
Is he gonna show his butt? Jerry is politically correct.
He's keeping his butt covered until all women are free.
I wish Al would.
At least until all women were warned.
Well, Jerry's not just a talker.
He's a doer.
Last week he found out there was no bowling alley in this part of town with a ladies-only night.
So Jerry did something about it.
We had a bloat-in.
A hundred of us waited until we were really grumpy then stormed the bowling alley and chained ourselves to the ball returns.
Which, in hindsight, turned out to be an error.
At least those little blower things were kind of enjoyable.
But what's important is that Jerry helped women finally get a bowling night, which is tonight.
- Some guys lost their bowling night.
- Yeah, I wonder who.
Hi, honey.
I'm home.
Why am I early on what used to be my bowling night? Good question.
Thank you for asking.
Well, as I entered the bowling alley ready for an exciting night of bonding, brewskies and barfing what did I see? Women.
Bowling.
Overhand.
Naturally, I went up to one of these donut depositories and said in my nicest voice: "Wedge it out the door, beefalo, it's my night to bowl.
" Instead of coming back at me verbally, like I did they took their doughy fists and they pounded on me until a mutual agreement was reached that I leave.
Anyway, when I regained consciousness in a burning trash can I realized, A, Thursday nights is now ladies' night and B, you don't wanna know how a bum puts out a trash-can fire.
Congratulations to those fine women in Chicago for what they achieved at jim's Bowl-A-Rama.
That's the pantywaist that cost me my bowling night.
Now we've gotta get the bowling alley to enlarge the women's restroom.
And what about mothers who wanna nurse? I propose a lactation lounge.
I propose a dairy farmer.
Quiet, Klingon.
Let's tak e some phone calls.
Well, believe you me, this outrage shall not go unavenged.
- AI, don't you think women deserve - No! Just don't embarrass us, honey.
- Is the caller there? - AI Bundy here.
Too late.
Now, listen here, Jerry.
Bowling is a man's sport.
If God had wanted women to bowl, he would've put breasts on backs so we would have something to watch while waiting our turn.
And where are you calling from, sir, 1952? I wish.
Ike was in the White House, women were in the kitchen and you were in the closet.
And you forgot to mention where you were, sir.
I suspect in a zoo someplace, throwing your faeces at a passing tourist.
Once again, I wish.
Enough of that call.
Let's tak e another one.
You and your thundering herds may think you won, but let me tell you something.
Thursday nights have always been men's bowling nights.
And mark my words.
Next Thursday men will be bowling! All right, nice spare, Jim.
If you shift your weight to your rear foot This is ridiculous.
I worked hard all week.
I'm not gonna sit home on bowling night.
Well, we can't go back to the bowling alley.
Those women are too strong.
We can't go home.
We're too weak.
Hey, I got it.
We can go to a movie.
- Hey, yeah.
- Yeah.
Hey, Peg.
Peg, do we have a paper? Thank you.
All right, let's see what's playing.
Hey! Here's a gripping drama about a newlywed couple waiting for their furniture to arrive.
It's called, Where, Oh, Where is the Mayflower Man? - Any boobs? - William Hurt and Glenn Close.
- Oh, jeez.
- Sounds like it blows.
We could go to the newsstand and buy a magazine.
- Yeah, but where could we hide it? - How about in your wife's hair? How about in your wife's chin? - Come on, now! - Come on.
Come on, they're making us turn against each other.
- There must be something we can do.
- I know where we can go.
To the last great bastion for the American red-blooded male.
Where there is no such thing as ladies' night.
At the nudie bar! Where a buck's enough to see their stuff.
At the nudie bar! Where the breasts may be fake, but, man, do they shake.
At the nudie bar! Where you swear like a sailor and wish you could nail her.
At the nudie bar! Where the cops are at the door and there's a Kennedy on the floor.
At the nudie bar! Nudie bar.
Hey, this is great.
It's better than bowling.
You can work up a sweat without working up a sweat.
You know, I haven't been in here since they jazzed up the place.
And they even put up a curtain.
And the mirrors are gone.
Well, some things don't change.
Gentlemen, present dollars.
Hooters! Hooters! Hooters! Hoot! Tonight I would like to dedicate this poem to my ovaries.
I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.
My eggs, my eggs He begs, he begs To be the father of my eggs My eggs, my eggs Oh, swim to meet my eggs Boy, they really hit us where it hurts this time.
Turning the nudie bar into a coffee house.
What're we gonna do with our Saturday nights? We could play bonbon toss with your wife.
Yeah, we can play peanut toss with the elephant you call your wife.
Come on.
Doesn't the Constitution guarantee us the right to life nudity and the pursuit of happiness? Are you sure that's "nudity"? Life, nudity, yeah.
This is the last straw.
I say it's time we stood up to the onslaught of this "womaninity.
" They've taken everything.
I say it's time that we take something away from them.
Live, from Chicago it's jerry Springer, the masculine fe Tonight's broadcast of The Masculine Feminist has been commandeered by the secret society "No Ma'am.
" National Organization of Men Against Amazonian Masterhood.
I would reveal my true identity, but for political reasons, I cannot.
But do not take me lightly.
I once scored four touchdowns in a single game for Polk High.
Hey, Daddy once scored four touchdowns too.
That is Daddy, you mud flap.
And that's Mr.
D'Arcy, and Mr.
Anderson and Bob Rooney.
Boy, if Marcie finds out about this she'll be down there in a second.
Gee, I wonder if she's watching.
Well, I guess so.
Every day for the past 30 years you high-heeled pit bulls have blamed us for everything.
From not being able to get into Harvard to not being able to get into stretch pants.
We've been called "pigs.
" We've been called "scum.
" We've even been called "plywood-bottom.
" Or at least I have.
Well, we're sick and tired of this.
Now, we have a list of demands.
If these demands are not met we are going to take this masculine feminist and perform television's first "sexorcism.
" Tell them what that is, Jefferson.
- My name is Hank.
- Oh, right.
- Sorry, Hank.
- That's okay, Al.
Anyway if our demands go unheeded not only will we force Jerry to watch hours of pro wrestling but we'll force him to watch it in these.
A stinky, yellowed undershirt and a pair of boxers which read: "It's all me.
" "It's all me" boxers, courtesy of Mr.
Bob Rooney.
I mean, Dirk Rooney.
Back to you, Al Clyde.
Hell.
Demand one: You gals want a ladies' night? Try having it in the kitchen, cooking for a man.
Demand two: Don't put on a dress and ask us if it makes you look fat.
We hate that.
Besides, it's not the dress that makes you look fat.
It's the fat that makes you look fat.
Demand three: Don't ask us to talk or cuddle after sex.
Or before sex, or during sex.
You're lucky we take our pants off.
You take your pants off? How do you get them over your shoes? Demand four: Don't ask us to say I love you over the phone.
It's hard enough to say to someone we're paying a dollar a minute to talk to.
Demand five: Stop talking about Fabio.
Yeah.
With his long, flowing blond hair and 48-inch chest we're the ones who should be talking about Anyway, those are our five demands.
We had five more written down but somebody couldn't blow his nose without a hanky.
So, ladies, you've got 30 minutes Which, of course, is two hours in woman's time.
- To address these demands, or we'Il We'Il - Ready.
- Break! Or we'll go for burgers.
It didn't make any sense, did it? Wait a minute.
What about Berkowitz? We could change our name to that.
- No.
- Can't spell it.
Let's see, what about? What about Borden? Can't spell that either.
- What can you spell? - Cat.
So let's go to the K's.
Now, I don't want everyone to think that we at No Ma'am are totally anti-woman so we found a typical working woman.
I'd like to introduce her to you.
Coming live to you from the Club Squish, Miss Bubbles Double Dee.
Ms.
Dee.
You're a working woman.
What do you think of Roe v.
Wade? Gee, I don't know that much about boxing.
But I'd like to go out to dinner with whoever wins.
Let's take some questions from our audience, shall we? All right.
Would you jump up and down? Yes.
All right, next question.
Can you do that again? I'll try.
All right, all right, all right.
Now there, a typical working woman.
Al Bundy, you sloth.
You toad.
You two-toed sloth.
This is no man.
This is Al "Oink Oink" Bundy.
Why the mask, Al? Take it off.
Let the world see your snout.
You call yourself a Stop it.
You call yourself a man, but you're a coward.
- You're all cowards.
- Yeah! - Honey, did you shut off the phone? - Yes.
- Stop the mail? - Yup.
- Did you cancel the newspaper? - Yes.
But won't the D'Arcy's be mad? I mean, it's their paper.
Honey, the D'Arcy's have bigger problems.
All right, Bud and Kelly Kat.
Let's go.
The Kat family.
Good choice, you blond airhead.
Mom, do you know where we're gonna live? No.
But wherever it is at least we'll be together unless I can find someplace great.
Now, about your demand to not talk during sex? The only reason we ask you to is so that we know when you're finished.
Oh, yeah? Well - You're a chicken.
- Yeah! And if it's true we spend so little time in the kitchen then how come you spend so much time in the bathroom? Because Because you're a chicken! - Yeah! So in conclusion we don't wanna take over everything we just want equality, fairness, to be appreciated.
After all, you need us more than we need you.
You're in No Ma'am's land now, baby.
So let's set the record straight.
You need us jar-opening, oil-changing, spider-squishing furniture-rearranging men a lot more than we need you.
Yeah! All right, you have a point.
There are some occasions when women do need men.
Yes! Well, like tonight for instance.
I need some men so I'm going to call them.
Oh, gentlemen.
You again, Bundy? Where were you when I got mugged out in front of my store? Where were you last week when I got mugged outside of your store? Hi, honey.
I just wandered in.
- What's happening? - Get in the car.
- But Al and them made me - Get in the car.
Hey, aren't you Jerry Springer, the masculine feminist? - Yes, I am.
- Tie him back up.
What the? I hate that guy.
This may be the end of No Ma'am for now but it's not the last you'll here of it or me.
Peg, kids, come and get me.
Please.
Who's that guy? Oh, he's doing community service.
My eggs, my eggs Above my legs