American Dad Season 1 Episode 8 - Bullocks To Stan

Good morning, U.S.A.
- Hang in there. You're gonna beat this.
- We're rooting for ya.
Remember: terminal, fatal, inoperable...
Just words.
- Hole punch is mine!
- Dibs on his medical marijuana!
Don't you want some of Fred's stuff?
It's not contagious.
- I'm getting the biggest prize.
- His wife?
His job. I've been working Bullock for
that promotion since Fred's first nosebleed.
Here are the invitations
to the annual CIA family carnival.
It's a top-secret gathering,
so memorise the time and location...
Done.
The invitations
will self-destruct in three seconds.
Still better than my wife's cooking, eh?
I'm pooping blood tonight.
Is there any other announcement
you wanna make?
Perhaps something about me taking over
for ol' high white-cell count Fred?
It's in the works. In the meantime,
I have an urgent mission for you.
Whatever it takes, sir.
Real urgent mission.
That's Bullock. Two I's.
God, it's so beautiful out here I wanna weep.
Yeah. Look, Jeff, I have bad news.
This is a break-up hike.
What? But, but we're so good together.
No, we're not. You never challenge me.
You just always agree with me.
You're right. I so do that.
But I can change.
- No, you can't.
- You're right. Let's get married.
- Goodbye, Jeff.
- Good call, babe. You can do better!
It's just a CIA carnival.
Why are we folding napkins?
Because there'll be food and my boss
likes to wipe his mouth on swans.
- What the hell is this?
- Metrosexual soccer icon David Beckham.
I can't do swans.
I don't know why.
If the whole CIA is at this carnival,
who's out there undermining democracy?
The FBI pulls a double shift.
When we get there, keep your liberal pie-hole
shut. My promotion depends on it.
Honestly, what does Hayley
have to do with you getting a promotion?
It should be enough you're good at yourjob.
Yeah, it should.
But we don't live in Shouldland.
Shouldland, where clean-cut kids
cruise Shouldland Boulevard,
and the Shouldland High team
gets their asses kicked
by their cross-town rival,
Reality-Check Tech.
We're going to the carnival.
Oh, cool. A germ-warfare booth!
No way, mister, I don't want you
coming home with anthrax, like last year.
- Aw, Mom.
- Quit coddling the boy.
Just sprinkle a little Cipro on his hot dog.
He'll be fine.
Come on, sweetheart.
Don't be afraid.
You're worthless!
Clear!
What have we here?
Secret White House bunker?
Secret Halliburton bunker?
Satan?
This is Dick Cheney's BlackBerry.
Everyone knows the CIA invented crack
and introduced it to the inner city,
but what we never get credit for
is malt liquor.
Yes, that was us.
Attention!
The boring-suit contest is about to begin.
Oh, no! Keep walking, keep walking.
Deputy Director Bullock,
you're looking well.
Sir, you remember Hayley,
my son's sister.
Of course. I'm surprised
they let you through security.
I guess those scanners
can't detect half-baked political ideology.
You're lucky. As a cockroach,
you'll survive the nuclear war
you're working so hard to incite.
- I've already forgotten what she just said.
- That's right, run along.
Go play Ultimate Frisbee with your
drum circle and leave politics to the adults.
You know, I actually don't play Frisbee.
I guess the CIA
got their intel wrong - again.
Come back here,
I want you to call my boss and apologise.
Like hell I will.
That fascist started it!
I love the passion in her performance.
Unbelievable.