The Simpsons

Whee!

Uh-oh. Aah!

D'oh!

So, eggs, which were bad, then good,

then bad again, are now good again.

And... Wait a minute.

Now they're bad again.

I can't believe you still watch the local news, Dad.

Local news is great, sweetie.

It's just like your precious Internet,

except you don't post angry comments,

you yell them at the screen.

You call those lottery numbers?!

You call that a weather report?

In other news...

You call that a segue?

A heartbreaking story today

at one of Springfield's oldest establishments.

Stupid local news.

Always making everything sound like the end of the world.

Springfield's Bowl-A-Rama

is closing forever.

No!

Why does every place

nobody goes to anymore close?

Farewell, workout of the working man.

The thunder of the pins,

the sweet smell of shoe disinfectant,

the beauty of a perfectly-dragged toe.

That alley was magical.

It's where I was initiated

into one of the greatest wonders of my life.

Hey, little squirt.

You want to try these new things called nachos?

Oh, big deal.

It's just a stack of tortilla chips.

Is it?

I've licked the face of God.

Whee!

Mmm.

Yummy.

Wait, wait, wait. Was that your daydream

- or little Homer's? - It doesn't matter.

We can't let that alley go out of business.

We'll go there, park our butts on the manager's face,

and never, ever leave.

- Yeah! - Yeah!

Their beer is the best.

Wait, wait, wait, wait. If you do that,

then I'll go out of business.

- Eh. - Yeah. - Mm.

This place is depressing.

Eh, what the hell.

Wait for me!

Hey, look, don't blame me.

The lanes are so warped, people just don't want to bowl anymore.

- So, I'm selling out. - Relax, people.

I bought the alley because I love the retro vibe.

Did you know John Waters wears bowling shirts?

Yes.

I'm gonna turn this amazing space

into The Bowl-A-Rama at Springfield Yards.

You'll be able to live, work, doom-scroll, cat-cafe...

- And bowl? - No. No bowling. Ugh.

Hey, pal, if you don't like bowling, you don't like me.

- I don't like you. - Mm. Fair enough.

Terrence, give us one week

to make this alley a going concern.

You'll have more bowlers than a hat shop.

We'll prove you wrong.

Ugh. Can't you just prove me wrong now?

I hate waiting for anything.

One week.

Well, I hate waiting, but I love being proved wrong.

You're on.

We're here for the, uh...

"Night of Everlasting Bowl-mates?"

Uh, maybe we'll just skip the bowling.

Like hell you will.

I'm here for my birthday party,

which you said would be at the Laser Tag and Crocodile Ranch.

How old is this place?

The soda machine doesn't even take phones.

I'll have you know this place is endorsed by a group

that's popular with today's kids: ZZ Top.

How many of these lame-o beard-os are still alive?

All of them. I think.

Oh, boy.

Oh, attendance is barely up.

And the fire department won't even let me

lock people in.

- Let us out, please. - Never!

Oh. Right.

Come on, Marge, help me out.

Let's bowl the night away.

I don't bowl, Homer. It's your thing.

Please, I just want one thing in this world

to be like it was.

I can barely remember

which cannabis dispensaries used to be Internet cafes.

I don't want to bowl!

Marge, are you concealing

a secret about bowling?

: Bowling and life

begin in the hips.

Oh.

D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!

D'oh!

Um, there's something I never told you about my past.

The past. (scoffs)

The past is past.

Do you want to know every little mistake I've made?

- Sort of. - Aah! Let's go bowling.

Now, the ball might seem a little greasy.

Make sure you don't drop it on your foot.

To put it in your language,

it's like rolling a Maggie.

Strike! You got a strike.

Pretend you're hurling a roast into an oven 60 feet away.

Are you gonna listen to me or are you gonna bowl?

Watch out, pins. Here comes Mama.

A baby split with company.

I got this.

Wow, Homer. Your wife bowls

like a 60-year-old teamster.

Thank you. Mm.

I really need to get back in water.

Marge, can we have bronto burgers tonight?

Homer, you're not Fred Flintstone.

Yabba dabba d'oh!

- (cheering) - Mom!

Somebody get Mama a beer.

He's in that world more than he is with us.

Homie, are you upset that I'm good at your thing?

No, Marge. I am in awe.

You have a gift.

I could no more be mad at you

than at an angel playing horseshoes.

You're a butterfly that can kick field goals.

How in God's name did you get so perfect?

- Aah! - Attention.

I have an offer to make,

and like everything hipsters do,

it requires everyone's attention.

Hey, you. You're not looking at me.

Sorry.

Those pearls. That hair.

The game of the '30s played by a dame from the '50s?

It's retro on kitsch to the power of vintage.

- Oh. - Here's the pitch, Marge.

You bowl one game against the challenger of my choice.

Win, and the alley stays open.

Lose, and I turn it into a coffee shop so expensive

your eyes will bleed. Deal?

Deal. You're going down, Terrence.

In your face.

- (thud) - (microphone buzzing)

Sorry. I sh-I shouldn't have done that.

If there's any damage, here's a Best Buy gift card.

Ah, Springfield's greatest bowling mama.

Beppo, Guiseppe, bring-a the meatball.

Hey, a picture for Luigi's Wall of Fame.

Now chop it up. It's today's special.

Tomorrow, into the soup.

Then it goes to the dogs.

Then back into the soup.

What you doing, angel?

Planning for the match.

I can't believe you've never taken a single lesson.

Marge.

Aah!

Oh.

Oh, this is so great.

You're saving the town.

I'm sleeping with the woman who's saving the town.

Oh, okay, okay, fine.

I'll bowl the match,

no matter what the danger is to our marriage.

That's my girl. Sleep well, lady of the lane.

Now I have some mental work to do of my own.

Mmm. Pizza.

Tastes as good off the ceiling

as it does off the floor.

Oh...

We did to that ball what we did to Hitler's bombs--

got out of the way.

What's going on? Mom's got the yips.

How do you know?

There's something in me that senses when trouble is brewing.

It's a sign of early neurosis,

but it's irrelevant that my feelings are always accurate,

and I've got to remember that.

Marge, you need confidence.

This calls for the most exclusive level

of therapist there is:

a professional bowling instructor.