G.O.B.: It jolts.
Narrator: And, back at G.O.B.’s new office...
G.O.B.: It’s not really doing it right now, but...
Michael: Do you still need those ideas?
G.O.B.: Are you kidding me? I can’t let Sitwell down. I’m desperate here.
Michael: Then I’ll make you a deal. I want you to throw the softball game.
G.O.B.: Never! He gave me this.
Michael: Of course he did.
Michael: Why do you think he hired you?
G.O.B.: He liked my ideas.
Michael: They were my ideas. And no, he didn’t. He just wants you for the softball game, because he’s trying to make our family look foolish.
G.O.B.: I knew you had bad ideas.
G.O.B.: All right, we’ll play him. I’ll throw that softball game. Nobody makes a fool of our family without my help.
Narrator: Tobias had talked up the name Fünke, and it was time to audition.
Mort Meyers: What’s your name?
Mort Meyers: He’s too short. Give it to the guard.
Tobias: Oh, I... I’m not... I... On camera, I seem much taller.
Narrator: And Maeby picked up the reader’s report, which had now become her book report.
Mort Meyers: What you got there?
Maeby: I can’t really discuss it.
Mort Meyers: Well, if you want to get it made, I’m the guy who has to see it.
Mort Meyers: You’re the Fünke everyone’s talking about? What are you, like, 15?
Maeby: Marry me.
Mort Meyers: Everyone thinks I look young too.
Mort Meyers: So, who you thinking about?
Maeby: Jude Law. Why do you ask?
Mort Meyers: Yeah, go young. Young Guy and the Sea. Big Spring Breaker for us. CGI the fish. Let’s fast-track this one.
Narrator: And that’s when Maeby realized she had become a successful film executive.
Jeff: Here you go. It’s all waxed up.
Mort Meyers: All waxed up?! What do you mean?
Maeby: I need something. A job for my dad.
Mort Meyers: Yeah, yeah, sure, okay.
Narrator: That afternoon, it was game time, and Michael felt confident about a Bluth win.
George, Sr.: Play ball!
Narrator: Ann wasn’t as amazing as George Michael...
Narrator: ...led his father to believe. But G.O.B. was playing worse than ever, as per his agreement with Michael.
Michael: This guy can’t hit, Sitwell. He’s never going to touch it!
Stan Sitwell: Time out! Time out! G.O.B., you okay?
G.O.B.: Yeah, I just can’t hit today. Guess you’re really disappointed in me.