So this is where they work the magic that makes you look 55.
- Just stand still, Al. - What? What?
I'm trimming your nose hairs.
You know, you have to keep them nice and even or you'll get split ends.
All right, honey, give me money and get out of here.
I can't possibly relax with you around.
Besides, I don't bother you at work. Don't bother me here.
Oh, that's what you call it now, Peg, "work"?
Al, my job is to look good and feel good.
You know how soft I am.
Well, actually, you don't.
But I know how soft I am, and believe me, I'm a delight.
Oh, excuse me here. I want to prepay.
How much for the 100,000-mile overhaul?
While you're working on her, can I get a loaner?
You got anything in the back that has that new-hooter smell?
Just pay the man and baboon away to work.
- That'll be $300, sir. - Three hundred dollars!
She didn't cost that much when she was new.
I'm gonna see what people pay $300 for.
Great Caesar's ghost!
And I mean that, literally.
Well, now, this one's a little more reasonable. A dollar a chin.
You people ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Who but a woman would spend time in a place like this?
Hi, Al.
- Hey, how about those Bulls. - They'll be all right. They got Jordan.
No, no, not them. I'm talking about those two under the dryers.
- What are you doing here? - I'm getting the macho package.
You know, the hair, nails and facial. We call it the Bogie.
I mean, I'm a topless dancer and the smoke in the bar can wreak havoc...
...with the pH balance of my hair and my skin.
Oh, once the hair and the skin goes... Well, I don't have to tell you.
I've seen about enough.
Peg.
I'm going where a man belongs.
Crouched on his knees in front of a fat woman, selling her shoes.
Rolling back the flesh of the ankle, trying to find the foot.
Who cries for my pH balance, Argentina?
All right. There you go. Do what you can with her...
...and what you can't fix just slap a coat of paint on.
Oh, God, I hope he never finds out that half this money is legally his.
Of course I should get more. I mean, I gave everything to him...
...including my virginity.
Hello, girls.
There we go.
When did you start drawing?
Oh, about an hour after my pulsating showerhead broke.
A woman's gotta have something.
Of course, Al has given me no encouragement.
Not even when I drew him a picture of his favourite dinner...
...and left it on the table.
He ate it and said, "Next time, draw it hot."
I swear, these men just think that our lives are one big ball.
You know, we are so unappreciated.
Now, take Marcie. She's always complaining:
"Why isn't my dinner ready when I come home?"
Hey, because I'm busy, bitch!
Mr. Jeffy. Mr. Jeffy.
Antoine.
Can you fit me in for a 3:00 massage today?
Well, I do have a 3:00 appointment, but let her stew.
Yeah, besides, most women come after me anyway.
I'm really gonna miss Antoine.
I heard he joined the Marines.
Hi, everyone.
I'm Antoine's 3:00. Is he ready for me?
I'm sorry, but Antoine is backed up right now.
So I'm shunted aside for some damn blond hussy, no doubt.
That damn Antoine. I have had it with his mood swings.
- I'll tell Antoine you're displeased. - Oh, no, no, no. Please.
I've already had two warnings. One more complaint and I'm out.
I'll wait like a good girl.
Hi, Peggy.
God, what's that horrible smell?
I have Al's wallet.
Great. Now I can find out whose face is on the $100,000 bill.
- So, what's new? - Well, Bertha just lost 35 pounds...
...on that eat-nothing-bigger-than-your-head diet.
Peggy, that drawing is great.
It's Al.
Look how she's got the hunch just right.
And those taters growing out of his ears.
They go so well with the gravy under his arms.
It is perfect, Peggy.
Look how you made his socks kill all the flowers.
You know, I just can't get over this.
It's so real, the drawing needs a shower.
It should be in a magazine. You know...
...there's a new woman's magazine just starting...
...that came into my bank for a loan. I bet I can get them to use this.
What are you gonna call your new cartoon?
Well, how about Mr. Can't-Hit-the-Toilet?
That could be any man. Be more specific.
How about: Mr. Al-Can't-Hit-the-Toilet?
Eat your cone, Bertha.
Does it need a title?
I mean, just looking at him is enough to make you laugh.
You know, Peg, you have the look of a woman who just swallowed a canary.
Bertha, you have the look of a woman who swallowed a cow...
...who swallowed a canary.
And, Marcie...
...you look like a chicken.
Enough charm. What happened to my wallet?
- You took it, didn't you? - Of course I did.
Who else but your wife would go near the back of your pants?
I thought we had an agreement.
Every since I got deported to Mexico...
...you promised to at least leave me with a picture ID.
- Did something happen, Al? - Well, l...
I don't wanna ruin it for you. It'll be on TV tonight.
It seems that the TV show Cops was filming in Chicago.
They have that new oversized graphite nightstick...
...you know, with the bigger sweet spot?
They've been waiting to try it on anybody bold enough...
...to stop in the middle of the street and cry, "My wallet's missing."
I'm on right after Todd Bridges. Nice kid, by the way.
So, Peg, if it's not too much trouble...
...don't ever leave me with empty pants again.
That's it.
Al just named my cartoon.
Mr. Empty-Pants.
Hi, Peggy.
Here's the latest edition of Modern Gal Weekly.
Mr. Empty-Pants is a smash.
- I hope you don't run out of material. - Oh, not a chance.
The only thing that separates Al from an actual cartoon...
...is that he has a thumb.
Oh, wonder how he feels being portrayed as Mr. Empty-Pants.
Gee, you think I should have told him?
Oh, what for. Al will never find out.
He wouldn't read a magazine that has "woman" in the title.
Unless, of course, the O had a little nipple in the centre.
Oh, great. Women are talking.
I guess you folks are wondering why I don't leave.
Well, my head is stuck and I can't get out.
Peg, everywhere I go, people are pointing at me and laughing.
That can't be a recent thing.
Let me finish.
Now they're call me Mr. Empty-Pants.
Is that some kind of new, hip, rap term, you know, for "full pants"?
You know, sort of like how bad means good, and this means that.
That's all, folks.
Hey.
Hey. What you doing, Peg?
Look at that guy standing in dog doody.
Bird's doinking doody on his head...
...and then the others birds on them branches coming out of his nose.
Boy, life really kicked the hell out of him, huh? What a loser.
Who is he?
Hey, now, wait a minute.
Those sweat stains, that beaten look, that dumb expression...
...that's Bud.
Peg. That's great.
Does the boy know you're making fun of him? I won't tell him.
- It's just our little secret. - It's you, Al.
Me?
That ain't funny.
I don't wanna be Mr. Empty-Pants.
Peg, you've ruined me.
Al, you're a shoe salesman.
How can you ruin a shoe salesman?
Lt's like dropping dirt on dirt.
Besides, it's just a little local woman's magazine.
So a few people recognize you on the street and laugh.
If Martha Raye and Joe Piscopo can live with it...
...then so can you.
Besides, most people don't even know it's you. Just relax and watch TV.
And on the local scene, a comic-strip character...
... called Mr. Empty-Pants, that started out...
... in a small area publication, is catching on nationwide.
It's about a hapless loser who just can't get it done.
News Team 56 has found out that Mr. Empty-Pants is, in fact...
... a local shoe salesman by the name of Al Bundy.
- Are you happy now? - Not yet.
The cartoon was drawn by a local woman, Peggy Bundy.
Now I'm happy!
Look, there's Mr. Empty-Pants!
Hey, Empty, my man.
Al, can't you handle the fame?
I mean, they still call Carroll O'Connor "Archie."
They still call that Winky guy "the Fonz."
And, you know, they still call the fat girls on The Facts of Life...
..."the fat girls on The Facts of Life."
Oh, come on, honey.
How could you not get some joy out of a busload of Japanese tourists...
...taking pictures and screaming out, "Me rike Empty Pants"?
Well, they found out my pants weren't so empty when I mooned them.
That ought to pay them back for Pearl Harbor.
Daddy, I'm glad you're home.
You're sad because people are laughing at you, aren't you?
Yes.
Well, that and...
...because I married your mother.
Well, I think that it's the name that's hurting you.
You're embarrassed because people are calling you Mr. Dirty-Pants.
No, it's Empty Pants.
That would mean a total absence of genitalia.
Anyway, I just think that you're taking the totally wrong attitude on this.
I mean, you're like the pessimist...
...who looks at his pants and thinks they're half-empty.
You should be more like the optometrist...
...who looks at his pants and thinks they're half-full.
Get her out of here, Peg. Right now.
Honey, why don't you go downtown to the Hall of Records...
...and find out what our address is.
Okey-dokey.
I'm tired of going down there.
This time, I'm gonna write it next to the numbers on the front of the house.
Anyway, Daddy, if it helps any, when I'm feeling down...
...I just think of this little poem, and it always cheers me up.
Once upon a midnight dreary As I wandered, weak and weary
Quoth the raven "Demi Moore."
Edgar Bergen Poe.
"Miss Empty-Head" didn't cross your mind, did it?
Can't you be happy?
For years, you've been absolutely nothing.
And now, you're the man behind the woman.
I always stand behind you, Peg. It's cooler in the summer.
Well, Al, I have a bit of news that just might cheer you up.
What? Spotted owls swooped down...
...and pecked the eyes out of some environmentalists?
No.
I have decided it is time for Mr. Empty-Pants...
...to finally break his silence.
Now, it has to be something special. Short but memorable.
A signature if you will.
So come on, honey...
...be like Homer Simpson and "d'oh."
I'm not a cartoon. I'm almost a human being, damn it.
I want you to stop writing Mr. Empty-Pants.
As a matter of fact, I'm putting my foot down.
From this minute on, I'm no longer Mr. Empty-Pants.
I am not... Not Mr. Empty-Pants.
Hello?
Yes, I am Mr. Empty-Pants.
I'll see you there.
Well, who was that on the phone?
That's Playgirl magazine, Peg.
They're gonna put Mr. Empty-Pants in the centrefold. That's me, Peg.
They're saying I'm the sex symbol of the '90s.
Did I miss the news?
Did every other man on earth die?
Where are you going?
Well, the shoot's next week. I figured I'd shower now. Why wait?
Ladies...
...allow me to introduce myself.
I'm Loren Michaels, producer of Mr. Empty-Pants, the movie.
Now, we' re casting a very important part.
Buttocks.
You all qualify.
Now, rehearsals start in the broom closet in five minutes.
Hey, wait a second. Just a minute ago you were the body-makeup guy.
Hey, babe.
I'm going places.
Hopefully, this place, this place and that place.
Make way for Mr. Empty-Pants.
He is empty.
Okay. E.P., these are the girls who'll be doing the centrefold with you.
After the shoot, I'm going to shake every one of your hooters.
The bigger the star, the nicer the guy.
Well, Empty, look. Before we put you on the bearskin rug with the ladies...
...we'd like a few shots, you know, so we can capture the inner emptiness.
Meantime I think we need some powder on the girls.
Makeup!
Those breasts are shiny.
Take off those tops.
And don't worry about me getting excited. I'm gay.
All right, all right. The boy's had enough fun.
Now let's go. Let's go.
I gotta get loose. Play my music.
Helps me shake my money-maker.
Okay, let's do the shot on the rug.
Okay. Hold it. Hold it.
Wrap the shoot. We...
We have to find another centrefold.
Mr. Empty-Pants has been killed in the latest strip.
Okay, girls, let's take a break.
No. No, don't take my breasts away.
- Girls, let's go. - No. No.
Excuse me, ladies.
Bud Bundy here, Department of Makeup Safety.
If left on, that stuff can kill.
Yes, it must be licked off immediately.
Believe me, I'll receive no pleasure from this, other than a job well done.
Now, quickly, de-top and meet me on the mattresses in the alley.
And hurry. Hurry! Your chests are ticking time bombs.
Can't believe it.
Just this close to being happy.
Who could have done this to me?
Hi, honey.
Peg, why did you do it?
I had to. I was jealous.
I wasn't getting any attention anymore.
Suddenly everybody was just talking to you...
...and nobody cared about me.
I couldn't handle your happiness. So I killed you.
You're not mad, are you?
I mean, if it's any consolation you always have me.
Peg, if it's any consolation to you, it's no consolation to me.
How'd you kill me, Peg?
You were crushed by a meteorite shaped like a lady's shoe.
- Did I suffer? - Sure.
What do you say, Al?
How about a portrait of Mr. And Mrs. Empty-Pants?
Why not? Lt'll probably be the last picture of us...
...with your head still on.
You know, Peg, I'm not surprised. I knew I was gonna lose.
But I'll tell you who the big losers are:
The women of America.
Because they could have had me in the centrefold.
Now they're gonna settle for some cheap imitation.
I mean, who are they going to get that's as big a loser as me?