How I Met Your Mother

Guys, I'm going through something kinda hard.

Since Quinn and I broke up, she's gone back to dancing

at The Lusty Leopard, and it's just really tough because...

'Cause you have to find a new strip club?

I have to find a new strip club!

I've been going to The Lusty Leopard for seven years.

Wow. That's like 49 in perv years.

Sixty-nine. Self-five.

Look...

without my open wallet,

The Lusty Leopard would be nothing.

Thanks to me, they've been able to expand

and take over that soup kitchen next door.

Now I'm a free agent,

and all the strip clubs are after me.

Mr. Stinson, we might not have

the best strippers at Moneyballs,

but we use sabermetrics to get you a stripper with a five body,

sure, and another with a butter face, but together,

with their tireless grinding, we guarantee

a high on-pants percentage.

I gotta be honest with you, Fred,

I can't really see myself signing with the Golden Oldies.

Well, that's what everyone says... at first.

But our GILFs have got class.

They've got maturity and experience,

and the kind of mind-blowing flexibility

that only comes from advanced hip dysplasia.

Barney, the Lusty Leopard would be lost without you.

I think you're really gonna like a couple of the girls

we just pulled up from the minors.

Don't leave us!

Wow, you're like the LeBron James of strip clubs.

Actually, you're probably tied with LeBron James for that title.

LeBron isn't all that.

The Cavs are doing great without him.

Yeah!

Hey, guys, you will never believe who I ran into

outside of work today.

It wasn't the guy handing out coupons

in the hot dog costume, was it?

Baby, there's no reason to be scared of him.

I'm not scared of him.

It's totally normal to see a hot dog with a face.

No, it was Brad, my old law school buddy.

I almost didn't recognize him.

Marshall?

Brad?!

Bro!

Oh, hey!

What a kick-ass day!

I run into you, some sucker throws away

most of a perfectly good hot dog...

...kick-ass day!

You still doing corporate law?

I got downsized two years ago.

It's been rough.

Going through a little bit of a depresh.

But just today, boom!

Huge job prospect.

Here's your application.

Just tell them I sent you.

I bet you could fit in the bratwurst.

Bratwurst with a face.

What'd I tell you?

Looks like I'm about to be on a roll.

Sounds like that guy could use some help.

I know! That's why I said...

You know, I'm at Honeywell & Cootes,

and they're looking to hire an associate.

I could totally recommend you.

Leave the wounded behind!

== sync, corrected by elderman ==

'Cause Brad is an old friend who needs a job.

Why shouldn't I give him

the old Marshall Eriksen Stamp of Approval?

Marshall, you're a stamp tramp.

How dare you!

And what is that?!

You give your stamp of approval to everything.

It's become meaningless.

It's like when my mom likes a movie.

It just means Richard Dreyfuss is in it.

Marshall, you love everything and everyone.

It's-It's what I love about you,

but it's also why your stamps are total crap.

Give me one example.

How about when you turned your boss

into a fountain of bodily liquids?

You guys like it?

I'll be waiting for you in hell, Eriksen.

In my defense, that restaurant's health rating had just gone

from an "F" to a "D," and I wanted to reward that.

Marshall, you're already on thin ice

with that horrible Honeywell guy.

Don't risk screwing things up more right before

your biggest case ever.

Okay, Honeywell is not horrible,

he just has a bad temper sometimes.

And he holds a grudge.

He's kind of defensive about his height.

And he's cheap.

And he made those secretaries cry.

But, deep down, he is a great guy.

Heck, he gets my stamp, too.

Stamp tramp.

Well, maybe this isn't the moment

to stick your neck out for Brad.

Well, that's not how I was raised.

Back in St. Cloud, we believe in people,

people like Gudren Olsen, the town wino who became our mayor.

They even wound up naming a bridge after him.

The one he drove off.

Marshall, why can't you be more like your wife?

Lily's stamp is gold.

I'm reading this book because of her.

I'm drinking this beer because she recommended it.

I'm even wearing this bra because

of a lingerie store Lily told me about.

Uh, if anyone's got the golden stamp,

it's old Teddy Westside over here.

Please. You're a piggyback stamper.

How dare you!

And what is that?!

Allow us to demonstrate. Lily?

Hey, guys, I just found a great new sushi restaurant.

It's called Katsu...

...yoku. Katsuyoku.

My idea. I'm Ted.

Nailed it. Totally.

Okay, Ted, name one cool thing you've given

your stamp to first... Dr. Berkowitz.

...that isn't an ear, nose and throat doctor.

Man, these strip clubs want me so bad.

They're sending me T-shirts, beer cozies.

Sticky's even sent me

a boob-shaped hand-sanitizer dispenser.

It's clean and dirty at the same time.

That's it? T-shirts and beer cozies?

That's disrespect, son!

Here's what you do:

hit a few strip clubs in Jersey and Long Island.

Jersey? Long Island?

Why would I go to a Third World nation

to get my knob wobbled?

Well, you wouldn't.

But when the clubs in the city hear

you're sniffing around across the river,

those beer cozies and T-shirts turn

into Rolexes and fur coats.

Especially from that strip club, Fur Coats.

Wow. That's genius.

You're hired.

What do you mean?

I want you to be my strip club agent.

What is wrong with you?

Well, I just figured I'd ask--

No, I was talking to myself,

because, for some reason, I really want to do that!

Oh! Oh! What am I wearing?

Just proof of a stamp I know I gave first,

from a little band called...

Dishwalla.

Who?

Dishwalla! Come on!

They had that whole,

"Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God" song.

Oh...

Look, I'm not saying they're my favorite band,

but for a little while in college,

we were all into that song, and it was all thanks to me.

But I turned you on to Dishwalla.

No way! I played them on my radio show.

I mean, pirate DJ Dr. X played them on

his beloved radio show.

We all know you were Dr. X, Ted!

And I'm the one who got us into that song.

No! No! On his beloved radio show,

Dr. X pointed out that the chorus went,

"Tell me all your thoughts on God"

Her. God's a woman.

And it blew the minds

of everyone listening to Dr. X that night.

Which was pretty much everyone on campus... including me.

I'm not Dr. X.

Oh, so you're saying

credit for the stamp goes to Dr. X then, not you.

Okay... I'm gonna tell you guys something right now.

Take a sip. Follow my lead.

I'm Dr. X.

No!

I hope this works out, bro.

I couldn't even get my leg in that bratwurst outfit.

Don't be nervous. Honeywell is gonna love you.

Sweet! Freebie muff-tops!

Can I pour you a pocket of coffee?

I didn't say you were fat.

I said that dress makes you look fat! Idiot!

Hey! You must be Brad!

I'm excited to meet the man