ACT THREE
FADE IN:
EXT. PHONE BOOTH
The conversation resumes. Homer concludes his appeal to Krusty.
HOMER: So, how 'bout it, Krusty? I need this date real bad.
INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION
The harlequin pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.
KRUSTY: Look, pal. Tinseltown broads ain't all they're cracked up to be. Aside from their pretty faces, gaudy mansions, irresistible perfumes, flawless figures, supple curves, (GETTING AMOROUS) velvet panties as smooth as scotch on the rocks...
He convulses out of his lusty stupor and regains his intent.
KRUSTY (CONT'D): OK, let me put it this way. Last night you said that you and the old ball-and-chain had something special. Do you really want to risk that just to boost your lousy lifetime total with dames?
EXT. PHONE BOOTH
Homer: What? No, I'd never cheat on Marge. I just want to stage a mock date with some important strangers so I can put the guy who deflowered my wife in his place. Is that so hard to understand?
INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION
A flabbergasted Krusty lunges forward on his seat.
KRUSTY: Yes, I barely know you! Forget it, tubs. I'm not doing it.
EXT. PHONE BOOTH
With determined ire, Homer points a finger at the phone receiver as he retaliates.
HOMER: Oh, yes you are! Otherwise, the tabloids are going to hear about your “close call with David Bowie.”
INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION
Embarrassed, blackmailed and well aware of it, KRUSTY slaps his palm against his forehead.
KRUSTY: Aw, come on—don't let that haunt me! It was a hazy night. Let's just say I had too much of the Ziggy Stardust.
EXT. PHONE BOOTH
Homer's eyes narrow like that of a hunter one trigger-squeeze away from the kill.
HOMER: Are you going to do it or not?
INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION
Waylaid by treachery, Krusty's bones seem to turn to jelly as he slouches deep into his expensive couch.
KRUSTY: All right. Fine. I'm trying to squirm out of other plans I got, anyway.
HOMER: (OVER THE PHONE) Woo-hoo!
Krusty slams the receiver back onto its perch.
KRUSTY: Ah...”woo-hoo” yourself, ya yutz.
With embattled resolve, he picks up the phone and dials.
KRUSTY: (CONT'D) Hey, hey. It's Krusty. Now, I know the show starts in a few hours, but I gotta cancel, all right? (BEAT TO LISTEN) Aw, lighten up, will ya? I got someone to cover for me.
INT. SOLD-OUT ARENA – EVENING
With frenetic splendor, spotlights scroll across an expansive stage. A thunderous and captivating drum roll cues.
ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) Live from Radio City Music Hall, it's the Tony Awards! And now, tonight's host: Kruuussstttyyy the Klooowwwnnn...'s obscure sidekick, Sideshow Mel!
The distinguished look of Mel's tuxedo is offset by the bone protruding through his hairdo. The crowd grovels haughtily at the sight of him.
SIDESHOW MEL: Friends, Romans, and countrymen, I wish to earn your esteem with a one-man rendition of the entire third act from Shakespeare's Othello.
INSERT:
OFFSTAGE
The show's DIRECTOR eyes a nearby STAGEHAND and swipes his hand across his neck in a cutting gesture. The stagehand nods and grabs a bucket labeled “Weasel Guts.”
INT. SIMPSONS' BEDROOM
Hours after his foray to Stu's Disco and the Casa Nova, Homer stands and fidgets in front of the dresser-mirror, adjusting his tie without poise or precision.
MARGE: Hi, Homey.
HOMER: Marge.
MARGE: (BEAT) Are you still upset?
HOMER: (WOODEN) I'll feel better about the whole thing soon.
Marge advances with a mix of hesitance and love. She wraps her arms around Homer's robust waist and forces affection.
MARGE: Where are you going dressed up looking so handsome?
HOMER: Uh, I'll be heading out with the guys to a...seedy gentleman's club—er, to protest the...objectionizing of...you know, female sex objects.
MARGE: Ah-ha. Well. Are you sure you don't want to stay in tonight? I rented your favorite movie, The Apes of Wrath. And afterward, I could blare some Grand Funk so the kids won't hear us--
HOMER: (FLUSTERED) Eh, I gotta go.
He shuffles past his wife and ignobly exits the room.
CLOSE-UP
MARGE: (SIGHS) Goodbye, Homer.
EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT
Beneath a behemoth sign, the slogan of the restaurant reads: “Where the food costs as much as the stuff on the walls!” Homer parks his car and walks toward the entrance. He spots a nerve-addled Krusty puffing on a cigarette beside his Bentley.
HOMER: Hey, Krusty. Thanks for doing this for me.
KRUSTY: Shut up. Now, I gotta level with you, tubs: my networking skills ain't what they used to be. A lot of the famous broads in the old Rolodex are either too uppity all of a sudden or married to Kurt Russell.
HOMER: So, what are you saying?
The entrance to the restaurant swings open and two classless, haggard bimbos—D'ARCY and CHANDRA—stagger outside.
CHANDRA: Krusty, what gives? We've already purged our salads and now we're hungry for dinner.
KRUSTY: (MUSTERING TACT) Ladies, I'd like you to meet my dear friend Honus.
HOMER: Homer.
KRUSTY: If you say so, guy. Now, say hello to Chandra and D'arcy. They'll be our dates tonight, barring a timely fire alarm or apocalypse. We'll be inside in a second, babe.
CHANDRA: All right. (TO D'ARCY) Come on, let's go schmooze with Keanu Reeves some more.
KRUSTY: Aw, for the last time, that's just a freakin' wax sculpture!
Oblivious, the two women reenter the restaurant. Krusty viciously snares Homer by the necktie.
KRUSTY: Dibs on the one with less cold sores!
Homer nods cowardly.
INT. PLANET HYPE
Chandra and D'arcy linger in front of what appears to be a replica of Neo from The Matrix. Feigning a thoughtless mishap, D'arcy drops her purse.
D'ARCY: Oops. Clumsy me. I dropped my purse again.
She bends over to pick it up and brandishes her backside to the motionless figure.
Homer and Krusty enter the lobby.
KRUSTY: All right. Let's get a stinkin' table already.
As Homer drudges past the (apparent) sculpture, on accident, he steps stomps on its leather shoes. The figure flinches with a jolt of pain.
KEANU: Ouch! Watch where you're stepping, dude.
Krusty walks by and quips.
KRUSTY: Well, I'll be damned.
Keanu resumes his stoic pose and the quartet moves off-screen.
INT. PLANET HYPE – A SHORT TIME LATER
The unlikely quartet sit at a table. D'arcy and Chandra fawn and lean longingly toward Krusty as they ignore Homer.
CHANDRA: So, Krusty, can you still get me that guest spot on Mr. Belvedere that you promised me?
KRUSTY: Uh...maybe I could pull some strings. (EAGER TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT) Hey ladies, did you know my buddy Homer over here once supplied the voice of some talking dog on Itchy & Scratchy? Not too shabby, eh?
Nonplussed, D'arcy and Chandra gaze at Homer, who forces a wide grin and meekly offers two turned-up thumbs.
D'ARCY: Voice actor on a cartoon? Oh, my dear—how low can one go? Well, at least you weren't one of the writers.
Following a terse shudder, she cackles along with Chandra. Homer hangs his head as Disco Stu struts to their table.
STU: How may Disco Stu serve you?
HOMER: (REVIVED) Well, if it isn't the waiter—the humble servant who scrapes by on minimum wage in a field dominated by women. I'm Homer Simpson, the swinging husband of a blue-haired lady named Marge that you may or may not know. Say bonjour to my acquaintances, D'arcy and Chandra, and mind you, they're actresses.
With tentative vigor, Homer throws his arm around D'arcy. She promptly rebuffs his gesture.
STU: Actresses, eh? That's nice. What have I seen you in?
CHANDRA: Benny Hill chased me around a tree back in '79.
D'ARCY: I made an appearance on Cops just last week.
Stu points to D'arcy, cocking his head in recognition.
STU: Meth bust, right?
D'ARCY: You know it!
STU: Out of sight. Hey, that cop had no right to search you like that, doll-face. And if you don't mind me sayin', you looked pretty chic in that grass-stained tank top.
D'ARCY: Well, aren't you a sweetheart? Handsome, too. I wish all men your age had thick hair like you.
Reeling from this passive-aggressive jab, Homer leaks sweat and fidgets.
HOMER: Um, anyway, you might also recognize a dear friend of mine—none other than Krusty the Klown.
STU: Yeah, yeah. I hate kids and everything they like.
KRUSTY: I respect that.
STU: Now, would you care to order first, babe?
D'ARCY: I'll have three low-carb croutons and a pitcher of vodka screwdriver.
STU: Ah, the “Lindsay Lohan.” Excellent choice.
CHANDRA: Same.
STU: OK. (TO MEN) And I'll be back for your orders after my smoke break.
As Stu strolls away, D'arcy slaps him on the butt.
INT. PLANET HYPE – LATER
The burned-out starlets are hammered and giggling for no apparent reason. Homer is atypically sober and long detached from human interaction.
CHANDRA: Krusty, you wanna know what I think? 'Cause I'm gonna tell ya. I think we should do this again sometime. How about next Friday?
KRUSTY: Ooh. Next Friday's no good. That's the—uh--Jewish holiday of Rokmoklahavven. Can't do it. (TO HOMER) Hey, fatty, you up for dessert?
With the posture of a dejected primate, Homer stands up.
HOMER: No, that's all right. I think I'll just leave. I lost my appetite, anyway.
On his way to the exit, though, he pilfers some spare ribs off of a deserted plate and starts to nibble on them morosely.
D'ARCY: Hey, what ever happened to that cute waiter?
With that, she leaves the table. A moment later, Chandra follows suit. Krusty looks around at the vacated table in a vacated restaurant and takes a long swig from his drink.
KRUSTY: (EMOTIONLESS) Alone at last.
EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT – MOMENTS LATER
With sunken eyes gazing down on his leather shoes, Homer flings the meatless ribs over his shoulder.
CHANDRA: Big Kojak! Wait a second.
HOMER: What do you want?
CHANDRA: (BEAT) Someplace new to have the bed-spins.
Before he can ward her off, Homer is ambushed by a desperate embrace. He struggles away from her.
HOMER: Get away from me, you floozy!
CHANDRA: Floozy?! Hey, you're the one who wanted this date. Loser.
HOMER: I only wanted this date so that I could humiliate that jerk-of-a-waiter the way he humiliated me. But I just made a fool of myself. I could be home with my loving wife—making lucky number 3,407. Or at least be joining the five-timers club watching The Apes of Wrath, but nooo, instead I'm here, telling you to get lost.
Upon completion of his rant, Homer notices that Chandra has nodded off—still standing, remarkably.
Homer presses on a few more paces back to his car. He gets inside.
INT. HOMER'S CAR
CLOSE-UP ON HOMER
MARGE: (O.S.) I couldn't have said it better myself.
Mortified, Homer whirls around to see his wife sitting in the backseat.
HOMER: (FLUSTERED) Marge! What are you doing here? Oh God, I can explain--
MARGE: (ANGRY) I think you just did--to your tipsy friend out there. I know how jealous you can get, Homer, so I tailed you on your little stalking escapade. This is one of the most petty, conniving, despicable--
HOMER: Whatever word you're going to say next, I'm sure I deserve it, but I swear on our children that I never wanted to lay a finger on that woman. Marge, I can't believe you slept with that guy. It seems so wrong, and now I don't know if things can ever be the same again between you and me.
MARGE: (SIGHS DEEPLY) Homer, when I first met that man—that boy—he was popular and hip--and I was naive. He worked his charm and I made a mistake and then he broke my heart. You remember senior prom the next year? I went with that weasel Artie Ziff, and when he turned out to be just like Stu, I spent a short time convinced that I'd never find a man who respected me. I was wrong, though. On the ride home that night, I picked up a man who sees me as the only one worth counting. And that makes a girl feel special.
The two share a tender smile.
MARGE: (CONT'D) So, even though Stu was the first, he certainly wasn't the best.
HOMER: (ABRUPT) Woo-hoo! You mean I'm bigger than he was?
MARGE: (IRKED BUT MANAGING) Homer...yes. But that's not at all what this whole thing is about.
HOMER: (EYES DARTING, DISINGENUOUS) No...of course not...(BEAT) Anyway, I've had enough crazy bullcrap for one day. Let's go home, sweetie.
Marge leans in and bats her eyelashes seductively.
MARGE: Well, that's an idea, but you know, even though high school was lonely for you, you're never too old to have some fun in the backseat of a car.
Delighted by the invite, Homer crawls to Marge. As he wriggles his duff between the front seats, he moans.
HOMER: (HUNGRILY) Mmmmm...Number three-thousand, four-hundred and seven...
EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT
The perspective shifts to the far end of the lot, where Disco Stu is spying on Mr. and Mrs. Simpson through a pair of binoculars. The eyepieces are bordered by pink, glittering stars reminiscent of Elton John's sunglasses. A single tear plummets down the cheek of Disco Stu.
STU: Disco Stu never knew love could be so sweet.
D'ARCY pops her head up from his lap and leers out the front windshield.
D'ARCY: What could be so sweet?
All traces of romance and decency vanish and Disco Stu reverts to his true self.
STU: No use trying to buckle me in/ 'Cause Disco Stu is ready to sin.
FADE OUT.
THE END.
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