You're the Worst

Hey, guys?

One, two, three, go!

Ah!

Head wigglies!

Guys... I win!

Head wigglies?

Head wigglies.

When you drink something cold too fast

and your head gets all wiggly.

You Brits have baby talk for everything. Guys...

Telly, lorry, willy, nappy, bobby! Guys.

Well, you have very silly things in your vocabulary as well.

Like what?

"American exceptionalism."

Nice.

Former colony burn.

Guys!

What is it?! Excuse me!

You are being exceedingly rude. Can't you see

that we're in the middle of something?

This is the fifth night in a row.

Can you pack it in for the night?

No can do, Hoss.

Jimmy's never seen House Party.

Really? Yeah.

Somehow the House Party series

wasn't popular in my scorchingly racist,

industrial lead-mining neighborhood.

He thinks Play's the villain.

Ah, no, actually, I have updated

my archetypal dramatis personae since act one.

Play is the Sage.

Mm. Kid is the Seeker,

Stab is the Villain and Martin Lawrence is the Fool.

I have to be at work really early.

Are you talking about making me breakfast?

'Cause I wouldn't call 10:00 a.m. "really early."

I work at the gym.

Oh, no, Edgar,

we call it "working out" at the gym.

Do you really have a job?

Yes! I wipe down machines

and I monitor the men's showers for roughhousing.

Do you know what?

I haven't been taking into account

what an adjustment it must be for you,

having Gretchen living here now.

We should all learn to compromise.

Thank you.

So let's put it to a house vote.

On the floor is the question:

Should we have a curfew on weeknights?

Those in favor?

Those in opposition?

Ah.

The cold,

egalitarian hand of Lady Democracy

has triumphed

once again.

God save the Queen.

God save the Queen.

Here we go.

Breakfast lasagna.

No thanks. Not hungry.

But you guys are always hungry.

Too hungover.

Also, we ate at, like, what,

5:00 a.m.? Mm.

I made Bagel Bites.

Well, since I made all this lasagna,

maybe we should have Lindsay over.

She loves a breakfast lasagna.

Dogs don't eat nachos.

Plus, we're all so worried

about how she's doing with the whole

- Paul breakup. - She's fine.

I'm seeing her later. Okay, well, then,

uh, give her my love.

Well, not like "my love,"

just like, "S'up? Hang in there, kid."

You know. Something chill and friendly-like.

My Uber driver called, like, six times

and it didn't even ring!

Salvatore!

Salvatore?!

Is he out there?

No.

But the Zoiddle car just drove past

with all its stupid cameras.

Shoot! I should have flashed him.

I hate the Zoiddle car. Why?

It's a violation.

Putting my house on the Internet

for any of my obsessive fans to see.

Hello? Can you hear me?

What's the address here?

You don't know the address?

No. You live here.

Who knows their address?

People.

Kidnapped children.

This dog I saw on Dateline who rides the bus to the park.

696969th Street.

6969...

Hello?

Damn it! Not again. You should just get

on Jimmy's plan. He gets great reception

and a family plan will probably be cheaper

for both of you anyway.

Ew! Ugh!

Gross. Why don't you get on a family plan?

Well, I don't have a family.

All right, I'll see you guys later.

Well, you sure you don't want to take some for the road?

Seriously, thanks.

I couldn't eat another bite.

I'm telling you, Gretch, I'm great.

Living alone is way fun.

I'm naked all the time, ass-ing everything.

100%, 24/7 sprawling.

Oh, I love sprawling.

Sprawling is the best.

Sure, Paul messed up the natural order of things:

Hot awesome sex foxes are supposed to leave rich nerds,

not the other way around.

But it's okay.

Paul was just too reserved

to be compatible with someone like me

who just wants to truly live.

And sprawl.

And sprawl, Gretch.

Gotta sprawl.

So you haven't seen him?

He's been busy planning his new future

with the chat room girl.

Beer cooze? Beer cooze.

Actually, he's coming by later to drop off his keys.

You want me to be there?

Give him some of my shitty death stares?

Ooh!

But it's okay.

I'm in a good place about it.

Are you sure? 'Cause I can...

Oh, God.

I'm fine.

It passed.

You look terrible.

Ever since I've been at Jimmy's,

we've been partying nonstop.

If I don't get a night off soon,

I think my liver is gonna slide out of my body, you know?

No, Gretch.

I don't know.

What? You can't stop.

But I'm tired.

Were you born yesterday?

Did you slither out of your mother's cooch

yesterday, Gretchen?

Are you a little born-yesterday diaperface?

Why are you being so mean to me?

"Yesterday I was safe in my mommy's tummy

"and then I got borned

and the world is so cold and hard. Wah!"

I just want to drink tea and read a book and be cozy.

You shut the hell up! Lindser!

In the early days,

Paul and I used to have actual fun.

Then, pretty soon, it was laptops in bed,

lights out at 10:00

and next thing you knew, I was calling him "the hubs"

and he could only finish in my hand.

What?

There comes a day when every relationship

turns gross, old and boring.

Like Ben Affleck and Jennifer "Gardener."

Don't puss out this early.

Keep it awesome for as long as you can.

I know.

Do butt stuff tonight!

But I don't want to do butt stuff tonight.

Ow!

You go home tonight

and you dress up real slutty,

and you do butt stuff with your boyfriend.

For all of us

who let love die by becoming ordinary.

Do it for the sweater people, Gretch.

The sweater people.

Wait. You wear sweaters all the time.

It's a metaphor.

Hey. Hey.

I got your emergency text.

Oh, God, that was touch and go there for a second.

Ah! Head wigglies.

You and Gretchen should really take it easy.

Absolutely not.

I'm having a blast!

I mean, yeah, I'm peeing blood

and I briefly forgot the word for telephone,

but just because we're co-habitating