Neat.
Sweet.
Petite.
My dear, the hot coals are ready.
Uncle Fester, are you ready?
Well...
Make sure they're good and hot.
Thank you, Lurch. Good man.
Uncle Fester, are you sure you want to go through with this?
Well...
You said you'd go through fire for me, old man.
But not in my bare feet.
It's nothing to fear.
Purely a question of mind over matter.
Well, in that case...
Oh, this is hot!
Bravo, bravo!
By golly, you did it!
After only one lesson of Zen-Yogi. Yeah.
Oh, darling, with such an inspired instructor as you,
anything is possible.
While they're still hot, I might as well take a stroll through myself.
Nothing to it, once you've mastered concentration.
How true, darling, how true.
But next time, why don't you try it with your shoes off?
A mere technicality.
You're spoiling me, Morticia.
An Indian for each length.
Well, darling, you've always said I was an Indian giver.
Now I've proved it.
Good cigar.
Hello, Father.
Ah, children, home from...
Where are you home from?
Oh, yes, you're home from school.
How are things down at the old brain factory?
Are you sure you wanna know?
Certainly. We're your parents.
Aren't we?
Of course we are, darling.
Look at the family resemblance.
Now, what seems to be the difficulty?
A little problem in trigonometry?
Calculus? Nuclear fission?
Anything I can't handle, your mother can.
It's not that at all.
It's these books they make us read.
Oh.
Oh, I do hope they're not teaching you about the birds and the bees?
Yes, plenty of time for that later.
On the other hand...
Gomez! Run along, children.
Oh, darling, it's even worse than we thought.
Look at this. The Wicked Goblin.
That's ridiculous.
I never met a goblin I didn't like.
Oh, dear, I don't think I can even bear to read the title of this one.
You must. If the children can stand it, so can I.
How Sir Lancelot Slew the Evil Giant.
It's outrageous.
Who ever heard of an evil giant?
Of course, a giant is simply an oversized pygmy.
Read the title of the other one.
Oh, dear.
How Pamela Escaped from the Wicked Witch.
Oh, I wish I hadn't asked.
Imagine, poisoning a child's mind with all this terrible literature.
Children, have you protested?
Sure.
We told Miss Doubleday that us Addamses like giants,
goblins and witches.
But she just muttered something about nuts.
"Nuts"? That does it.
We'll march to the board of education.
We'll picket the PTA.
Darling, we've complained before. It doesn't do any good.
The abuses just continue.
What can we do?
Besides, the poor educators are probably doing the best they can.
If they had better books, I'm sure they'd use them.
Probably.
The point is, someone has to write them.
But who?
Querida.
You?
Oh, no, I couldn't.
But then again, why not?
With your busy schedule, you'd dedicate yourself
to the task of creating a new literature for children?
Darling, this is very important. It must be done.
What a sacrifice!
This is a red-letter day for book-lovers.
Querida.
You have to work down here in the cave?
The closest thing we have to a lonely garret.
Then why not use the garret?
Lurch likes to use it for his clay-modeling.
Darling, why don't you turn off the echo?
Thing.
Thank you, Thing.
Now then, I'll just bring in a cot, and sleep over there.
Oh, no, darling, you'll interfere with my work.
That's the idea.
All work and no play...
All work and no play gets books done.
But you'll need literary advice.
I'll ask Cousin Cackle.
You see? He's just dying to give advice.
Cackle's been in this cave for 30 years.
What does he know about the world?
Darling, a man who's lived in a cave for 30 years
certainly has had a lot of time to think.
Well, I guess the first thing I'll need is a title.
Why, thank you, Thing.
That's a lovely title.
The Good Giant Slays Wicked Sir Lancelot.
Thank you.
Will I see you at dinner?
Oh, I doubt it, dear.
I'll probably just munch some jimsonweed,
and work right through the night.
Well, in that case...
Aloha.
Aloha, bubele.
You know what that name does to me.
Darling, please.
Book, now. Bubele, later.
Sorry.
This is how Louisa May Alcott must have looked,
when she started Little Women.
Well, I've started.
Only 300 more pages to go.
We've cleared out at least three shelves.
Aren't you going a bit overboard?
Morticia's only started her first book.
You have to look ahead.
Once Morticia gets rolling,
we'll have to clear out every shelf in the house.
Dickens, too?
I'm afraid so, Lurch.
Everyone has to do his part.
How long has Morticia been on this?
Exactly two days, 13 hours and 41 minutes.
But every one, well worth it.
Oh, thank you, Thing.
I can see it all now.
"Morticia Addams, the new literary sensation."
Traveling all over the world,
drinking it up at those literary teas.
Making speeches, signing autographs, telling off the critics.
We might not even see her for six months at a time.
Six months?
Oh, maybe even six years.
But as long as it's for humanity,
who cares? I care.
If the girl travels, I'm going with her.
Oh, you can't do that.
Somebody's gotta stay at home and take care of the kids.
What about you?
Oh, I can take care of myself.
Can't you look after the children?
Oh, sorry, I'll be too busy answering Morticia's fan letters.
And besides, they're your kids.
Gadzooks! I may have created a Frankenstein.
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
Morticia.
Querida, I must talk to you.
Oh, of course, that's it.
That's what comes next.
"The...
"End."
Thank you so much, Thing.
My fingers were getting numb.
Oh, darling, you're just in time.
My first book, all ready for publication.
Wonderful.
And just think, it only took me two days, 10 hours and...
37 minutes.
Don't you realize we've hardly had a word together for days?
Well, let's talk now, dear.
I'm taking a 10-minute break between books.
In that case, let's not waste a second.
Gomez, darling, don't you want to talk about my book?
Oh, yes.
The book.
My first story,
Cinderella the Teenage Delinquent.
Cinderella...
My blood boils when I think of that little minx.
Gomez, can you imagine?
Those two Good Samaritans take her in off the street, and what does she do?
The night they need her the most, she runs off in a pumpkin.
How did you right that wrong?
Simple.
Ah, here. "As the clock struck 12:00,
"the police summoned by the kindly stepmother
"found Cinderella cowering in the ashes, with a stolen glass slipper,
"and yanked her off to the pokey."
Cara mia! You've done it.
This'll open the eyes of school librarians everywhere.
Oh, darling, I'm sorry.
Your 10 minutes are up. Back to work.
Dear, would you please proofread that and send it off to a publisher?
Which one?
Uh, try Demon Press.
They sound just perfect for children's books.
Thank you, Thing.
Thanks again, Thing.
What's the matter, Gomez?
Fester, you've caught me on the horns of a dilemma.
Well, why don't you hop off of it,
and just tell me all about it?
I'm supposed to mail this manuscript
to Morticia's publisher, but I don't dare.
Oh, it's that bad, huh? It's that good.
Once he sees this, I've lost her forever.
There'll be nothing but abject misery
for both of us and the children.
So just don't mail it.
I can't do that, she trusts me.
That makes it easier.
Out of the question.
Oh, I got a better idea. What's that?
Why don't you just change it a little bit,
so the publisher won't like it?
Tamper with this masterpiece?
Fester, that's like asking me to put a moustache on the Mona Lisa.
Or put plastic arms on Venus.
Or finger-paint on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Okay, it was just a suggestion.
And a great one.
I'll do it.
A more miserable man never roamed this earth.
You can be miserable, all right.
But for now, will you relax?
How can I?
Please.
I'll try.
Much better.
It's no use, Fester.
Even Zen-Yogi doesn't help.
I'm a seething volcano inside.
All you're doing is changing a few of Morticia's words,
just enough so the publisher will turn it down,
and you've got your wife back.
But at what price?
How can a man of honor tamper with her beautiful lines?
Who needs a man of honor? You do it.
Well, better to preserve a marriage than a masterpiece.
I'll dictate the changes, you write them down.
Okay, take it from the top.
"Out of the sweet-scented swamp,
"Lucifer, the kindly wolf, minced dandily."
All right, change that to "Across a daisy-covered meadow,
"the snarling, sniveling, slathering wolf slunk."
That's great.
But isn't that "slank"?
No, I think it's "slinked."
How about "slunk"?
Very well, make it "slunk."
I can't go on. You've got to.
You convinced me.
Ah, thank you, Thing.
I don't know what I would have done without you.
I better sharpen this quill.
All right.
Boy, they're not making quills like they used to.
I feel so guilty, being away from my writing.
You've got to relax. If Keats had had a ping-pong table
he'd have lived longer.
How can I relax?
It's been three days and no word from my publisher.
Don't worry, the rejection slip ought to be here any minute.
Rejection slip?
Gomez, what does he mean?
Querida, we must be realistic.
Genius often goes unrecognized.
After all, Dostoyevsky wasn't discovered until he was 56.
No wonder.
With a name like that, the reviewers probably couldn't even spell it.
Whose point was that, Fester?
Who could that be?
Oh, wouldn't it be lovely
if it was my publisher, telling me he was going to print my book?
You writers, you live in a dream world.
Mr. Boswell, publisher.
For a minute there, I thought you said...
Mr. Boswell? Publisher?
Ah, Morticia Addams. Let me look at you.
Incredible.
How do you do?
Look, Boswell, if you're here with a rejection slip,
be quick about it and on your way.
Rejection slip? Really, my dear fellow!
Why, this little lady is a genius.
And I'm here to publish her work.
What do you have to say to that, Mrs. Addams?
Thank you.
Now, as to the finances,
at present we're a little tight with working capital.
However, if you could see fit to put up, let's say, $5,000,
I'll publish your book, and we'll make a fortune.
That sounds intriguing.
Just as I thought, a bunko artist, out for the money.
I'll shoot him in the back.
I've got a better idea.
In the front?
Boswell.
I've decided to accept your offer,
but we'll make it $10,000 and use a higher-grade paper.
You better let me shoot him in the back. It's much cheaper.
No.
10,000.
This is most generous of you.
Without my husband's help,
none of this would be possible.
You can say that again.
I've got to get the presses rolling.
I'll see you out.
I suppose you'll want some snapshots and some biographical notes?
Uh, just the snapshots.
Let's forget the biographical notes.
You gave that faker 10,000 bucks?
And with good reason.
With that much, the scoundrel will skip to Brazil
and that'll be the end of it.
And to think, some people call you a nut.
No wonder!
Please, I'm too upset!
In-laws.
Lunch.
Oh, Lurch. Just in time.
Yes, midnight.
Did Mr. Addams go to bed?
Sound asleep.
Tish, you spoke French!
Darling, now, now, now.
You repose while I compose, dear.
Lurch, a very interesting technical question has arisen.
And both Thing and Cousin Cackle
seemed a little vague about it.
Yes?
What was the name of that mean little girl,
who was so beastly to those three lovely bears?
Goldilocks.
Ah, yes. Goldilocks.
Trust a blonde to bring on trouble.
Well, when I get through with Miss Goldilocks,
her books will be banned from coast to coast.
Oh, Lurch,
Mr. Addams didn't quite make it.
Would you tuck him in, please?
Yes, Mrs. Addams.
Hey, Gomez, grab your motorcycle.
I'll race you to the attic.
Fester, my wife's been in that cave for three weeks
and you want me to go hill-climbing?
Can you think of anything better to do?
My poor querida.
Slaving away on book eight, for what? For some phony publisher
living it up in Rio.
I got a hunch he didn't go to Rio.
I think he went to Europe.
What difference does it make?
Well, it costs a lot less in Europe.
He might bring you back some change.
I don't care about the money.
I must tell Morticia the truth.
About Boswell?
About my tampering with her book.
Oh, well, I'm certainly glad that I didn't have anything to do with that.
Well, here it is, Gomez, darling.
Book number eight.
And not a word from Mr. Boswell about book number one.
Tish, are books all you can think about?
For a dedicated authoress, dear, what else is there?
There's me.
Oh, you're right.
My next book will be about you.
Morticia,
there's something I must tell you.
You'll never hear from Mr. Boswell again. Oh?
Hey, who do you think's coming in?
Cousin Turncoat?
No, Mr. Boswell. Come in, come in.
Folks, this is a great day for American literature.
You're going back to Brazil?
No, dear, I believe Mr. Boswell means he brought us some good news?
Did you bring us some change?
Some change indeed.
$2,000 worth, as an advance to Mrs. Addams.
And there'll be many thousands more,
when the book hits the bestseller lists.
You mean you printed it?
In genuine pebbled calfskin.
Egad!
The man's more cunning than I thought.
He's after more money.
Gomez, just think, my work on the same shelves
with Plato, Shakespeare and Aristophanes.
Even Mickey Spillane.
The advance sale has been tremendous.
Schools are ordering books like hotcakes.
You're sure you don't mean ordering hotcakes like books?
Mrs. Addams, here is a contract for your next 10 books.
Read it, sign it, get it back to me, and we're in business.
Thank you.
Well, toodle-oo.
I never figured him for a toodle-ooer.
Gomez, what perfidy is this?
Is something wrong, my dear?
Wrong? Listen to this title.
A Treasury of Mean Witches,
Evil Giants and Wicked Goblins,
and Other Bedtime Stories.
The censors'll never pass that.
And listen to this!
"Across the daisy-covered meadow,
"the snarling, sniveling, slavering wolf slunk."
"Slinked"?
I felt that it should have been "slank."
Slinked, slanked or slunked!
That treacherous Mr. Boswell
and his hired assassins have ruined my work.
The cad! I'll shoot him in the back.
No, Fester, we can't go that far.
One bullet each? No, there will be no shooting.
I have the soul of an artist,
and I will not sell it for mere money.
Querida! You've given up writing.
For the time being.
The world isn't ready for good literature.
How true.
The world isn't ready for you.
But I'm more than ready.
Mon cher.
Tish...
Next time you write a book, write it in French.
Mais oui.
Hello, Mother. Hello, Father.
Ah, children.
Hello, darlings.
Look at these books they gave us to read in school.
A Treasury of Mean Witches, Evil Giants, Wicked Goblins
and Other Bedtime Stories by Morticia Addams.
Mother, how could you?
Yuck.
Children, please, watch your language.
Besides, your mother didn't write those, I did.
Gomez, you?
Children, please go play with your spiders.
Cara, much as it hurt to rewrite those glorious phrases of yours,
I had to do it.
And I know why. You do?
You wanted to prove that the only thing
that publishers will print today is junk.
Angelito mio.
Mail's in.
Thank you, Thing.
It must be for me.
It is for you, Uncle Fester.
It's from my publisher.
Publisher?
Yeah, I wrote a book. Forever Fester.
And this fellow accepted it.
And I only had to give him $5,000.
And he didn't run off to Brazil or Europe, either.
He skipped to Australia.