Praise Petey

New York City. Ever heard of it

That's me walking.

I'm Petey, a girl with a boy's name.

So, you're allowed to like me.

My days are filled with typical New York stuff.

Getting a coffee on my way to coffee.

Therapy. More therapy. Therapy again.

Jaywalking to a museum,

avoiding the train piss bottle,

looking relieved, yet somber, as a giant monster is murdered.

And of course, Broadway. I had it all.

The perfect job as a senior assistant editorial assistant

at the biggest fashion magazine in midtown.

Mmm. Good clothes, bad clothes, good clothes, bad clothes.

Well, time for lunch.

Sure, I've been an assistant for eight years,

but they let me take home the stale bagels

at the end of the day. Girl boss!

We need to pick a page.

If only we knew which was going to be in this month.

Shirt or pants? Any ideas?

Shirt covers the top!

Pants cover the bottom!

- Jumpsuit covers both. -

What? Me? I didn't say anything.

Ugh.

Sure, I've spent my whole life

terrified of speaking up

because of a complete lack of sense of self, but who knows?

Maybe that's what landed me the perfect fiancé,

who was the best man New York had to offer.

God, you make sense on paper.

Oh, my God, Brian. Not here.

I guess you could say I had it all.

A man, a job, and an apartment.

Wait, that's three things.

So, I guess you could say I had three things...

...and none of them will ever completely fall apart

My whole life was perfect,

but none of it was ever enough for my socialite mother,

White St. Barts.

She runs a charity for unwed dogs.

Ms. St. Barts, your daughter is here to see you.

What on earth is a daughter?

- It's like a son, but a girl. -

This generation has a word for everything. I can't keep up.

Hi, Mother. I brought you an expensive yet meaningful pastry

from the bakery we used to go to when I was little.

How thoughtful.

Now, what is it you want from me? Money? A lawyer?

If it's an apology you're after,

I'd prefer to just write a check.

You called me, Mother. Right. Of course.

I called you here because there's a wedding I have to go to next month

that I'm absolutely dreading.

Oh. Mother, that's... I know, I know.

Why not just send a cold gift with my regrets?

Mother...

The only reason I'm going

is that I'm the mother of the bride.

Oh, right. That's you.

Um, here. What's this?

I wanted to pretend I had a gift,

but it's actually the VHS tape I've been hiding from you.

Honestly, it's the worst thing I could have possibly grabbed.

Well, now that you're holding it,

it's a message from your father.

I have a father?

Well, not anymore. He's dead.

I have a dead father?

I'll get my checkbook.

Dearest, sweetest, loveliest Petra.

It's me, your father.

Yeah! I'm sorry, I wasn't around much when you were growing up, you know.

But I was busy working on something so cool.

And if you're watching this, that means two things.

I'm dead. And now, that cool thing is all yours.

The community of New Utopia.

West Carolina.

-Wow. What a nice town I made. -

Go get it. Oh.

There you go.

Now, I know you're a city girl. I do.

I was a city boy myself. We have that in common.

Now, there's only one problem. I'm not a city boy anymore.

-I'm a country, old man. -

Okay. Now, once you grow up,

I'm sure you'll be a decisive, opinionated, brave, confident leader.

Just like your daddy. And once I'm gone,

the only person who can keep this place going, is you,

because you're the only me that's younger.

Does that... Does that make sense? [chuckles

It does make sense.

We need fresh blood around here.

We love you, Petey!

- Yeah, we do! We love you! -

Whoa.

Security, there's some random woman in my office.

Tonight, on Hot People Oversharing Their Trauma

and then Kissing...

My mom got really sick.

My dad exploded.

Wow. A whole town or whatever? That's a dope inheritance.

Are you gonna take it? No way.

What about my job? My apartment?

And what about Brian? He can't leave now. He just got a big raise.

Well, what if you went out for a little bit? Just to test it out.

You could get to know about your dad and touch a cow.

I mean, maybe you'll like living in the country

and not getting married to Brian.

Wait a minute. What's on your lip?

That? Uh, that's... Oh.

Oh, my God. A splinter?

-That means... -

Oh, God.

Brian! With my best friend?

It's not what it looks like. This cannot be happening.

You know, there's no good guys in New York.

I mean, what woman could say no to him?

I am done with both of you.

My female boss.

We just got the numbers from the magazine we published today.

-The one on shirt? -They're the worst we've ever had.

Turns out the answer was jumpsuit.

But I said that.

No, you whispered it under your breath. Then called yourself dumb.

Then you did a little shimmy.

Oof, did I say the dumb part out loud?

I'm dumb.

I'm sorry, Petey.

We have a zero-tolerance policy for women calling themselves dumb.

You're fired.

No!

My apartment!

Sorry. I knocked over every candle.

Wait, Petey. Stop. Where are you going?

Taxi. Taxi to the south.

I was feeling really sad after my whole life literally burned down.

I just needed to lay low for a while

and figure out my next move in my dead dad's weird town.

No service?

This is not New York.

Ooh.

Uh, I'm walking here.

No, not my tiny shoe.

Hello, hot redneck.

Hello, hot redneck.

Name's Bandit.

Could you help me? I'm stuck in this... this brown cement.

I'll save you from that there mud... it's called mud... on one condition.

Uh, okay?

-You turn tail and get. -I what?

You take that caboose and vamoose!

A moose and "jaboose." What?

I'm saying, you better go back where you came from.

You are being so mean for no reason. Don't you know who I am?

You are Petey St. Barts, and I will die on my feet like a horse

before I let you ruin that town like your daddy did.

Excuse me, rude hunk.

I can do whatever I want with that town

because my dad gave it to me in a video.

And I am not gonna let some uneducated, square state,

backwoods nobody push me around.

Wowee. All right, then. Suit yourself.

But you should know, your town has a little gator problem.

Oh, God.

Please help me.

Hey, it's your town, you figure it out.

Okay, fine. I'll leave on the next bus.

Just help me.

Shake on it?

Ugh. Fine. Just make it quick and not on my hair.

Oh, no. Not what I was going for.

Oh! Gary!

- -Go get it, Gary!

Mmm. Thank you.

But as I learned in my many years as a senior assistant editorial assistant,

that contract is not binding,

because I didn't open it on my phone,

agree to terms and conditions I never read,

and then press "okay" to a signature that looks nothing like mine.

But we spit shook. You snake!

Can you help me get a ride to my town?

Help you? I wouldn't help you with a 10-foot pole.

But I'm a Southern gentleman, so I can't just leave you out here all alone.

So, what do we do?

Will you at least tell me why you hate me?

Hydrangea, you hear something?

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God. Oh!

And honestly, New Yorkers never talk to our neighbors,

so you won't even know I'm here.

-I'm thinkin' they already do. -

Wow!

Talk about Southern hospitality. Right, Bandit?

Uh, hi. I'm... The spitting image of your daddy.

Welcome to the New Utopia Inn.