You're the Worst

Oh, nude beach. Ball pit.

Strip club. Paddle boats.

Dildo party. Turtle races.

Sex trampoline. Ah, yes.

Can we do that at the nude beach?

That could be like third. What are we doing?

Making a list, ho.

Look around, guys.

Sunday Funday is so played out.

Oh, no. They've corporatized your cloying, fabricated,

feckless drinking holiday.

'Tis nothing pure anymore?

But this is our special thing.

It's the last thing that's distracting us

from the constant dangers...

Jesus!

We have to do Sunday Funday.

It's my one day off from Paul. No!

No. You have two choices.

You can either be with Paul for realsies,

or you can dump him.

I am sick of listening to you complain about stuff,

and not do shit about it. Fine.

I won't bring it up anymore, bitch.

Bad friend bitch.

Hey, you can't take Sunday Funday away from us.

I love it, too, but, clearly,

it cannot continue in its current form.

But... maybe with a little creativity...

Well...

legend has it,

there is a bar, a secret bar, so exclusive...

No. We're not doing your stupid

scavenger hunt for some dumb bar.

You pitch it every Sunday.

It is not just a bar.

It is a secret bar with a hidden entrance.

A magical land full of beautiful people,

and strong beverages,

and retro decor, called a speakeasy.

Bye-bye.

Goddammit guys, I need this.

I had depression.

That is a legit-ass, mental-ass illness.

I can't be a pilot. It's a fact.

Also, Jimmy's dad died.

Yeah. About which, I didn't care.

And I think we both deserve

to have a little fun after all that.

Also, there's a bar in L.A. I can't get into.

That is unacceptable.

Well, accept it,

'cause I'm not going on a scavenger hunt

to find a speakeasy.

Easily the worst development in bar culture

since Internet jukeboxes and big ice cubes.

Oh.

Goddammit. Fine.

I will come along,

but I'm not solving any riddles.

Fine.

If it keeps me out of the house...

I'm in.

Oh, can we call it Sunday Funday, anyway?

Absolutely. Yay!

I have the first clue bookmarked on my phone.

The site is blank except for this dumb symbol.

You can't click on anything.

Hmm.

Source code.

There. See those numbers?

They're outside any command fields.

It's a message.

It's an address.

We won!

Ugh, nevermind.

Too short for coordinates.

Maybe it's date and time.

Dewey.

Do we what?

Dewey Decimal.

Do... we... decimal?

Yeah. When I'm writing money.

Or when I get to the end of the thing,

and you go "boop" with your pen.

Boop. JIMMY: Jesus Christ.

The numbers refer to the Dewey Decimal system.

So we should go to the library.

Oh.

I got it.

Ew, books are gross.

Here Lindser, I got you a book.

Har-har.

Here's a book for you.

It's called "How Not to be a Bitch for No Reason

on Sunday Funday".

Oh, look. Here's one.

It's called "I'm Living a Double Life,

"and I Can't Be Myself Around My Husband:

The Lindsay Jillian Story", volume two.

Where's volume one?

There is no volume one.

You're just that stupid.

She he be doing that here?

That's weird. Isn't that weird?

I look at porn all the time.

The bank, the nail salon.

That dog store on Fairfax

that won't let me foster puppies anymore.

Here we go.

Look.

"Speakeasies of Los Angeles."

This must be it, right?

It has most of the numbers.

But then what are the extra numbers

in the secret code for?

It's a page number.

Obviously.

Oh, my God.

Duh. You're so smart.

There's a photo.

This whole thing's just so mannered.

A library, rare books.

So twee and completely...

The piano.

Could it be something about the sheet music?

Ah! That's ingenious. It's a ragtime.

You can tell from the stride in the left hand.

What?

I took piano lessons.

Mom used to challenge me

to see how loud I could play

while her and her scene partner

ran lines in her room.

Do we know anyone who knows ragtime?

God damn! These pixels look big as shit!

So I just got a fun piece of news.

Shitstain and Jaclyn eloped.

Oh, my God! Sweetie!

That's amazing. Congratulations. Thank you.

Yeah. We were in Vegas checking out Gilles Goujon's

new schnitzel restaurant in the Wynn, and figured,

why not start the rest of our life today?

Yeah. Isn't that a fun surprise?

It puts shit into perspective, like how you can live

your whole life alone and... it's-it's fine.

I mean, I'm... I'm-I'm fine.

Now, let's see, it looks like it could be

the "Hot For Florida Rag."

But...

that repeating figure could be...

Oh, tricky.

Hold my bigifier.

Mm-hmm.

It's called "Happy Toes,"

and it was written during World War I

by Cornelius "Eight Fingers" Gimble.

"Happy Toes"? That's the clue? EDGAR: Oh, I don't... I don't know. I'm not sure

how weed will affect me these days.

Actually, studies have shown that marijuana can curtail

being completely lame.

Ha! You gave in

to peer pressure.

This is really smooth. Keep it.

Do you want to join the scavenger hunt with us?

Hell no! I am frightened

by puzzles and general trickery.

The dope thing about this song is, midway through...

Blam... Switches into a minor key.

So it's like "Happy Toes," but then it's like "Sad Toes."

Happy toes,

sad toes...

So, what's the clue here?

Hand job massage parlors?

Pupusa ladies?

Girls wearing jeans that give them long butt?

Poors?

Look!

Ooh. Ooh.

Give us your secrets!

I guess

he's not for us. Oops.

Paul would be so good at this.

You've said his name twice.

Once more, you summon him like Beetlejuice.

If you want to say something, say it to my face.

Fine. A: You're boring.

I know it's you who's been wiping boogers into

my glove box, and you're a liar.

You told me to wear my stains on the outside!

You can't even let Paul know you have stains.

You and me... We're in a fight now!

Good!

Ow!

Ow!

Sigh for me now.

Oh, my God! Holy shit!

Sigh for me now.

She wants us to sigh for her?

Sigh for me now. How do you sigh again?