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...

Knocking.

G.O.B.: Michael.

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.

Vote: ***** / Average: 4.00 (31 votes)

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.

Vote: ***** / Average: 4.16 (38 votes)

Narrator: Tobias had talked up the name Fünke, and it was time to audition.

Mort Meyers: What’s your name?

Tobias: Tobias.

Mort Meyers: He’s too short. Give it to the guard.

Tobias: Oh, I... I’m not... I... On camera, I seem much taller.

Vote: ***** / Average: 3.43 (37 votes)

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.

Vote: ***** / Average: 4.19 (53 votes)

Mort Meyers: So, who you thinking about?

Maeby: Jude Law. Why do you ask?

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...

Ann grunts.

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.