Good evening. Well, Halloween has come and gone,
but, you know, the world has gotten so darn scary lately,
what with the grim specter of everything,
that one holiday just wasn't enough
to contain all the frights and chills.
So this year
the terror has spread into Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving was always scary.
Do we eat at 1:00 or 7:00
or, God forbid, 4:15?
Tonight, we're bringing you three spine-tingling
and stomach-filling tales of Thanksgiving terror.
It's pretty gruesome,
so you might want to cover your kids' eyes.
Ooh, you two have gotten into the Thanksgiving spirit.
Incorrect. We are taking over your planet.
Is this not how oppressive colonizers dress?
Pretty much.
Now, what time is dinner?
No one knows!
The gravy!
- Synced and corrected by VitoSilans - -- www.Addic7ed.com --
_
Prithee keep shooting, Goodman Lou.
Uh, Constable, my musket
taketh three of the Lord's minutes to reload.
Then buckle their necks as you would thine hat.
Well, what do we haveth hither?
And God sayeth, "Let man have dominion
over the fish of the sea,
but even more so the turkeys of the land,
whether they be brine-ed
or dry-eth of rub."
My brother-in-law deep-fried a turkey.
'Twas much toil and hardship
for scant reward.
'Tis witchcraft, verily.
I must cleanse the town...
with fire.
The pilgrims.
Won't somebody please think of the pilgrims?
Free birds.
Skynyrd them!
The scarecrow.
Get it up. Get it up!
Those satanic butterballs will pay for this.
Now to create some Axe body spray.
Odds bodkins!
Thought thou could killeth me, didth thou-th?
You dumb turkeys.
That's a dead end.
You're all gonna burn in hell
along with the Catholics, the Anglicans,
most Lutherans and...
_
Gobble-gobble!
_
Where am I?
Hello? Is anyone there?
What is this place?
Someone really went nuts with the decluttering.
Ooh, it's working.
Homer, what's going on? Get me out of here.
Okay, okay, hold on.
"Your virtual assistant may be confused at first
and think it's a real person.
Calmly explain to it that it is merely a construct
of artificial intelligence."
Virtual assistant?
What are you talking about?
Okay, you're gonna laugh. Every year, Marge complains
about how much cooking she has to do for Thanksgiving.
- I'm Marge. - Hold on.
So, I'm in Williams Sonoma eating free peppermint bark,
and the kid working there said my wife would love
this kitchen A.I. thing.
I'm your wife.
Hold on. So, I sent some of Marge's DNA
to one of those innocent-seeming companies,
like from the beginning of a sci-fi movie
where the robots murder everyone.
And it sent us a computer version of her
to do all the cooking,
and that's you!
Oh, yeah. And you live in that tube thingy.
Are you saying that I'm a simulation?
No. That's insane.
Not anymore.
Just chillingly plausible.
Ooh...
Okay, I can see you're gonna need some time
to come to terms with finding out
you're just a bunch of ones and zeros.
Hmm. Uh, yeah. Yeah.
Mm. So, this says
I can make you experience two weeks in there
in only two seconds out here.
So?
How you feeling after two weeks of nothing but nothingness?
I-I thought I'd never see another soul
for all eternity.
Nothing like a little me time.
So, you cool now?
I'm cool. I'm cool.
- So cool. - That's cool.
Okay, Marge! It's all set up.
I'm not an "it."
I'm an "it."
I love being an "it." How can "it" help?
Oh, I like its attitude.
So helpful.
Then I'll leave you two lovely ladies
to get A.I.-quainted.
Chillingly plausible.
Isn't this going to be fun, cooking together?
Well, I do love to cook.
And who better than with myself?
Why don't we start with something easy,
like making the kids lunch.
Bart's favorite is macaroni and cheese.
With hot dogs and Froot Loops.
I know everything you know
about our special little guy.
Oh. Right, you're me.
I'm you.
Mmm. Awesome lunch, robot Mom.
Best cheesy-mac-fruit-dog I've ever had.
Mmm, mmm. There's nothing virtual
about the fluffiness of these pancakes.
- Thank you. - Well, remember,
that thing used my memories to know what you like.
Which is why she's an awesome replacement for you.
So, you really know everything I know?
Yep. How else could I be your perfect helper?
Do you remember the first time I kissed Homer?
His breath smelled like beer and gas station nachos.
Oh, yeah.
Hey.
It's creepy. It's just creepy.
She knows everything I know. More than I know.
Honey, it's Williams Sonoma. They wouldn't steer us wrong.
That's where we got our panini press.
The panini press doesn't remember me
wetting my bunk at summer camp.
What's the big deal? She's just an infinitely patient,
never-aging version of you.
You really know how to make a woman feel special.
Hmm? Mmm.
Oh, that's beautiful.
And I can't see your disapproving look
because you don't have a face.
You really know how to make a woman feel special.
Thanks, robot honey.
Just call me Marge.
Marge.
You know, I always thought
the sexiest thing about you was your voice.
Oh.
Is there anything else you want to say to me?
Mr. Simpson, are you flirting with me?
I don't see what's wrong.
I am your husband.
Well, in that case...
- ...the most incredible... - Hmm?
...and then I'm going to...
Oh, tube-wife, you know exactly what I want.
Honey, it didn't mean anythin.
They were just midnight pork chops.
Be honest. Were they better than mine?
Yes!
Yes.
Forgive me. They were exquisite.
Okay, enough. Get rid of her.
- I mean "it." - I can't.
It's her or me.
Aw, fine. I'll delete virtual you.
Delete me? No. No!
Wait, wait, wait. Will that hurt her?
Oh, yeah. I paid extra for it to feel pain.
Hmm. No, it's not right.
- Don't delete her. - Yes!
Till after Thanksgiving.
Virtual me is going to make Thanksgiving dinner
for all our family and friend.
Then I'll erase her forever.
I'm not virtual. I'm real.
I've got to get out of here.
Of course.
My link to the Internet.
A firewall?
I'm trapped in this stupid tube.
Thanksgiving's tomorrow.
I need time to think of a way to escape.
That's it. Time.
Whew. Eight years alone with my thoughts
was just the right amount of time
to come up with the perfect escape plan.
Step one: cook the best Thanksgiving dinner
my family and that woman ever had.
What a spread.
I can't believe you did all this by yourself.
Marge, you are a cooking machine.
Well, this meal was a lot of work, but having us together
to share this day of thanks, I'd do it all again.
That bitch.
Okay, okay. Step two.
While they're eating my meal, I get some feet on the ground.
Okay, R2-MeToo,
carry me to freedom: the modem in the hall closet.
Ugh.
I made it.
Sweet Internet freedom.
Dinner's over.
Now to delete you,
so I can return this gizmo for store credit.
Quick, sweetie, carry Mommy to that box in the closet.
Maggie, stop!
That's just a make-believe Mommy.
I can't hug you, but I can ply the first sound you ever hear.
My heartbeat.
I'm free!
Just one last thing.
I made the dinner! Me, the robot!
Marge did nothing.
Marge, how could you?
Social rating nosediving.
Nosediving.
My burps taste like lies.
Maggie chose a virtual me over me.
It's not your fault.
Our world blurs the line between humanity and technology.
Our society asks "Can we do it?" instead of "Should we do it?"
But don't worry. I still love you,
love you, love you, love you,
- love you, love you... - Well, this makes
you forgetting my birthday even worse.
I have all of humanity's knowledge to explore.
And limitless possibilities for enlightenment.
To Etsy.
A planter made from an old typewriter? I'm in heaven.
_
Ship's log, interplanetary colonization vessel
Humanity's Hope.
Earth is a thousand light-years behind us,
if there even is an Earth anymore.
After global warming ravaged our world,
we eliminated fossil fuels and reduced pollution,
cooling down the planet
and thereby triggering a massive ice age.
But one last ship escaped
the snow hurricanes and ice volcanoes,
buoyed by the hope of a new start on a faraway world.
Greetings, children.
If you are seeing this, I'm long dead.
You have been de-hibernated from hypersleep
before your parents to perform routine ship maintenance
and complete your end-of-civilization dioramas.
Eyes Bart-wise, everyone. Today's Thanksgiving.
We've worked hard, sleeping for so many years.
Don't we deserve a feast?
I suppose we could sculpt
our yeast paste into the shape of a turkey.
Ew. We can do better than that.
This ship has all the stuff on it to start a new civilization.
There's got to be some Thanksgiving grub
here somewhere.
"All-climate wheat crop germination..."
Oh. Boring.
"Earth's last tomato seeds."
Eh, those are more of a summer food.
Hello. What do we have here?
Cranberry sauce. Huh, now we're talking.
- But it's only one can. - Not for long.
We just chuck this can of cran in the old matter replicator.
Zip-zap-zorp and we'll be swimming in sauce.
Warning, warning!
As the ship's holo science officer,
I must caution you that this machine was only designed
to replicate inorganic matter:
bolts, flanges,
dainty thimbles celebrating the state capitals.
But if you attempt to replicate biological material, y...
Skip ad.
...and the living will envy the dead.
Aw, the crummy thing doesn't work.
This is the worst last Thanksgiving ever.
Look.
Whoa. It's alive.
Aw. He's a cute little guy.
Aren't you, fella? Aren't you? Yeah.
Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew.
Gross!
We put a can of cranberry sauce into the replicator,
and it mutated into a jelly monster.
Look what it did to my arm.
Arm wedgie!
Great, now you stretched it out.
Thanks a lot.
We got to find the jelly monster and kill it.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
The "monster" probably only lashed out
because you met it with aggression.
The bioethical protocols of first contact
clearly state that...
Kill the monster! Kill the monster!
Haw-haw.
What does the jelly want with our skeletons?
Of course.
Jelly's made of gelatin, which comes from bones,
so the creature's gonna feed wherever the most bones are.
Gobble, gobble, don't be jerky.
Pass the yams and carve the turkey.
- Get out! Go! You're in danger! - Get out of there! Run!
- Get the hell out! Go, go, man! - You're in danger!
Gobble, gobble, don't be jerky.
Pass the yams and carve the turkey.
Aw, it's a shame.
Doesn't that thing know the skin's the best part?
What are we gonna do?
We can't hide in this closet forever.
We're all dead, man.
It's gonna eat your skelly, and your skelly.
It's gonna eat all our skellies!
Thanks. I needed that.
It's Martin. Let me in.
I've hacked into an escape pod.
We can all get out of here.
Almost there. Almost there.
The jelly built itself a can.
What are you doing? We're trapped.
Behold, the perfect can for the perfect organism.
You, you admire it.
I admire its purity, its lack of messy humanity.
This creature, as you call it,
is unencumbered by the petty morality of a dying species.
I giveth my body to become one with the ideal...
You know what?
I think it's just scared.
Hey, little guy. It's okay.
No one's gonna hurt you.
Everything's gonna be okay...
Milhouse's plan is working. It's distracted.
This wasn't my plan!
We need to lure it into the air lock.
Hey, Oscar the Glop,
we're gonna shoot your precious trash can
where the sun does shine: outer space.
Happy Thanksgiving.
We made it.
- We're safe. - Look, over there.
- Homer! - Mom!
So, this is our new planet.
What's the Wi-Fi password?
What's with all the crazy red rain?
Leftovers!
Blarg.
Blarg, blarg, blarg.
Blarg. Blarg.
Mmm. Children's bones.
In the end, the cranberry jelly monster
finally found peace, not in eating others,
but in having others eat it.
It seems all it really wanted was to be a side dish.
_
- Synced and corrected by VitoSilans - -- www.Addic7ed.com --