You're the Worst (2014–…): Season 2, Episode 2 - Crevasses - full transcript

The gang visit the mall so Gretchen can buy grown-up items while Edgar gets used.

Okay, what nationality
was "Chop-in"?

(quietly): - Chopin.
- What the hell is that?

Piano guy.

Just guess a country.



Delaware's a state.

State, country.




What's "pol-ish"?


It's where Poles are from.

You'd love it there, Lindsers.


Sport and leisure.

What's the first letter
on the typewriter?


- Wrong. Q.
- Q?

Q? Q?

Why Q?

It just says "Q."

Why would Q be first?

Barely any words use Q's.

Q's are like
the elbows of letters.

What does that mean?

You're so funny.

It should totally be A.


I should get a pie.

I want a pie!



You thought we meant real pie,
didn't you?

Want a pie?
I can make you a pie.

Oh, Edgar.

You don't have to make me
a coconut cream pie.

Then you'd have to go
to the store for me

and also buy me ice cream
and tampons why you're there.

I am learning so much
from this game.

That the National
Air and Space Museum

isn't named after some guy
named Aaron Space?


That Edgar will
do things for me.

Ever since I owned the mic

at Becca's stupid
surprise baby party,

he's been riding my jock hard.

You did what now?

I sang Kate Bush.

It was crazy.

Just preheating the oven.

- You're sweet!
- My turn.

Oh, my God!
Are you not done?

Science and nature.

Who was the first man
in space?



Let me see.

I know Louis Armstrong.

Buzz Lightyear?

The name Kurt Loder
is coming to mind.

That does sound familiar.

Yuri Gagarin!

It's Yuri Gagarin.

Louis Armstrong
was a jazz trumpeter.

Buzz Lightyear is a cartoon.

And Kurt Loder was a VJ for MTV,

about whom the only
connection to space travel

was that the network's logo
was a man in a space suit.


I don't know, Jimmy.

That doesn't sound right.

Charles Dickens wrote
what 1837 novel

about the plight
of street urchins?


- Wow.
- Yes!

Pie for you.

(door closes)

♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway ♪

♪ I'm gonna
leave you anyway ♪

♪ Gonna leave you anyway ♪

Sync and corrections by n17t01

Salinger, Bronte,

Ralph Ellison, Sylvia Plath.

The expectation of a second
novel can paralyze some.

But what is there
to be afraid of?

I received an only positive

adjacent review in The Times.

If you look past
Michiko Kakutani's

thinly veiled ethnocentrism

and scorching ephebiphobia.

But am I afraid?


Writing is fear.

To say that I allowed
fear to cripple me

would be to say that I am not,
in fact, a writer,

which would be akin to saying,
"Lo, condemn me thus

back to the earth,
for I am no more."

Wait, so do you
or do you not

have something
for me to read?

You're my agent, right?

It's your job to find me work

while things percolate
on the follow-up.

Jimmy, I can't get you
any more magazine work

after Megan Thomas sued you

for writing about
having sex with her.

Chuck Klosterman sent me
a bottle of scotch for that one.

I do get calls for people
needing translation work,

research assistant,
novelization of movies...

there's a popcorn catalog
that needs a copywriter.

Forget it!

Just hearing
those horrific choices

has fueled my fire.

I can tell that the big idea
is right around the corner.

In fact, I wouldn't be surprised

if I start flying through
those pages any day now.

Nope, would not be
surprised at all.

He'll have another.

I'll get the tab.

But this is really stretching

the definition
of the word "meeting," Jimmy.




Where's the Bloody Mary bar?

What the hell? Edgar!

- Edgar!
- It is Sunday, right?

- Edgar!
- Edgar!

Oh, my God.

I don't think he's home.

It's all right.

We're adults.

We can do this ourselves.


Well, I know it involves
vodka and tomato juice.

Well, we have a tomato.

I'm sure that's fine.


We have carrots.

Same thing, basically.



Don't you think it's time
you got your own stuff?

I mean, you're wearing
my clothes,

using my toothbrush...


Listen, I'm perfectly fine
having you as a girlfriend.


But not as a dependent.

I'll get stuff.

But where in
your mind's eye

do you see me
putting said stuff

once I get it?

You know,
where you keep things.

You mean, the three trash bags
on the floor in the corner?

Uh-huh, Gretchen's corner.

Fine. Look.

If there's space
that I'm not using

that can't be,
you know, seen,

- it's yours.
- See?

There's no room for me
in my own house!

Sorry, your house?

Fine-- our house.


When I was a kid,
I'd say come over

and watch Skin-amax
and drink Zima

in "my house"
or "our house,"

not "the house my
parents bought."

Well, they should've
corrected you on that.

(clears his throat)


(laughter nearby)

Hey, guys!

- You have one job on Sundays; one!
- What were you thinking not being here?

My fault-- I made him take me
to get football costumes.

EDGAR: Yeah, everything's
in the Bloody Mary drawer.

I'll show you.

It's super easy...

What's going on?

You've never watched
a sport in your life.

Gretch, I need to get over Paul.

And apparently, on Sundays,

they have these sports bars

full of horny macho dumb-dumbs

whose girlfriends
are all at home.

Plus wings.

You do love wings.

I need a bo-hunk.

Paul was such a gump.

Get this-- he told me
the definition of love

is putting someone else's needs
above yours.

- Ew.
- I know.

Edgar's being so nice.

He knows I'm hurting
so he keeps doing stuff for me.

Just be careful with him, okay?

Edgar, let's hit the wing place
before the game starts.


We'll ride with you.

There's a Towels &
Stuff in that mall

where Gretchen can
buy a toothbrush

and other things
adults own.

You're gonna help me shop?

Hell, no.

I'm going for
literary inspiration.

I'm not finding it here,
so maybe I'll find it

amongst the diabetic masses
of the American shopper.

I'm like Thoreau,

only the mall
shall be my Walden.


(all laughing)

I would've found that



This way!


Hang out with me first.

What do you want to do?

♪ Hey, I do what I want,
I do, I do what I want ♪

♪ I do what I want, I do, I do
what I want ♪

♪ Hey ♪

♪ You ain't my daddy ♪

♪ Hoppin' in the Caddy ♪

♪ Pullin' into Cali, ow... ♪

♪ I do what I want, I do, I do
what I want ♪
♪ Get off my phone ♪

♪ I do what I want, I do, I do
what I want ♪
♪ Hear a dial tone ♪

♪ If you ain't hear it
on the first hang up ♪

♪ I do what I want, I do, I do
what I want ♪

♪ I do what I want ♪
♪ Hey ♪

♪ VIP line ♪

♪ You got out the line ♪

♪ Boys got a wrist band,
trying to be my boyfriend ♪

♪ I do what I want ♪

♪ Break them like a piggy bank ♪

♪ I do what I want ♪

♪ Rollin' on E
like a gas tank ♪

That's your boyfriend.

(Gretchen chuckles)

That's your girlfriend.


That's your boyfriend.


- Yes, he is.
- Mm-hmm.

I love my boyfriend.

Do you really?

♪ I do what I want, oh ♪

♪ I'm in the end zone ♪

♪ Try and tackle me
I'm so gone ♪

♪ Pull up to the bank
in the armored truck ♪

♪ They call me lady luck... ♪

This is shit!
Derivative trifle!

The composition is wretched.

Tonal harmony nonexistent.

Don't even get me started
on the perspective.

Blue ribbon?

This contest is a sham.


♪ I do what I want, oh ♪

Oh, what next? What next?

Go buy your crap.
I have to work now.

- (whimpering)
- No whining, woman!

Let the observation...


And they have four chances
to get said ten yards.

Now, before I get into some of
your various offensive packages,

I'm reminded of when
my older brother Salazar

took me to see a Raider game.

We were so far away, but to me,
it was like being on the field.

And then he sold crank to a
Chargers fan in the men's room

and we used the money
to go to Applebee's.

You know what I think?

I think...

that's my guy.

At the bar.

Over there,
with the shoulders.

All right, go to it.

Go to what?

Go wing man for me.

Oh, okay.

How many wings should this man

- go get you?
- No.

Go talk to that cute guy for me.

Oh, but now
that you mention it,

I could use
some more wings, too.

Okay, here I go.




Can I help you
find something?


Do you have any puppies?

Oh, wait...

this isn't a dog store.

(laughs, then cries)

JIMMY: Daisy and Mort met
in Buenos Aires

in 1968.

Daisy worked at a hat factory.

Mort lived as an Ashkenazi Jew,
but really

he was a Nazi war criminal.

No, that's dumb.

Who cares?

Megan was just like
any other 15-year-old girl.

She loved social media,

hated her parents,

and lived and died by the
fluctuating attention from boys.

But what most people didn't know

was that Megan was actually...

a Nazi war criminal.

Aah! What's wrong with me?

Excuse me?

- Yeah?
- Uh, your job must be

tedious and bleak.

Tell me about it.

Ah, sure. Well, so far
it's a sweet-ass gig.

I get walk around
macking on hoes all day.

And nobody in the food court
busses their trays,

so I eat like a king.

And if I don't want to
chase a shoplifter, I don't.

I go smoke a bowl
out on the delivery bay

and wait for him
to bail with the merch.

Plus, I get to work for
my best friend Eric,

who's a sweetheart.

Ah, he's got sickle cell,

but he's real positive about it.

So, yeah, I guess, all in all,

this job really
fits my lifestyle.

Why do you ask?

Oh, um...

I'm a writer.

I was looking for a subject.

So, let me ask you something.

If you were offered the job,
would you write,

say, a novelization
of a movie?

Are you serious?

Bec-because I would love that!

Oh, my God.
Wait right here.

I'm gonna be right back!

Come on, come on.

- Oh, my God.
- (rapid buzzing nearby)

What is that?
That is delightful!


Hey, uh...
wha-what's your name?

Thanks, but I'm just
not interested.

Wh... what? No.

I'm not gay, no.

My friend, over there,

with the sauce on her face,
she wanted me

to come, uh, talk to,
talk to you for her.

Well, tell her thanks,

but I'm actually gay.




Wait, you said you weren't
interested in me.


But you're gay.


I don't understand.

I can't do it.

- I can't buy stuff.
- Why?

It's like, my old stuff was
just stuff I accrued over time.

Crap I stole during
my shoplifting days.

Shit I inherited
from that old lady

who thought
I was her granddaughter.

And now I have to
completely furnish,

from scratch,
the life of an adult woman

and I have no clue
how to do that.

Anyway, Jimmy doesn't even

want to make space for me
in his house.

That's why
you need stuff, Gretch.

To stake your claim.

Get your shit up
in those crevasses.

Besides, stuff is the best.

You can never get
lonely with stuff.

And there are so many
examples of stuff--

ice cube trays
shaped like high heels.


Smaller towels for your butt.

Chairs, which I guess
are also for your butt.

Okay, got it.

Wait, so you...

like her, but you're
trolling for dudes for her?

What a bitch.

She is so using you.

Instead of talking
to dudes for her,

you should be lining up
some sweet ass for yourself.

Or if you prefer it--
"hot puss."

You're right.

You see that cocktail waitress

with the brown hair?


She's our friend of ours.

and she needs to stop dating

married baseball players.

I'll introduce you.

Okay, thanks.

And then once
you get her number...

- Mm-hmm.
- ...bring your friend a wet wipe.

You've been standing
here for 20 minutes.

Can I help you find something?

No, I'm fine.

I'm waiting for someone.

My son... actually.


Cart paralysis.

It's very common.

What do you need to get?


I just moved in
with my boyfriend

and I don't have any stuff

except for a food processor

and, like, 19 thongs,
because even though

at first we were like,
"I am not wearing that,"

the patriarchy somehow convinced
us that visible panty lines

were unacceptable, so now
I've just grown accustomed

to the feeling
of a fabric rope

against my actual asshole
all day.

And anyway,
even if I did buy

the stuff of a life,
there's nowhere for me to put it

because I'm not sure this dude
really wanted me to move in

because I'm
an irresponsible monster

who burned down her apartment
with her vibrator!

I'm just gonna leave you

with this checklist
for college freshmen.

"Hair dryer.

Hair dryer..."

"Shower shoes."

More wings.

- Uh...
- I said

I'll tell you
when I've had enough.

I really like your shirt--
it shows off your shoulder.

Did you find
everything you need?

Why, yes, I did.
Thank you.

And, like, 20 things
I didn't know existed.

Little dryer balls that beat
the shit out of your clothes?

A banana holder?

Get off the counter,
banana, you fancy now.

And I'm gonna
make my own soda.

Can I make champagne?

Don't know.
Gonna try.

- Fantastic.
- Yeah.

Starting a whole new life.

It's scary but...
I'm doing it.

This is a lot of stuff.

Did you need help with
any storage solutions today?

Please don't.

I'm so sorry.

Where's your stuff?

Why do I have to go
buy everything?

Uh, because you have nothing.

I know!

But why do I have
to be the one

making all the adjustments?

How has your life changed

since I moved in,
other than you get

all of this next to you
every night?

Not one bit.

Any change for you
is purely theoretical.

"Oh, I live with someone now."

Big stinking deal.
I have nothing.

I told you, we would find
room for your things.

I don't want to live
around you, Jimmy.

I don't want
to live in the crevasses.

I'm not moss!

- Uh...
- See you later.

There you are.

So... what movie
are we adapting?


Oh, no, it was a hypothetical.

And for me, not for you.

But I just quit my job.

Damn it!
This keeps happening to me.

Oh, my God!

I told Eric to suck my dick!

Why would I do that?

I love that guy.

I-I, I got your text.

What's the crisis?

And h-h-how do you still have
buffalo sauce on your face?

I went to the mall today
looking to take my mind off

how lonely I am and maybe
hook up with a nice guy.

Turns out, I was looking
in the wrong place.

The answer was right in
front of me the whole time.

My phone!

I don't need to be looking
in the real world.

I need to be looking online.

So, what am I doing here?

I need sexy photos

for my profile.

I can help.

So, are you going to, uh,

call that cute waitress
you were talking to?

Nah. We have nothing in common.


How did you get wing sauce down there?

Russell, it's Jimmy.

Um, those jobs you mentioned--

you can find me something.

Probably not the popcorn thing.

Also, this counts as a meeting,
so you owe me a drink.

(phone beeps)

(door opens, footsteps approach)

Hey. Um... listen.

I understand that my actions

could lead you to feel a bit unwelcome,

and I'll work on not being
such a control freak.

I mean, this is your house, too.

So, I made you...

a nightstand.

It's called a KlĂźf.

Cool, thanks.

What, what is that? What are you doing?

Why-why are you doing that?

Well, you just said it's my house, too,

so I'm just putting some art on our walls.


But you see, ev-everything here

is meticulously curated so...

I don't know, Jimmy.

I really like this poster.

Look at that cat.

He's so cool.

All right.

If you really want me to
feel comfortable here

maybe there's another way.

What about the-the KlĂźf?

You can use it. I'll just take yours.

Thank you for making room for me.

You're welcome.

I like our place.

Me, too.

Guess what Paul's definition of love is.


Putting someone else's needs above yours.

- Ew!
- I know.

He's such a gump.

Come on, let's tackle the closet.

Sync and corrections by n17t01