Four Weddings and a Funeral

Fuck.

Fuck!

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck!

Fuck, fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Sir!

Mr. Duffy!

Sorry, boys.

I finally got my letter from Penguin Publishing.

- Yes, Bernard. - Did they accept your novel?

My fingers still hurt from all the submissions you made us mail out.

Yeah, um, I don't know.

I'm... I'm too nervous to open it,

so would you, please, Bernard?

Okay.

You can go... you can go faster.

"Thank you for giving us the opportunity

to consider the enclosed material."

Okay, so far so good.

"Although it shows great promise...

We regret that we are unable to publish it at this time."

It's okay, Mr. Duffy.

Sorry, Mr. Duffy.

It said "great promise."

That's what they say when something's bad, Bernard.

That's what you said in my report on The Aeneid.

I'm sorry, Augie.

- It sucked. -

Oh, fuck.

It's your housewarming present, Craig.

- I love it, there's just... - Just so much of my butt.

- And my butt cheeks. - You hate it.

- No, no, no! - I love it!

It's just a little risqué, you know?

If my grandma comes or one of my friends.

Ah, well, of course your friends would hate it.

- They hate everything I do. - What are you talking about?

- My friends love you. - No, they don't.

They think I'm trashy and that my boobs are fake...

Which they are, but your friends don't know that.

Who cares what anyone else thinks, okay?

You're my girl...

and I want you to move in with me.

- - Wait, are you serious? - Yeah.

Look, I've dated a lot of women.

A lot.

Six different girls asked me to prom,

one of them my Spanish teacher.

This is gonna circle back to something romantic

about me, right?

I love you.

And I've never said that to anybody.

Well, my mom, and one time to LeBron James

when I saw him at the grocery store.

Craig, I love you, too.

- -

Um...

who took this photo?

Fuck, I can't believe I'm 30.

Well, that's not old.

At 30, Meghan Markle was still in her first marriage.

Now, are you sure this has to be a costume party?

Yes, everybody has to dress up

as their favorite rom-com character.

It's just, the English don't really do theme parties.

Unless the theme is "simmering class conflict,"

in which case that's every party.

- Oh, I gotta take this. - Hey, bitch.

You ready for the best weekend of your life?

Oh, my God, yes.

I'm on the red-eye tonight.

I can't get out of New York fast enough.

Rough morning?

Yeah, I have aquarium gravel in my bra.

I think I'll just leave it at that.

Oh, hmm.

Let me guess: does it have something to do

with your married boyfriend?

Hey, you know, you're very judgmental

for a woman who dated the guy

who organized the Fyre Festival.

He said he knew Ja Rule!

Anyway, I can't wait for you to meet my new guy, Maya.

He is a good one. He's smart, he's funny.

- He's not gay, for once. - Ooh, I bet I'll love him.

Hey, I hope your morning gets better.

Well, it couldn't get any worse.

- Maya, you're late. - Ted's looking for you.

I gotta go.

That was abrupt.

- Is your shirt wet? - No, it's dry.

It's normal.

So how did Ted do at the Bodo Latino breakfast?

- Great. - They loved his speech.

Well, I guess it was your speech.

Did he try to sing Despacito?

Yes, but I cut off his mic before he got to the rap part.

- That's my girl. - Maya, you're late.

So if it's not too much of an inconvenience

I need to see you in my office.

You're 45 minutes late.

I'm so sorry.

I know I should have woken you up

but you were snoring so cute.

No, no, this morning was not cool.

All those texts? "Get out, she's coming."

I felt like I was in a horror movie.

And the black people always get murdered first.

I know, I know, and I'm sorry.

Liz never goes to our apartment in the city

but there's a crow trapped in our chimney in Scarsdale.

Okay, huge day ahead.

I tried to sing Despacito earlier, which did not go well.

- Ted, we need to talk. - Okay, shoot.

I'm not doing this anymore.

Your poor wife.

- Hey, come on. - We've been through this.

My marriage is over.

I've been sleeping in the basement

on the pool table for a year.

Yeah, okay, but I still get Christmas cards

of you and your family in matching sweaters.

Yeah, those are bad.

I love you, but I'm done.

Wait, wait, come on.

Hey.

I'm done, too.

That's why I'm gonna tell her tonight.

No, you're not.

We're already enough of a cliché

without you pretending you're going to leave your wife.

- No, no. - Listen, listen.

I... I didn't want to say anything yet,

but I've already hired a lawyer.

My kids are away at video game camp this weekend.

All I gotta do is tell her.

Okay?

I wanna be with you, Maya.

Well, I want to be with a senator,

so stop kissing your communications director

and get back to work.

Ladies and gentlemen,

the captain has just illuminated

the "fasten seatbelts" sign,

as we are now in our final approach

to London Heathrow.

Please be sure to stow your tray tables...

You're not supposed to turn that on until we've landed.

I'm waiting for an important text from my boyfriend.

Oh, your boyfriend.

Then by all means, crash the plane.

You know, you didn't have to come all the way

down to Heathrow just to have breakfast with me.

- I didn't come for you. - I came for your blood sugar.

If I'm not here you'll just have coffee

and a chocolate bar.

Dr. Oz says dark chocolate has antioxidants,

so the joke is on you.

You know, I saw Salman at masjid yesterday.

Mm-hmm?

I made sure to tell him how well you are doing.

I showed him one of your paystubs.

- Dad, don't do that. - That's embarrassing.

I pray for Salman.

Imagine the tragedy of having a son

who is a comic book artist.

I think it's cool he's following his dream.

Thank Allah your dream was investment banking.

Your mother would be so proud.

Oh, no. We have got a situation at the luggage counter.

- Shrieking American? - Always.

It's always that.

- I'm so sorry, ma'am. - Tell me what happened.

Okay, I have explained three times...

- I'll handle this. - Hi. Please, I need my bag.

I took the wrong one off the carousel.

- Calm down. Calm down, ma'am. - Are you sure?

Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is not

my triple-XL Orlando t-shirt.

Listen, I work in politics, and that bag has

some highly classified material in it.

- I'm sorry, can I help you? - No, nothing.

"Highly classified."

Didn't realize Jack Ryan flew commercial.

- Oh, great, yeah. - Pithy comments.

That's exactly what the situation needed.

Look, don't worry, ma'am.

We'll file a missing bag report and call you within 48 hours.

I'm gonna be back in New York in 48 hours!

I can't buy all new clothes!

I don't understand British sizes!

Okay, okay.

Uh, there is an unclaimed baggage center offsite.

Uh, I can't take you there right now,

but maybe my son can.

What?