I mean, if you look at your Facebook feed, everybody there is having a fucking grand old time. Look, eight people got married this week! And some sixteen-year-old on TV got a Ferrari for her birthday. And another kid just made two billion dollars inventing an app that automatically delivers you more toilet paper when you run out.
The Feedback Loop from Hell has become a borderline epidemic, making many of us overly stressed, overly neurotic, and overly self-loathing.
Back to shoveling hay. But now? We feel bad about feeling bad. We feel guilty for feeling guilty. We get angry about getting angry. We get anxious about feeling anxious. What is wrong with me? This is why not giving a fuck is so key. Stress-related health issues, anxiety disorders, and cases of depression have skyrocketed over the past thirty years, despite the fact that everyone has a flat-screen TV and can have their groceries delivered.
And this rips us apart inside. The desire for more positive experience is itself a negative experience. This is a total mind-fuck. The more you desperately want to be rich, the more poor and unworthy you feel, regardless of how much money you actually make. The more you desperately want to be sexy and desired, the uglier you come to see yourself, regardless of your actual physical appearance. The more you desperately want to be happy and loved , the lonelier and more afraid you become, regardless of those who surround you. The more you want to be spiritually enlightened, the more self-centered and shallow you become in trying to get there.
And yes, I just used my LSD hallucinations to make a philosophical point about happiness. Dial it back, God! Dial it back a little bit here! Perpendicular, perpendicular! There are bugs crawling around. One bug walks up to a pile of dirt. Pickle Rick bites his lip and pickle juice comes out.
The bug turns around] Come on. That's it. Pickle Rick bites on its head and squeezes it until the bug dies. Come on!
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Come on, motherfucker! He then licks part of the brain and the bug's leg moves. He rolls onto the bug and licks its brain, moving its legs forward and moving him forward with it] Pickle Rick: Yes! Wong 's therapy office. Beth is reading a magazine, while Summer sits with her head resting on her fist.
The door to her office reads: "Dr. Morty: Yeah, and what's courageous about eating a hot dog? Beth: It's nobody's choice to be here, you knobs. The family was told to get counseling by your principal, even though it's not the family that was huffing pottery glaze in the art room and desk wetting in history class. Goldenfold enters through Dr. Wong's door. Goldenfold: Oh, the Smith family, minus a dad. You're patients of Dr. Wong, too? Beth: Temporarily. By order of the school. Goldenfold: Me too. How long have you all been eating poop? Summer: We Goldenfold: Uh, me, neither.
Say, where did my family get off to? Goldenfold exits. Wong opens her door and enters the waiting room] Dr. Wong: Smith family, I'm Dr. Come on in. Wong's office. Transition to Beth, Morty, Summer, and Dr. Wong sitting down in Dr. Wong: I was told there was a grandpa that might be joining us? Beth: He got wrapped up in an experiment. He's a scientist. Like, legit, like on an inter-galactic, sci-fi level. His work is very -- Morty: He turned himself into a pickle.
Beth: Morty, Mom's talking. I'm sorry, I suppose that's a good segue into our little discipline cases here. Wong: Does Grandpa turn himself into a pickle a lot? Beth: What? No, what kind of question is that? Wong: The kind that wasn't designed to attack or hurt you in any way. Beth: Oh, Jesus Christ, one of these. No, my father has never turned himself into a pickle before.
He's unpredictable and eccentric. The whole family is. Speaking of which Wong: Okay, let's open things up to the whole family, and let me ask this.
Why do we think Grandpa turned himself into a pickle? Transition to Pickle Rick, who has attached the bug's limbs to his pickle body and has managed to use them to move. He is looking through a grate, and is rubbing the end of one of the bug arms against one of the bars] Pickle Rick: Wow. The sooner I can get out, the sooner I can go back to taking big craps, and you can go back to subsisting on them.
Pickle Rick starts to walk backwards. Could you be a little more driven? To the right. Come on, come on, come on! Fresh, fresh, fresh! Don't worry, he died doing what he loved, being a dumb fucking rat.
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The machine then splits open the rat head and rips out its brain, then puts Pickle Rick down and begins nailing the rat's body parts to Pickle Rick's pickle body. It then sticks a needle into the brain which connects it to the limbs. Pickle Rick runs towards the rats and begins killing them. He kills some of the rats. The screws disappear and x-acto blade pop out. He kills more rats.
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Transition to Dr. Summer: And she's saying what's important is that Grandpa lied to you to get out of coming here. Beth: Oh, he did not! Wong: Let's do an experiment here. I get the impression this family values science.
What The Hell Happened?
So raise your hand if you feel certain you know what was in the syringe. Beth: Do you really not see what's happening here? Wong: Tell me. Beth: Well, Dr. Wong -- by the way, racist name -- obviously, Morty and Summer are seizing on your arbitrary pickle obsession as an end run around what was supposed to be their therapy. Wong: Oh, I think this pickle incident is a better path than any other to the heart of your family's dysfunction.
I think it's possible that you and your father have a very specific dynamic. I don't think it's one that rewards emotion or vulnerability. I think it may punish them. I think it's possible that dynamic eroded your marriage, and is infecting your kids with a tendency to misdirect their feelings. Morty and Summer, in unison: Mom! Beth: Fuck both of you, too. That's because, to me, you aren't special. Now they're dead. I guess it was me you should have impressed.
Grandad eats half a tub of paint thinking it’s yogurt
His wrist machines fall off and are replaced with a jet pack. He pulls a hood over his head with a rat's face on it. He turns on the jet pack and flies out of the pipe and out of a toilet. It is a bathroom door with a "male" sign on the front. He starts running around and opening various doors and looking in. Eventually he runs up to an elevator and tries to jump up to the buttons but cannot reach them. He tries to scale the wall but fails. He pushes a garbage can and a potted plant next to each other in front of the elevator buttons.
He jumps off of the garbage can into the potted plant, then jumps into the lid which turns rapidly and propels him up and swings him to the elevator buttons. Get that parkour! The elevator opens, and three men in black suits with earpieces stand inside. They notice Pickle Rick and gasp. Just need to find the nearest exit. No need to freak out. He runs away and they chase after him, still shooting at him.
Who in the fuck's toilet is this? It is a rather large light brown building with a stone fence and a plethora of guards surrounding it. An alarm blares. Some guards run around to the other side of the building's roof. Transition to a surveillance room where the three agents from the elevator are waiting. The Agency Director slams open the door. Agent 1: A pickle. A rat.
Agent 2: It says it's a scientist. Agency Director: Where is it? Agent 1: It seems to be using the air ducts and the mail tubes to get around. But look what it did on the mezzanine. Agency Director: We have 34 armed guards, and we can't kill a pickle? Agent 1: 32 armed guards. He killed two. Agent 2: It's on the phone. Pickle Rick: Hi, um, can you, uh burps please let me out. Agency Director: Your mere presence in this building violates international law.
He taps the clipboard. The Agency Director looks at it and nods. The bottom part of the phone he is using has been dismantled. He attaches a belt around his waist which has batteries in the back of it. Pickle Rick: You should know those men killed themselves. Agency Director: And how is that? Pickle Rick: They didn't burps let me out. Agent 2 Solen'ya. Agency Director: Shut your mouth and do your jobs, you fucking children! Pickle Rick: Uh, is this not a good time or? He gives a thumbs up to the Agency Director.
On one of the monitors, six agents run up to the door of room with rifles. He crawls from bowls of cold soup to steal the dreams of wasteful children. The Agency Director pantomimes slicing his neck to Agent 1. Agent 1: Go, shoot to kill! One of the agents slams open the door, knocking over a water jug above the door which activates a pulley which pulls a string which cuts another string which swings a needle towards the agent's head, killing him instantly. Two more agents enter and start to walk in, but fall through the floor onto some spikes, which kill them.
The three remaining agents walk in and see this and begin shooting at a pickle which is not Pickle Rick, but a decoy. They continue to shoot at the pickle until it is completely gone. We got him. Agent 1: Ah. There's a Howard Johnson's next door. You'll get some pie. Simpson, you are a good candidate for assisted suicide. Aw, I think you're cute, too. But killing yourself isn't as easy as putting on an ugly sweater like you did today.
I want you to carefully think about this for 24 hours. Oh, I see. You want me to reconsider whether or not I really should give up my life. Yeah, and we're cleaning out the death machine today. A lot of gunk gets stuck in it. Okay, if I get a single phone call in the next 24 hours, I'll keep on living.
If you go, can I have your blanket and your liver? Homie, you should give your dad a call. You can't stay mad at him forever. Yeah, you're right. You want my opinion on current movies? Well, first of all, they're all perfect. Also, when's the Cap'n crunch movie coming out? And will it be "r" or "hard r"? That's it. It's time for me to die. I'll just get mad about one thing in the newspaper, then go.
President visits Europe?! On my dime?! I am so honored that you've chosen me to murder you. Thompson and Fred Kanickee. Who's Fred Kanickee? My appointment before you. Nice guy. Just a little Little screwed up. Now, it is time to hook you up to the diepod. As you surrender your body, what music and visual imagery would you like to experience? I want to hear the Glenn Miller orchestra, and I want to see cops beating up hippies. One minute to go. Hands off the stiff, manfred manslaughter! The voters just overturned the assisted suicide law. I'll kill you all!
When the law's reversed. Ha, I'd like to see you try! I think you know my brother-in-law, Fred Kanickee.
Hoo, boy. I'm dead! I never felt so alive! And I got my year-old body back! Look out! Hey, idiot! Now let's see. Am I in heaven or hell? That's odd. You'd think they'd come back as the cows. Charlie Chaplin? They sure put you to work. You said it. And you can talk! Good for you. What the you're all dead, too?! So who went berserk, fatso or the little guy?
We're not dead, and neither are you. I'm not?! I guess if you want to commit suicide around here you got to do it yourself. Grampa, killing yourself is a sin. God wants us to die of old age after years of pain and reduced mobility. I ain't going to kill myself, 'cause I just learned something. The brief time I thought I was dead was the happiest I've ever been because I was finally living without fear and dagnabit, that's the way I'm going to live the rest of my life. You're all going to die in a pointless war.
We're here tonight to discuss possible uses for this football stadium, including the solid gold statue of Mike Ditka with diamond eyes. I suggest we use the stadium for the ancient art of the toreador bullfighting. No, wait, wait! Bullfighting is a cruel pseudo-sport. Lisa's right. It is a cool, super sport. Everyone in favor of bringing bullfighting to Springfield say "ole! So ordered. All we need now is, uh, er, uh, er, uh, uh, er, uh, er, uh, a, uh matador. If it's all the same to you, I'll take on those bulls.
Grampa, no! Grampa, si! If the bull dies, the crowd goes wild. If grampa dies, the crowd goes wild. Either way, we make a fortune on souvenirs and snacks. Can we bring outside food?