You're the Worst

I don't get it. What's international night?

It's this thing we do with Olivia to broaden her palette. You and she each pick a country,

you do a little presentation on it, I pick the winner, and we order food from there.

- Ugh. Homework? - Oh, my God.

Just pick France, wear a beret, say a fact,

- and you're done. - Okay.

I'll do your stupid report.

And afterwards, I'm gonna suck

all the skin off your dick, like I'm a... -Ah!

Speaker phone! Child in the kitchen!

Hi, guys.

Not that we don't value listening

to you describe fellatio

so graphically that I just got vomit saliva,

but what are we doing here?

You guys said you wanted to diversify your audience, right?

Trying to get that "shower with the LED mood-lighting" money.

Which is why I want to introduce you to a client of mine

who's looking to collaborate.

His name is Ben Folds.

Ben Folds? You mean that Billy Joel, Harry Potter-looking dude?

Yes. He is huge with college educated, affluent white people.

If you guys did a song together, it would be massive.

I don't want to just throw out the phrase,

"Plays over the Grey's Anatomy credits," but, yeah, that.

Hell yeah. Yeah, yeah. We're in.

You guys are gonna love him, and I will be there

to make sure everything goes smoothly.

Ben!

This is Sam and Shitstain.

Guys, this is Ben.

- Hey, guys. - Hey.

Really good to meet you.

This is a really nice place.

You think they serve alcohol?

Uh, yeah.

I-I think so.

- Hey, could we get some alcohol? - Sure.

I'll just have whatever your whiskey drink is.

Ooh, that sounds amazing.

Yeah, I'll have one, too.

Damn, you must be thirsty as shit.

It's just that back in North Carolina,

there are all these regulations on hours and distributors,

and we definitely don't have your crazy mixed drinks

like you have out here.

I mean, basil in gin?

Your taste buds are like, "What the heck?"

Anyway, Ben,

these guys are really excited about the idea

- of collaborating. - Oh, look.

I've been a huge fan since "Pussy On Swole."

I mess around with it in sound check all the time.

Damn, dude. That's tight.

Yeah, I like that shit. Okay, okay.

Why don't we link up at the studio tomorrow night,

and lay something down?

Let's do it.

Whoa, look at all that alcohol.

Oh, I guess you're having one, too.

So, what's the big news?

Jimmy, The Width of a Peach

is number 13

on The New York Times

Best Seller list for Mass-Market,

Paperback Fiction.

What?!

This is amazing!

I have to admit, I tried to act

like making the Amazon list wasn't a massive disappointment,

but let's face it, it's like winning a Daytime Emmy.

You're burnt, Ellen.

So, we have to ride the momentum. There's Harry,

with Harry Connick Jr., very big with women. -Eh.

Watch What Happens Live, women and gays.

The People's Choice Awards,

women, gays, teens, plus general dummies.

Ugh. -I can read you the loser suggestions.

Uh, let's see. Tomorrow night is Tip of My Tongue,

an NPR game show for dweebs, hosted by Steeb Corniglia.

Steeb Corniglia loves me.

Impressing him would be the ideal way

to show that I can write a hot wanker

and still have the respect of a noted literary critic.

Book me on that show.

I didn't exactly know what you meant by

"grab work clothes from France."

Are you fake going to Paris again?

No, it's just for this dumb thing

I'm doing with Boone tomorrow.

An Eiffel Tower?

Jealous. Who's your third?

But I'm gonna see you afterwards at Jimmy's radio thingy, right?

I don't want to go,

but I'm supposed to be helping people right now,

like Lou Diamond Philips told me to.

What radio thingy?

"Please join me tomorrow night"

"for a live taping of NPR's Tip of My Tongue."

You can laugh at my delightful jokes

and whatever hilariously tragic look

"Steeb has concocted for the evening."

Oh!

I could help Steeb not look so tragical.

I'm full of good clothes ideas.

I'm like an armoire, but I'm a people.

Want me to see if I can get you in?

Jimmy didn't invite me. Nah, nephew.

I'm doing international night with Boone.

What's international night?

More boring dad shit?

Don't be sleeping on dads.

Dads know how to bang down real good,

on account of they pregged up a bitch before.

That tracks.

Ooh, la, la.

Happy French day, Booner.

Kuwait seeks OPEC oil cuts.

Ah. Okay, um...

Well, if you Ku-wait

on producing that oil,

I'll sleep like I-raq.

I remember my first time in Kuwait.

It was 113 degrees, which sounds bad,

but actually, the pools of blood were...

Eject! Right, so,

we have covered current events, historical limericks,

quirky human interest.

I think Steeb and his listeners are gonna be blown away

by what's on the tip of my tongue.

- What is it? - What's gonna be on there?

It-it's jokes.

- Oh. I get it. - Oh, yeah. Right, yeah.

- Jokes. Jokes. - Yeah, right.

You want a little insurance?

Explain, Edgar's friend.

You have a plant in the crowd

shout out a lame, prepared heckle

that you have a great comeback for.

It's called a "Mencia."

Isn't Vernon gonna be there?

- He'll do it. - Great idea.

I'm sorry Jimmy isn't a good friend to you.

Hey, I'll always listen to anything you have to say.

- Thanks, man. That means a lot. - Mm-hmm.

But...

I'm not really great about opening up.

Why don't you tell me what you were gonna tell Jimmy earlier,

but he didn't let you?

Okay.

Well, um...

You see, I was stationed in Kuwait

before moving into Anfal.

And Anfal, it's known for its architecture, right?

No, its genocide. So there we were,

three klicks south of Ali Sabah Al-Salem...

Check. One, two, check.

Jimmy!

So stoked to be here.

Truth be told, I've been on for 72 straight hours,

and I'm kind of seeing a lot of spiders made out of light.

But I'm good to go.

I got a Camelback full of Casamigos and Monster Energy.

Right. I need your help with a super-secret heckle.

If you hear me say the words,

"That was a squeaker," you yell out this prewritten quip

for which I have prepared a killer comedic response.

Nice.

He needs my help.

Excuse me.

Hi. I'm Lindsay.

Why, hello.

No need to be timorous.

I love meeting my fans.

No. I don't know any of this dork crap.

I'm a friend of Jimmy's,

and I'm a stylist.

Ooh, I adore Jimmy.

Between you and me,

it felt like a cacodoxy

to be sidetracked by a genre experiment. Concur?

Listen, I thought you might be looking for someone

to update your "tragic look."

"Tragic look"?

Who said that?

Duh. Jimmy.

Czesc. My country is Poland.

Poland?

Nice choice. What, was Kyrgyzstan already taken?

Poland is the ninth largest country

in Europe.

They boast 17 Nobel Prize winners,

and their main foods are pierogies,

kielbasa and golumpkies.

What? "Blumpkins"?

Spoiler alert: this bitch is toast.

From the beginning, I was screwed.

My mom's uterus was L-shaped.

That's why I have equilibrium problems.

And then in the fourth grade, my friend pooped his pants,