Transcript:Forty Percent Leadbelly

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Planet Express Discount Prisoner Transfer at your service. Take a good look, Dr. Brutaloff. This prison is where you'll be spending your 300-year sentence. Yeah, until you're defrosted and wake up refreshed, unaware of any time having passed. He he heard you! Oh, please. It's probably just the carbonite thawing slightly. Take him down to processing while I stay here and get hooted at. Ooh, yeah, baby! Oh, stop. Fry, look! That's Silicon Red, the universe's greatest folk singer! There's your wallet, your guitar, and your gun. You're free to go. Ah, still cocked. So, he's a folk singer. So what? So what? Have you forgotten my lifelong dream of being a folk singer because I sure have until right now. Silicon Red! Silicon Red! Hey, I have a lifelong dream too. Of not being left alone with a frozen supervillain. Don't try anything, Dr. Brutaloff! I know karate. Aye-hyah! Then I shot him and stabbed him and stole all his gold ♪ And I tried on his face while his body turned cold ♪ Lovely. Just lovely. New topic. Can I have your autograph, and also you tell me everything you know about folk singing, and I'll take your guitar too? Old Salmonella? Son, I ought to kill you for asking. We met doing hard time on a Mississippi chain gang. And she'd been with me through 30-odd convictions. 30? You must be quite a bungling lowlife. Anyhow, about the guitar. Aw, come on! I can't be a famous folk singer without a cool guitar. Can I at least get a photo? And before you answer that Now I'll just have someone duplicate your guitar. Thanks, sucker. You're the sucker, sucker. See with all Salmonella and me been through, her sound is unique. All your fancy technology will never be able to copy this guitar. Using my fancy technology, I can make an exact copy of this guitar. Tell me, Dr. Beeler. - Will I need to threaten you? - Not at all. You see, nowadays we can take a unique and beautiful object, and easily reduce it to a formula for mass production. I call the process "science. " I'll just need to locate that guitar image on your file system. Whoa, that's a lot of porn. Where'd you store the guitar picture? I don't know. I mainly hang out in here. Ah-ha, your folk singing folder. I'll just double-kick on that. Got it. Now I'll convert that guitar image to a wire-frame model. There, like so. And send it wirelessly to my 3D printer. By laying down layer after layer of nano-plastic, it can turn your wildest dreams into ordinary reality. Witchcraft! Sorcerer! Neat. So, how long will it take? Four or five hours. Shall we adjourn to the porn folder? I call my new guitar Bender Mae because Bender may be the greatest folk singer of all time! It looks pretty authentic. You bet it's authentic. See this scratch? I tell people she got it while I was doing hard time with a New Hampshire chain gang. I have a scratch too. From where Dr. Brutaloff slashed me with his finger knives, right after he thawed out of his carbonite, and right before he froze me in his carbonite because you deserted me. Eh, you're always getting frozen in stuff. It's your thing, man. Bender, you're not a folk singer just 'cause you have a guitar. And a flannel shirt. I claim I won it in a knife fight at J. Crew. It must be interesting to win a knife fight. I wouldn't know. The point is do you even know any actual folk songs? Actual folk songs are all public domain. Where's the money in that? I'll just make up my own. But, robot, you can't just make up folk songs like you can a medical diploma. They have to come from the heart. Wrong again, Zoidberg. While you were yakking, I downloaded every folk song in the universe and analyzed them. They're only a few basic patterns. For example, 36% of all folk-song heroes work on a railroad and are named "Big" something. Next slide, please. 75% of these big railroad men have bad-hearted women who done them wrong, usually with a smooth-talking rambler. There's a lot more, but in the end, somebody kills somebody, blah, blah, blah. Somebody kills somebody, blah, blah, blah ♪ Catchy. Not what I meant, but don't perform it without my permission! Anyway using this simple formula, I can generate as many hit folk songs as I want. All I need is an audience. And that's where Silicon Red comes in. Man, all this corncob pipe smoke is irritating my stab wounds. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm proud to present, fresh from another down-home authentic prison term, the universe's greatest folk singer, Silicon Red! Thank you. Silicon Red, everyone. I'm Ramblin' Rodriguez, the new greatest folk singer ever. And I'm gonna sing my new masterpiece, "The Ballad of Me, Ramblin' Rodriguez. " Well ♪ My bad-hearted woman loved a smooth-talking gambler ♪ So I ran him over with my train ♪ Lord, Lord, yes, I ♪ Ran him over with my train! ♪ That name again is Ramblin' Rodriguez. Why are they booing me, Silicon? 'Cause your song was insincere, boy. Now, get out and don't come back till you've lived a life worth singing about. Yes, sir. _ And don't go to prison. That's my shtick! I failed at my lifelong dream again. How can I be so bad at everything I try and still be so great? Bender, you have a lovely baritone, and you sure can strum that plastic guitar, but you can't write a real folk song about experiences you haven't had. Yeah, you should write a song about a heartless robot who leaves his best friend to be murdered. Look, Leela, I'd love to write about my own experiences The heartless robot is Bender. The best friend is me. How can you people be so blind? But I've never picked cotton or been on top of Old Smokey or worked on anything all the livelong day, let alone a railroad. Then go live among the railroad men, why not? You'll come to understand them, just as I now understand the ape-men of Earth. As stupid as Zoidberg's idea is it's brilliant when I have it. I'm off to the railroad to become a folk singer. Uh, I'm looking for the wrong side of the tracks. Then you've come to the right side of the tracks. Have a seat, stranger. My name's Bender Rodriguez and I want to learn the railroading business. Big Caboose. I'm a steel-driving man working the trans-universal line. Wow, you've had the exact experiences I want to steal for my song. Aw, heck, I'm nothing special. Just a down-home robot with a big old hammer. Hammer, that should be easy to rhyme. - You done time in the slammer? - Uh, nope. - Been to Alabama? - Sorry. How's your grammar? Praiseworthy. _ Bender, meet Fast Frank Brogan. Daredevil engineer dies in the crash of Old '88. Dandy Jim and Gus. Gentlemen hobos with a story to tell. I was got drunk and ate my big toe. Can't say I miss it. And good old Cookie, the crusty comically inept geological surveyor. Jiggers! I dropped my sextant in the stew. Been up north ♪ Been down south ♪ Got a real weak back ♪ I got a real big mouth ♪ So while Bender goofs off at some railroad camp, I have to deliver dynamite to a railroad camp myself. And it's the same railroad camp. I mean, the irony is palpable. Oops. Whoopsie. My bad. Dibs on the toes. So how's it going with the real-world experience? Have you found a railroad man to write a song about? Yep, my good friend Big Something here. Uh, Caboose. I'm a steel-driving man, and there ain't much more to say about me. Not till now there wasn't. Well, Big Caboose was a steel-drivin' son of a gun ♪ Till a bad-hearted woman he spied ♪ But, Bender, I never spied no bad-hearted woman. In my song you did-- a temptress named-- I don't know-- Jezebel. Wow, creativity's hard work. Ah. You know my favorite part of your song? The part where it ended. Then, settle in, 'cause that's about a half hour from now. Well, Jezebel's heart did wander ♪ When she saw that ramblin' man ♪ He was tall and dark and shiny ♪ And a native Mexican. ♪ That sleazy rambler sounds an awful lot like you, Bender. Hey, thanks for noticing. Just for that, I'm gonna slip you into the 57th verse. You can be my best friend who abandons me when I need you. Now, that's a verse we can all enjoy. Well, Rodriguez ran ♪ To his best friend ♪ Said, "Help me or I'll surely be killed" ♪ Fry laughed and he said, "You deserted me once ♪ "Now it's your turn to feel the chill, Lord, Lord ♪ Now it's your turn to feel the chill. " ♪ You've accurately portrayed the nature of my grievance. Big Caboose went lookin' for Rodriguez ♪ Straight to New New York town ♪ He cried ♪ Bender, guess what. I met a fabulous girl and we're engaged to be hitched. That's great, Caboose. Come on in and set a spell. Aw, no time. I got someplace to be. See you soon, honeybunch. Okay, dumpling. My man's gone, gone. Oh, I'm so lonely and easy. Oh. Whoo-whoo. Oh, yeah. This is definitely going in the song. He cried, "Rambler, you slept with my Jezebel. " ♪ Hey, what's your name, anyhow? Jezebel. Oh, good, I won't have to change any words. Yeah, you're right. It's getting late. I'll get your coat. Oh, hey, Big Caboose. What are you doing here on Earth? I'm here for to see Ramblin' Rodriguez. Well, he's at the railroad camp. I know, but some strange force drew me to New New York town. That rambler slept with my Jezebel ♪ Now I'm comin' for to shoot him down, Lord, Lord ♪ Comin' for to shoot him down. ♪ Guess I'll go back to the railroad camp now. That's weird, he sounded a lot like Bender's folk song. Not a lot like Bender's folk song-- exactly like et cetera, et cetera. His song is coming true somehow. Oh, my God, reality is infringing Bender's copyright. "I'm comin' for to shoot you down. " ♪ No, wait. "I'm comin' for to run you down. " ♪ With a train. Get it? It's over, Jezebel. Grab your things and get out. I didn't bring any things. That's what I like best about you, baby. Rambler, you slept with my Jezebel, and I'm comin' for to run you down, Lord, Lord. I'm comin' for ♪ To run you down. ♪ Fry, help, let me in. Bender? What are you doing? It's 3:00 a. m. I don't care if it's three P. M. Open up and hide me! I don't think so, Bender. You deserted me once, and now it's your turn to "feel the chill. " Ha! Breaker, breaker. Hola. Professor, help. The hero of my folk song tried to run me down, and Fry refused to save me. - That doesn't sound like me. - Fry? But you just-- eh, I'll figure it out later. But first I'll kill you! Bender, stop. We've been trying to warn you all night. You didn't answer your cell phone telephone, so the Professor tried his CB. Uh, scratch that, Rubber Turkey. We got a 20 on the tin man. Toodle-oo. But Fry betrayed me at our apartment! Just like in your folk song. Somehow everything you sang about is happening in real life. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Are you saying that guy at the apartment was some kind of exact copy of Fry? 'Cause that's crazy. He's a unique and beautiful object. The printer. Oh, I must have left the wireless connection to your folk song directory open. Everything you wrote in the song got routed straight to the 3-D printer. Big Caboose, duplicate Fry, even Cookie the crusty, comically inept geological surveyor-- they're all made of nano-plastic. So, if Bender had sung about, I don't know, some crazy giant land octopus attacking me, it would have actually happened? I can't even imagine singing about such a thing. Well ♪ Fry, run. Aw, relax, Beeler's stupid machine takes hours to print anything. No, it doesn't. I improved it using fancy modern technology. Bender, whatever you do, don't think about any more octopuses. Octopuses? I believe the correct plural is octopi. I'm sorry. "Octopuses" is also acceptable. Think about puppies, Bender, cute, harmless, dead puppies. Don't worry. I'll disconnect him from the printer. No, wait, I know how to save Bender from Big Caboose. All he has to do is write his way out of this mess, and the 3-D printer will make it happen. Like how? Well, I don't know. Make up another giant octopus and have it kill Big Caboose. What kind of lazy ending is that? I'm not gonna put that in my song. Hey, I have a cool idea. Create a duplicate Bender, so when Big Caboose kills it, it's not real, it's duplicate. Ooh, ooh, they did that on Star Trek, TNG. Cram it, nerd. I'm not going to just copy some feel-good TV show wrap-up. I can think of a hundred endings that'll save you. Just pick one. No, Dr. Beeler, I won't just pick one. My audience deserves better than some crappy, formulaic ending. If I must die, let me die in a blaze of artistic integrity. Well ♪ _ Then the steel-drivin' man ♪ Rammed his train through the wall ♪ And crushed him flatter than a MacBook Air, Lord, Lord ♪ Crushed him flatter than a MacBook Air. ♪ But while you were all out fighting ♪ With the giant plastic octopi ♪ I copied myself, you see ♪ - Bender! - Bender! And I cowered in the bathroom ♪ While that steel-drivin' moron ♪ Killed a duplicate instead of me ♪ - Lord, lord ♪ - Killed a duplicate ♪ Instead of me. ♪ Now, that's what I call a great ending. I made a copy of myself and Big Caboose killed him. But you said making a copy of yourself would be a lousy ending. No, duplicate me said that. See, I had to be sure he wouldn't try and weasel out of getting killed like I would and did, so I created him with a tragic weakness, artistic integrity. Of course. How could we have thought a guy with integrity was you even for a second? Because you're idiots. Come on, Silicon Red, let's sell out. I'm the real Rodriguez, will you please stand up? ♪ He been workin' on the railroad ♪ Ladies can't get enough ♪ I made a 3-D version of my worst nightmare ♪ Sucker tried to stop the printer, and I found him there ♪ Went 187 on his robot ass ♪ Turned out to be a copy of my robot ass ♪ Now we're folk-singin' players packin' Beaujolais ♪ And makin' max contributions to our 401K. ♪ Peace out.