Dead Putting Society

Bust my hump all week. stupid grass supposed to be the boy’s job.

Now, now, Homer. Bart’s busy working on his science project.

You heard the lady, Homer. So please mow quietly. Genius at work.

“One o’clock still just a potato.

Hey there, neighbor! The Lord’s certainly given us a beautiful day today. Huh?

H’lo, Flanders.

Doing a little yard work, huh?

Who told? Marge! Beer me!

Say Simpson, I-I’ve got some time-release granules

that’ll get rid of that crabgrass in just a half-a-jif.

Crabgrass? What are you talking about? Where?

Well, ooh, there. there. and uh there’s a big patch over there.

There’s nothing wrong with crabgrass!

It just has a bad name, that’s all.

Everyone would love it if it had a cute name like.

uh, elfgrass.

Well, you may be right!

Marge! Where’s the Duff?

Oh, well, we’re all out, Homer.

Would you like some fruit juice?

Don’t toy with me, woman.

Couldn’t help overhearing, Simpson.

I’ve got some ice-cold suds in the rumpus room, if you’d like to join me.

Well, uh, okay. What the heck, I’ve earned a little break.

Holy moly! It’s beautiful!

Say, that’s right. This is your first visit to the Flanders homestead.

Well, we’ve only been neighbors, what? uh, one, two, three, four eight years.

There’s my little Popcorn Ball. Kissy, kissy.

Hello, Sponge Cake.

I thought you boys might be hungry, so I whipped up some club sandwiches.

Ain’t she wonderful, Simpson?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, but aren’t we forgetting something, Flanders?

Oh, your beer. Uh, is draft okay? Just put in the tap last week.

Heh, heh. This is a tasty little lager that came all the way from Holland.

Well, beggars can’t be choosy.

Hey, Dad, thanks for helping me with my science project.

My pleasure, Study Buddy.

I’ve got the best Dad in the whole world.

Oh, you know how that embarrasses me.

I know. T’oodley doodley.

Ah, kids can be a trial sometimes.

All right, knock it off!

Uh, knock what off, Simpson?

You’ve been rubbing my nose in it since I got here.

Your family is better than my family.

Your beer comes from farther away than my beer.

You and your son like each other.

Your wife’s butt is higher than my wife’s butt.

You make me sick!

Simpson, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

I hope you understand.

I wouldn’t stay on a bet!

One for the road.

Homie, quit tossing.

Sorry, Marge.

But it’s just that I’m still steamed up about that jerk Flanders.

Lousy.

bragging.

know-it-all. show-off.

What exactly did he say?

Get this.

He said. he said. well, it wasn’t so much what he said, it was how he said it!

Well, how did he say it?

Well. he.

Was he angry?

No.

Was he rude?

Okay, okay. It wasn’t how he said it either, but the message was loud and clear. our family stinks!

Homer, I’m your best friend, but I’ve gotta say, I’ve never seen him be anything but a perfect neighbor.

Oh, he’s perfect now, is he?

Well, he’s not perfect, but he is very.

No, no, Marge. Don’t backpedal. You were right the first time. He’s perfect. Perfect in every way.

I’m just gonna go take a walk around the block to calm down. I got a little excited. I’m not perfect. like Ned Flanders.

Neddie, you’re tossing. What’s the matter?

I feel terrible.

Mmmm, hmmm.

Sometimes I forget that we have things a little better than the Simpsons. I drag him over here. He has a few beers. You can’t blame him for erupting.

Mmmm, hmmm.

And then I turn into a snarling beast. Talk about flunking the old turn-the-other-cheek test!

Well, Ned, maybe I’m not the one you should be talking to.

You’re right.

Hello, Reverend Lovejoy.

No, this is Mrs. Lovejoy. Just a minute. Honey, honey, wake up. It sounds like Ned Flanders is having some sort of crisis.

Ugh, probably stepped on a worm. Hello, Ned.

Reverend, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour but I threw a man out of my house today. I feel like I’ve violated Matthew 19:19.

Huh?

“Love thy neighbor”.

Oh. Oh. Matthew, 19:19, yeah, right, right. Well, you know, Ned. The Good Book says a gentle answer turneth away wrath.

A gentle answer. Well, that is a jim-dandy idea. Bless you, Reverend.

“Dear Neighbor”.

Flanders!

I don’t blame you for being upset with me, Homer. I just wanted to give you this letter. I’ll leave now.

“Dear neighbor. “

“You are my brother. I love you and yet I feel a great sadness in my bosom”.

Wait! Wait! There’s more.

I think it’s terrible. A man opens his heart and you make fun of him.

“Neighbors forever. Oh, no! Ned Flanders”.

What a sap!

Read the bosom part again, Dad.

Now, just a minute.

Bosom!

Bart!

Huh?

I wish this family was as close as the Flanders.

Okay, okay, all right,

all right.

She’s right!

Let’s do something together.

What does everyone say to some miniature golf, followed by a round of frosty chocolate milkshakes?

All right!

Hmmm. I was going to wash my hair.

And I’m studying for the Math Fair. If I win, I’ll bring home a brand new protractor.

Too bad we don’t live on a farm. Let’s go, boy.

Fore!

Heh, heh, heh heh.

But I got it in the middle!

That was just a practice shot, boy.

Play it where it lays, Homer.

Hey, there’s Homer Simpson! Oh, what a perfect opportunity to follow up on my letter.

Give up, Homeboy. There’s a six-stroke limit.

I know, I know. I can still make this for five. Come on, baby, pleeze pleeze go in. Pleeze.

Hi, Simpson! Having fun?

Flanders! What are you doing here?

Ah, just playing a little mini-golf with the Todd-meister.

Hi, Bart!

Get bent.

Say, now that we’re all friends again, why don’t we make a foursome?

All right! This will be fun! Oh, say, you looked like you were having a little trouble there.

That shot is impossible! Jack Nicholson himself couldn’t make it.

It is difficult, Mr. Simpson.

The best strategy is to play conservatively.

Hug the rail. It won’t go in, but you set yourself up for an easy deuce.

Oh, well, huh, it went in.

Good shot, Toddsky!

Luck.

Final score: Bart, forty-one. Homer. let’s see, six plus six plus six plus six plus six plus six.

Never mind!

Hey, look!

Wow! First prize, fifty dollars!

Wow! Free balloons for everyone who enters!

So, my little Bartley, thinking of entering the tournament?

Yeah, he’s entering and what’s more, he’s going to win, aren’t you, boy?

I guess it’s possible.

Hey, I like that confidence!. but I hope you’re not putting too much pressure on the boy. My Todd’s awfully good.

Oh yeah! Well I think the fruit of my loins can beat the fruit of your loins any day of the week.

Come on, boy.

But Dad, I’ve never won anything in my life.

Son, this is the only time I’m ever gonna say this. It is not okay to lose.

Stay, stay. Good dog. Now, keep your head down.

No, not you. I’m talking to the boy. Keep your head down. Follow through.

Okay, that didn’t work. This time move your head and don’t follow through.

Oh, man.

What’re you doing? That putter is to you what a bat is to a baseball player, what a violin is to the guy tha.the violin guy. Now, c’mon, give your putter a name.

What?

Come on, give it a name.

Mr. Putter.

Do you wanna try a little harder, son? Come on, give it a girl’s name.

Mom.

Your putter’s name is Charlene!

Why?

It just is. That’s why.

Now, this is a picture of your enemy, Todd Flanders.

Every day I want you to spend fifteen minutes staring at it

and concentrating on how much you hate him and how glorious it will be when you and Charlene annihilate him.

Who’s Charlene?

I’ll show you who Charlene is! Now start hating!

Hi, Bart.

Homer, I couldn’t help overhearing you warp Bart’s mind.

And?

Well, I’m worried that you’re making too big a deal of this silly little kiddie golf tournament.

But, Marge, this is our big chance to show up the Flanderses.

Well, I’m sure it is, but why do we want to do that?

Because sometimes the only way you can feel good about yourself is by making someone else look bad.

And I’m tired of making other people feel good about themselves.

Hi, Bart. What’re you doing?

Lis, what do you call those guys in chess that don’t matter?

Well, a blockaded bishop is of little value, but I think you’re referring to a pawn.

Right. I am a pawn.

I know. It’s times like this that I’m thankful Dad has little to no interest in almost everything I do. Bart, I think I can help you.

Our journey begins here at the library.

Hi, Lisa.

Hi, Mrs. Norton.

Hi, Lisa.

Hi, Ralph.

Hi, Lisa.

Hey, gang. Okay, Bart, this is the card catalog.

Let’s see, “golf”. Anecdotes, Eisenhower and, Fashion, Humor, Japanese Obsession With. ah, here it is. Putting.

And, finally, the most important book of all, The Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu.

Lisa, we can’t afford all these books.

Bart, we’re just gonna borrow them.

Oh, heh, heh. Gotcha.

I want you to shut off the logical part of your mind.

Okay.

Embrace nothingness.

You got it.

Become like an uncarved stone.

Done.

Bart! You’re just pretending to know what I’m talking about.

True.

Well, it’s very frustrating.

I’ll bet.

Bart, I have a riddle for you: What’s the sound of one hand clapping?

Piece of cake.

No, Bart. It’s a three-thousand-year-old riddle with no answer. It’s supposed to clear your mind of conscious thought.

No answer? Lisa, listen up.

Let’s try another one: If a tree falls in the woods and no one’s around, does it make a sound?

Absolutely. Eeeeeeeer!

But Bart, how can a sound exist if there’s no one there to hear it?

Woooooooo!

It is time.

The basis of this game seems to be simple geometry. All you have to do is hit the ball here.

I can’t believe it. You’ve actually found a practical use for geometry.

Bart! What’re you doing? Get down from there before the neighbors see –

Hey, Simpson.

Flanders, I don’t care what this looks like, Bart’s gonna mop the floor with your son’s ugly butt.

Well, sir, may the best man win.

Ah, “may the best man win”. The mating call of the loser.

Now, just a minute, Simpson. I think my son has a very good chance.

Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?

Yeah, well, I’m not a betting man.

Oh, I’m a chicken, am I?

That’s right!

All right, how’s this for a wager? A batch of your wife’s delicious blueberry muffins against one of my wife’s homemade wind chimes!

What, are you afraid to make a real bet?

No, I just

You know, Simpson, you’re starting to annoy me.

How about this Henny Penny? If Bart wins tomorrow, you have to mow my lawn.

All right, and if Todd wins, you have to mow my lawn! And do a decent job of it, for a change!

Better yet, you have to mow my lawn in your wife’s Sunday dress.

You have yourself a bet, you jackaninny!

Read that back to me, Marge.

“The father of the loser mows the lawn “

Eh, eh, just a minute. “Loser” is such a harsh word. Couldn’t we just say “the boy who doesn’t win”?

Oh man. Fine.

“The father of the boy who doesn’t win has to mow the lawn in his wife’s Sunday dress”.

There you go.

Now I suppose you both have to sign this. I hope blood won’t be necessary.

I’m game if you are, Flanders.

Good gravy, what have I done?

Keep your left arm straight, Bart. rotate your shoulders.

Dad!

Look, son, all I’m asking is that you try.

Okay, I’ll try.

Anybody can try! I want you to win!

Homer?!

Marge, give me your honest opinion. This? Or this?

Good morning, son! Oh, by the way, today’s the day of the big tournament, and you’d better win!

Dad!

See you downstairs, boy.

Heh heh. that crazy Marmaduke.

Eighth hole.

Aim for the Octopus’ third tentacle.

Twelfth hole.

Bank it off the pink tombstone.

Nirvana.

A state of bliss attained through the extinction of the self.

Here you go, Bart. A lumberjack’s breakfast for my little golfer.

Mom, Bart is on a strict diet of complex carbohydrates. Steak will make him logy.

Ohhh, well, what won’t make him logy?

Oatmeal.

Oatmeal?

Oats are what a champion thoroughbred eats before he or she wins the Kentucky Derby.

News flash, Lisa! Bart is not a horse. Eat your steak, boy.

Good afternoon, everybody, and welcome to the finale of what has already been a stirring afternoon of miniature golf.

The cream has risen, the wheat has bid farewell to the chaff, and now we approach the championship match with but two warriors remaining: The heretofore unknown Bart Simpson, and Todd Flanders, one of the most skilled ten-year-olds to ever take back the blade.

Bart, having never received any words of encouragement myself, I’m not sure how they’re supposed to sound. But here goes. I believe in you.

Thanks, man!

Hey, Flanders, it’s no use praying. I already did the same thing, and we can’t both win.

Actually, Simpson, we were praying that no one gets hurt.

Oh. Well, Flan-ders, it doesn’t matter. This time tomorrow, you’ll be wearing high heels.

No, you will.

‘Fraid not.

‘Fraid so.

‘Fraid not.

‘Fraid so.

‘Fraid not infinity.

‘Fraid so infinity plus one.

Young Flanders has the honor and will tee off first.

It’s got a chance. Yes, sir!

Oh, man.

Tree falling in the woods. Tree falling in the woods. Tree falling in.

And the battle is well and truly joined!

Woo-hoo-hoo!

Mercy is for the weak, Todd.

If one were to look up “courage” in the Oxford English Dictionary, one might very well come upon a photo of these two gladiators.

They approach the final hole in the shadow of the great emancipator, deadlocked at eight strokes on the happy side of par.

Soon, one man will emerge triumphant; He will drink naught but champagne, while his opponent tastes bitter defeat in this oft cruel game.

It’s okay, son. You can recover.

Come on, Bart. Remember what Vince Lombardi said: “If you lose, you’re out of the family”.

Homer!

Ow.

Neither man showing his best form. This sort of pressure can unhinge even the steeliest of competitors.

This is pretty tense, isn’t it, Todd?

Yeah, my knees are shaking, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. but I guess this builds character.

Who wants to build character. Let’s quit.

Okay.

We decided we’re equally good.

We want to call it a draw, man.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a draw!

You will forgive an old Brit for crying, but this is the most stirring display of gallantry and sportsmanship since Mountbatten gave India back to the Punjabs.

Put her there, man!

Yeah, all right!

Well, Homer, our kids showed us something today, huh? By working together, we can both be winners. Thank heaven neither of us has to go through with that silly wager. Put ‘er there, pal.

Ohhh, so you’re gonna welch on our bet?!

What are you talking about? Neither boy lost.

I got it right here in writing.

“The father of the boy who doesn’t win has to mow the lawn in his wife’s Sunday dress”.

But. neither, I mean we’re both. I mean, you have to do it too.

It’s a small price to pay to see you humiliate yourself.

Oh, my best dress.

Why do I get the feeling that someday I’ll be describing this to a psychiatrist?

Listen to ‘em laughing. This is so humiliating. I’m never gonna live this down. Damn Flanders.

Y’know, Simpson, I feel kinda silly, but what the hay. you know, it kinda reminds me of my good ole’ fraternity days.

Oh my God! He’s enjoying it!