Jimmy.
Hey, buddy.
You okay?
Good morning.
About what?
God! Absolutely blotto last night.
You... You don't remember what I told you?
No.
But tell me again.
Okay, seriously, dude.
I think you might have a drinking problem.
Like, you need to go to church basements and shit.
Oh, my God. Okay, um...
I am... so sorry, but, uh...
Sweetheart, your dad died.
What?
Papa?
Oh, my God.
I know. Oh, God. I'm so sorry.
I... I don't know what to say.
Do you want to talk about it?
Ha!
I was kidding. I totally remembered.
Wait... what?
You knew?
Yeah. You told me last night.
You're not getting that one back.
- I stole one, dummy. - ‭Jimmy!
- You do not need to steal blow jobs. - Yeah, but
you know how amazing free food tastes.
Seriously, are you okay?
Your dad died. That's a big deal.
Yes, I am absolutely fine.
I feel... nothing about it.
- Really? - Yeah.
Great!
Oh. Phew! Thank God that's over.
Huh? Hey, do you want to do, uh, one of those Korean gel masks?
- Not really. - I got a snail one.
It's supposed to be extra goopy.
Huh.
Sync and corrections by explosiveskull www.addic7ed.com
I made my special heart pancakes,
because we love you, Jimmy.
- We really do. - What kind of jank-ass hearts are these?
That one looks like a butt.
Sorry. It was... it was kind of a rough night.
Uh, but later this afternoon, I'm finally gonna have
my consultation with the chief of staff at the VA.
Yeah, chiefs'll do that sometimes.
Hey, can I get some sticky sauce for these pan-butts or what?
Do you know, I actually just read something interesting about PTSD?
- Oh, yeah? - Yeah, it turns out in World War I,
the official term for "PTSD" was "cowardice,"
- and you were shot for it. - That is interesting.
How are you holding up, Jimmy?
My guinea pig died.
I couldn't jack off for, like, half a day.
I'm telling you guys... false alarm.
He truly doesn't give a shit.
Look, when a relationship
has been virtually non-existent for 33 years,
we're not talking about a major tectonic shift.
Nothing has changed.
I still have exactly zero off-track bettors with IBS in my daily life.
I almost wish I knew more dead people.
I think funerals are hella sexy.
All right, everybody out. I have work to do.
Wait!
Jimmy's dad died, and he doesn't care.
- Yes? - I'm going to have a baby.
What's happening? Is Lindsay processing thought?
- Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh. - And when I'm old,
my kid will have a feeling about me dying.
Oh, my God, she's doing it.
I want my kids to be sad when I die.
- Yes? - So I need to be
a good... a good...
- This is really happening. - a good...
...dad.
- Aah! It almost had it. - Oh.
I should probably sign up for one of those stupid
classes Becca's always yammering about.
Edgar? Edgar?
Uh, yeah. What's up?
Big writing day ahead of me. I need you to get
all my usual writing snacks from the British specialty store.
Shrimp-flavored crisps,
Wallenger's choco-knockers, tartar biscuits,
and then all your standard candies...
lemingtons, fluffingtons, rum Christophers,
salted licorice knib knobs.
I'm not mad, Felix.
No, and when you constantly accuse me of being mad,
you deny my right of actually being goddamn mad at you.
No, I'm not "therapizing" you, all right?
Stop saying that.
Holy shit.
I-I'll call you later.
What's up? Give me a cigarette. Who was that?
What that your shitty boyfriend with his cargo shorts?
None of your business.
What's going on?
So, I told Jimmy his dad died, like you told me to, and he said
that he feels nothing, and then he stole a beej,
which is a pretty good heckle, actually.
- Is there a question? - Nope.
I just wanted you to know that you were wrong.
You were wrong.
Jimmy can say he's fine all he wants,
but sooner or later, his dad's death is gonna hit him,
and when it does, you're gonna have to be there for him.
When? We're going on a rad cruise.
Are you saying this could come out on the rad cruise?
Sure. Yes, it could happen on the rad cruise.
What's the rad cruise?
No, I don't want to know. I mean, I do want to...
- Never mind. - So you're telling me
I need to help him get it all out now,
just pop it like a pimple.
- No, that is not how humans work. - Yeah, I get it.
Get him to cry, boo-hoo, there, there, we'll be done by Wheel.
Of Fortune. Seven years in school? Really?
Gretchen, Jimmy has got to go through his grieving process.
All right?
It's not gonna happen on your exact schedule.
Eh. I think I'm gonna do it my way.
Thanks for nothing.
Your boyfriend... sucks.
Sucks.
Simon's sisters and Kitty sprawled on the carpet,
watching Top of the Pops, their bums in the air.
From his perch on the coach, Simon noted
that while Cynthia and Patsy had gotten quite porcine,
Kitty's bottom had an almost otherworldly lift,
as if in the process of being raptured
for being too perfect to dwell any longer on Earth.
Goddamn it!
What's wrong with me?
It's been hours,
and I still haven't perfected the bum metaphor.
- My fingers hurt. - My dad died.
- At least you know where he is. - Edgar, I need sustenance.
Where are my snacks?
Uh, sorry, Jimmy. There was some police activity near the store.
That's my last food!
I've been thinking about it all day,
and you really need to cry, Jimmy. My therapist says
- it's very... - Gretchen the sheer breadth
of my labyrinthian abstruse psychological composition
cannot possibly be second-handedly grasped
by some Long Beach Community College graduate
who deals with the... tragically maladroit all day.
No offense.
None taken, because I do not know that word.
Just give me the afternoon.
We'll do some super-sad shit,
you'll poop out some tears and we'll be home by Wheel.
...of Fortune.
It won't work. I feel nothing!
But fine. Let's go.
Work day's already a disaster.
I don't know why I'm suddenly blocked.
I'm rewriting the same paragraph over and over.
Hey,
Killswitch, while I'm out,
copy edit the chapter where Simon watches Kitty bathe
after the trip-hop concert.
Oh, and for the love of God,
finally learn how to spell "anilingus," will you?!
You never say "thank you."
That's what the money's for!
I'm so glad we're gonna learn how to be a family.
Family.
But we're already a family.
You can't just have two people in a family, Paul.
Name one family that's two people.
Gilmore Girls.
We have to learn how to be good parents,
so that when we're old, they'll take good care of us.
Plus, you're so accident-prone.
You turned into my knife, and it's taken, like,
forever for your skin to grow back together.
You mean heal?
Dogs heel, Paul.
Men get strong.
- Nerds! - Oh, my God.
I still can't believe you're keeping it.
Oh, Rebecca,
you josher.
Such a bummer about the timing though.
By the time it comes flopping out,
our entire family's gonna be so babied out,
your poor little lump's not gonna get any attention.
You're just mad I didn't get all fat like you.
You're barely pregnant.
Yo, dingus, help me gaffle some of these brews.
Becca's being a cooze and doesn't want me to drink
so I actually pay attention.
Anyway, pretend like you got to go drop a dook,
grab, like, four of them dummies,
leave 'em in the toilet tank for me, Godfather-style.
Nothing gets this pimp through a dumb baby class like toilet beer.
Hello, mommies and daddies.
So, last week we covered birth plans and how
pretty much everyone poops during labor.
So today we're gonna practice some real-life skills.
Everybody come and grab a baby doll. Come on.
Emotions are dangerous, Gretchen. Think about it,
the most emotional movie characters
always die. Kane from Citizen Kane.
The wife from Up.
Table-dancing destitute on the bottom deck of the Titanic.
And the ones who survive in movies:
RoboCop, Terminator,
- Chappie. - Those are all robots.
Yeah, exactly. No emotions.
Just cold circuitry and a thirst for revenge.
I don't really know why you guys insist on sitting in the backseat.
I'm not an Uber.
Yeah, damn right you're not.
What's that?
His rating.
One star.
Oh, almost forgot. Give us your car booze.
Guys, I really have to get to my VA appointment.
Fine.
But when you're done with your stupid thing,
you're giving us a ride home.
Come on. A little wah-wah,
death is sad, and then you're done.
Pretend one of these is your dad's grave.
Yeah, the problem is death doesn't bother me.
I'm not upset by the inevitable.
It's like being upset by the weather
or by an Irishman proving untrustworthy.
Look.
Real live dead person.
Come on. Maybe it'll stir something up.
...with so many questions and so few answers.
Hi. Sorry.
But it would be a mistake to think of today
as a sad day.
Charlotte, if you would please step forward.
Our Father, who art in heaven...
Jimmy, am I... Jimmy, am I crazy
or is this funeral hella sexy?
I don't know where that fetish came from,
but it is absolutely...
...lead us not into temptation...
Oh, my God, you're right.
It's like the funeral from November Rain.
Wait! Make sure to pull out. I can't get pregnant.
Your dad might be floating around right now,
looking for a body to reincarnate.
Good call.
Um... too hard.
Oh! Yes!
It's not real!
It's not a real baby!
Thank you.
Okay, we got a little distracted at that last place.
But this is it: living fathers
with their kids. That is some straight-up
"Cat's in the Cradle" shit right there. Plus,
look at my dope maze.
Usually, I'm a master of all art forms...
writing, music, quips, mixed media collage...
but, for some reason, I am creatively blocked.
A sun wearing sunglasses.
Doesn't even make sense.
He's too bright for his own eyes?
It's because you need to cry it out.
Maybe you're right.
Jesus Christ.
I don't even know what to do with you anymore!
And... jackpot.
Go. Follow him.
Maybe he'll rage-kick a garbage can,
remind you of your dad. Go.
All right.
I will give it a go.
Hey. What you workin' on, buddy?
Parenting, right?
I don't know what to do, man.
Mm.
It's hard to communicate with them, yeah?
Like you don't even recognize yourself in them.
I don't.
You're frustrated because he's a little clumsy,
a little too artsy-fartsy,
because he broke a blood vessel in his eye crying at My Girl.
What? No.
He's legitimately a bad person.
Like, my son is an awful human being.
- What? - He set up a bunch of Facebook accounts
to cyberbully me.
Hey, this bitch is bothering me.
You trying to hit on my dad, twink?
Jimmy, turns out this kid sucks.
You suck! What kind of adults go
to a paint-your-own-pottery place anyway?
Nasty-ass pedophiles.
Oh, shit!
- Don't go... - Shut up, Greg.
I wish you would call me Dad.
Well, I wish you'd suck my dick.
Oh, hey, emotion check.
Actually, I think I felt something that time.
Really?! Jimmy!
We're thawing your cold, dead heart.
Hurry up! We got one more stop on the sadness tour.
Okay. Let me call an Edgar.
We're ready to go.
And I sincerely hope you've got our car booze.
Sorry, Jimmy, I can't come. My car broke down.
Oh, well, that's not a surprise.
Piece of shit with no auxiliary plug or car booze!
_
All right.
Great job. Here's a Sophie giraffe
for winning the skills section.
Oh. No, that's...
Okay.
I won a prize.
You're such a natural mommy.
One of the dads just told me the neatest thing:
babies are programmed
to look like the father when they're born.
Won't that be so adorable?
A tiny little me suckling at your bosom?
Wah, wah.
Linds...
that was actually quite... impressive.
I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but I think...
you were born to be a mom.
Thanks, Bec.
- Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Uh-oh!
There's something's wrong with my big ol' honkers!
Ah! No leche!
- Glug, glug, glug, glug, glug. - Oh. This poor dear.
He is so delirious from working
- so many double shifts. - Ooh...
Paul, will you drive us home?
Of course. See you at home, Mama?
Sure, Pap...
Paul.
Um, hi, what is this?
What do I look like, some baby lady?
I'm sorry. M-My wife, she's stuck at work... shocker.
She gave me this shopping list, and,
man, I have no idea what I'm doing.
Oh. Okay.
Mm.
Looks like you're gonna need a Miracle Blanket, a Woombie,
- a Boppy... really great neck support... - Yeah...
and, of course, Zipadee-Zip.
It'll be quicker if I just do it.
Thank you so much. I appreciate it.
Well, Gretchen, you did it.
I can't think of a place more gloomy, more soul-crushing,
more quintessentially England.
Yeah, I thought you might want a wee English breakfast.
- Excuse me? - Don't be a berk.
You know what I'm talkin' about, Shitty Jimmy.
Are you being Ronny?
Today's been all abstract.
It's time to personalize it.
I even boned up on some British slang online.
Blarmy! Knob jockeys getting married?!
Next thing you know, some ringburner's
gonna want to shag and marry his dachshund!
Oh.
Almost felt something again. Get more personal.
Uh, talk about my ceramic pony collection
or the time Fiona caught me kissing a magazine cover
of Boy George because I thought he was a girl.
Look at 'at pasty skin.
Them soft girl hands.
The poofy scrote never worked an honest day in his whole miserable,
sodding life.
Now, you listen to me, you fat, grey void.
Writing is hard! It is actual work.
It's a noble, nay, spiritual endeavor that taxes
both the brain... Oh, my God.
This wretched idea of yours might actually be working.
- The feeling? It's back. - Yeah, it's coming.
Oh, my God. Here it comes.
That was the feeling? A fart?
Mm. Apparently. Well, I told you,
I'm very evolved.
Stupid therapist.
I'm warning you, this better be it.
If you lose your shit on the cruise
and ruin my time with Cotton Candy Raccoon,
Bubble Gecko, or Sneezy Panda,
I... Well, she died in a plane crash. But never mind.
How do you even mess up toast?
Thanks so much for helping.
Jesus, I'm already this overwhelmed.
I don't even have a baby yet.
How are you this good at it already?
I have no idea.
So now what? I'm just stuck doing this baby shit
for the rest of my life?
What if there are other things I'm meant to be and I never find out?
Like a phlebologist or a dinosaur?
Once my ex and I split,
I figured that was it.
I was never gonna be a dad.
Then I meet this cute Asian chick at the Kubrick exhibit
at LACMA and suddenly she's knocked up
and I get this second chance at 42.
So you believe in second chances?
I didn't.
But I guess I do now.
Oh, Jesus. What the hell are you doing? Are you insane?
I just told you, I'm on my second chance!
- I just thought... - Oh, my God! What is wrong with you?!
- Why would you even do that? - Shh.
- I talked to your husband! - Okay.
- He was so nice. - Fine.
We're going kayaking together sometime!
- Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. - This isn't a singles bar where you just pick up guys!
- You're having a baby, you weirdo! - Shut up, shut up,
shut up.
Shut up.
I got your snacks.
It's too late.
I've already lost an entire day's writing.
Sorry, literature.
Mmm, rum Christophers; they're so disgusting, I can't stop eating them.
Hey! How was your thing today?
Fine.
Do you want to talk about it?
No.
Yes! Two for two.
Well, Dad, here we are.
The final test.
That's it.
Get it out.
Let all the sadness out.
Whoa! I thought you were crying!
No. It's amazing.
I was smelling the jacket that Dad left
and it smelled exactly like him.
Just cigarettes, ale, beans, occupational failure.
And in a rush, that feeling that we'd been searching for all day
just came flying out. And, Gretchen,
it wasn't sadness.
It was happiness.
I'm free.
I am finally free!
And I'm finally unstuck creatively.
I found, all right, the perfect metaphor
for the heft of Kitty's adolescent bottom.
I'll tell you later. It's-it's too sexy.
Do you want to go, uh, binge-watch
that six-part series on the Susan Smith case?
Yeah. Just a sec.
Now that my parental nightmare is finally over,
I'm gonna get rid of everything that smacks
of Ronny Overly.
May he rest in relative peace for someone of his arterial calcification.