Revenge of the Nerds II: Nerds in Paradise Page #4

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I'm just going to cook you your lunch.

# Dee-da-dee-da-da dee-dada-dee

Ugh!

(metal detector crackles)

- Poindexter, that's my pocket protector.

- Sorry, Lewis.

Harold! Harold!

Wow.

That's cool.

We trashed their house last year.

That didn't work. We locked them out

of the hotel, they checked into another.

- What are we gonna do?

- What are you asking us for?

- You're the one with the 2.0 average.

- 2.2.

We can't shake these guys.

Christ, there could be a nuclear war, there'd

be nothing left but cockroaches and nerds.

Let's kill 'em.

Nah.

Wait a second. I got it. It's so simple.

I mean, they're nerds,

but they're men too, sort of.

And what is the thing that

every man in the world is afraid of?

- I don't know, Tiny. What?

- Come on, guys. You know.

At one time or another, every man

in this tub has been petrified

that a chick is gonna see him naked and

see how small his dick really is, right?

- Jesus.

- Come on, guys, admit it.

Yeah, sure. Whatever...

Tiny.

What? What do you...?

It's a reverse nickname.

Like they call red-headed guys Blondie

and right-handed guys Lefty.

Mini-link, are you finished?

- And bald guys Hairy.

- Will you shut up?

We gotta get rid of these guys.

We gotta get rid of 'em in a major way.

Hold it, fellas.

I'm gettin' an idea here. Yeah, by this time

tomorrow, the nerds'll be history.

(Ogre) Nerds!

Ogre, relax.

Tomorrow, you'll be at the podium

and the nerds'll be packin'.

All right, Rog.

(laughs)

Whoo!

(knock on door)

(Aldonza) Pony express!

- What's this?

- I think it's an invitation to a party.

"Dear Lambda Lambda Lambda,

you are invited to the United Fraternity

pre-conference barbecue. "

"Fraternally yours, Roger Lattimore."

Party, party, party!

# (nerds) Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...

(driver) Guys! Guys! The pre-conference

barbecue is right down that path.

(Lewis) OK. Thanks for the ride.

Guys, this is gonna be a blast.

We'll see you when it's over.

- (driver) Yeah.

- (drumming)

- Hey, they even have a band.

- Just our luck.

We get here in the middle of the drum solo.

I don't know about this.

Something doesn't smell right.

That's me. I'm sorry.

Anxiety makes me flatulent.

Take a Valium or something, for Christ's sake.

(woman screams)

- Look!

- Holy sh*t!

(woman whimpers)

(Wormser) This must be one of the last

of the Seminole lndian tribes.

Jesus H Christ!

- Guys, we gotta help her.

- (nerds) Uh...

- Well, if not us, who? If not now, when?

- Somebody else, some other time.

No, Lewis is right, guys.

Are we mice or are we men?

- We are.

- We're Tri-Lambs.

When the going gets tough the tough get

going. That woman there needs our help.

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