[bell tolls]
[brassy detective music]
- Hit it. - ♪ Hey-oh, yah, hah ♪
- ♪ Oh, hey-oh ♪ - Yeah.
- ♪ Hey-oh ♪ - ♪ Yeah, oh-hey-oh ♪
[detective music]
[camera shutter clicks]
Cute and cuddly, boys.
[upbeat rock music]
[bell tolls]
Private, status report.
No sign of the enemy, Skipper.
And the objective is still there.
Outstanding. Move out.
Rico, enemy spotted.
And they're nearing the objective.
[retches]
[cackles]
[whooshing]
I think we can secure the flag without lethal force.
Mmm.
Wow.
[gasps]
Ha-ha.
Private, go for the split.
[whooshing]
both: Ooh.
[slow whooshing]
[in slow motion] Nooo.
[blows wildly]
Oh, does this look like I am becoming sick to you,
a little yellow-greenish maybe?
Look at it.
Oh, you are sick.
It's a flag, ringtail, as in capture the flag.
Capture the who-what?
Capture the flag.
- It's a game. - A training exercise.
For elite forces,
AKA, not you.
Oh, who is more elite than me?
I shall play this flag capturing game,
and when I say play, of course I mean win.
Negative. No civvies allowed.
Oh, I see.
Are you a penguin or a chicken?
This calls for harsh mocking.
Mock-mock-mock-mock
mock-mock-mock-mock-mock.
Mock-mock-mock-mock-mock.
Mock.
[music and laughter on TV]
Mock-mock-mock-mock.
I am still mock-mock mocking.
Mock-mock-mock.
Whoa.
Mock-mock-mock-mock-mock.
Well done, boys.
- Mock-mock-mock-mock. - Ah.
all: Whoa.
Mock-mock-mock.
- Mock-mock-mock-mock. - Grrr.
[snoring] Mock-mock-mock-mock.
All right, you win.
Mock.
But now you're gonna lose.
Heh-heh.
Now, the object of the training exercise
is simplicity itself.
The first team to capture this wins.
Ha, done!
Where are my prizes now?
Not that simple.
Prizes, prizes, tell me about the prizes.
If by some statistically remote chance you do win,
the rewards are respect and glory.
And a little swagger in your step.
These prizes sound cheap.
As your king, I already own glory and respect,
don't I?
- Glorify. - Respect-ify.
See? But not a TV.
Yes, long have I been wanting
a box of tiny shouting people inside.
And you'll put up?
[giggles]
Is he housebroken?
Eh...
All right, deal.
[whistle blows]
Target sighted.
Skipper, what if we lose the TV?
Not possible, Private.
Those lemurs don't have the skills.
Yes, but they do have the flag.
I win.
[gasps]
Prizes, prizes, I get the prizes.
[groaning]
Yes, this will go nicely in my breakfast nook.
Good bye, tele, old chum.
[cries]
Buck up, men.
We may have lost the battle--
[crying] And the tele.
And that, but not the war, right?
Do I hear a rematch in the remaking?
That was beginner's luck.
We go again.
Hmm, I do like possessing your possessions.
[gasps]
When I win, this hi-fi will be my-fi.
We'll see about that.
Actions speak louder than words.
And this speaks louder than actions!
Okay, lemur.
Let's play.
Package is ready for pickup.
[skidding]
all: Oh!
Smoked salmon!
I like winning. It's good.
It suits me like losing suits them,
the loser penguins.
Mmm.
[clicking]
Ah, it just doesn't compute.
No land mammal should be able to move that fast.
I'll take that.
Huh, the whole world's gone topsy-turvy.
So it's up to us to make turvy topsy again.
I'm not sure that's even possible, Skipper.
We want a rematch.
Shh, Dan from San Diego is going for the $50,000.
Foolishly, if you ask me.
- Now. - Loser say what?
Now.
[dramatic brass music]
Oh, hello.
You penguins are so pokey slow.
Rematch.
New crown. You like?
Rematch.
Ah-ah-ah.
Peekaboo, I see you
losing.
Rematch, rematch, rematch.
Pay upwards, losers.
[groaning]
Mock-mock-mock-mock-mock.
[cha-ching]
[sobs]
From now on, I name you Carlotta.
Grrr, talk to me, baby.
Grrr.
Let it go, man.
Keep it together, Rico.
Thanks to you.
When you have more goodies for me,
I will be happy to shame-ify you again.
- Ha. - Yay, shame.
Mort, high five.
[straining noises]
No, higher.
Higher still.
Is that all you got, really?
Oh, fine, low five then.
This stinks.
Perhaps we could blow something up.
A powerful explosion would turn that frown upside down.
[coughs]
Oh.
Nothing left, even inside Rico.
Good news-- we have nothing left to lose.
You know, it was enough they had to beat us.
Why'd they have to stoop to name-calling.
Flightless? That hurt.
Flightless.
Flightless, that's it.
Kowalski, what did you say earlier?
Uh, "this stinks"?
Before that.
"Mama, I made boom-boom"?
Too far back.
"No land mammal should be able to move that fast"?
Bingo.
Lemurs don't travel by land.
They travel by tree.
Head of the class, Kowalski.
While we carried out land-based operations,
our lemur foes were gliding right over our heads.
We never stood a chance
because we were playing the wrong game.
It's as if life has meaning again.
But, wait, we know how they beat us.
But we don't know how to beat them.
Look to the sky, boys.
Look to the sky.
[on TV] Did you pay too much for auto insurance?
It is very possible.
Tell me more.
[white noise]
Ah, Mort, no slacking.
How am I to know if I have auto-paid too much?
[on TV] It's one, and two,
and one, and two.
Ha-ha-ha.
Yes, yes.
Do it, Maurice.
Lemur, one last game,
all or nothing.
But I have the all, and you have the nothing.
So how does that work?
Kowalski, options.
Sorry, Skipper.
We lost my options clipboard two nights ago.
Ahhh.
Righty-o. Maurice, options.
Um, they could swear their undying loyalty to you.
Groveling, obeying,
and combing the knots out of my tail?
That'd be the idea.
Ooh, I likey.
We accept those terms.
[bell tolls]
[computer beeping]
The enemy is on the move, Skipper.
Gentlemen, commence shaking.
[jiggling noises]
Now light these candles.
[explosions]
[sonic whooshing]
I'm flying.
I'm fly--oh.
[chokes and splutters]
What is it, Private? Spit it out.
Yes, sir.
Oh, a bug.
[leaves rustling]
Those silly-Billy penguins cannot be beating me.
It is un-possible.
Think again, lemur.
[engines buzzing]
Ah!
The un-possible just became possible.
They're--they're-- they're flightless birds.
They--they--
They're flying.
Yeah.
- Terror from above. - Whoa!
Ooh, boy.
Ha.
Yah.
Ah, eh, terror.
[gasps]
[engine roaring]
Ah.
[in slow motion] Nooo.
Game, set, and match.
So when he said all or nothing--
He really meant all.
both: Weee.
Victory is sweetest when you've tasted defeat,
eh, Skipper?
No, victory is sweetest
on the lemur's bouncy.
Oh.
[tribal music]
[farting noise]
Ooh, that's a good one.
[farting noise] Ooh, and now even bigger.
[farting noise] But that one got off nicely.
Merciful mercies, what is taking so long?
Sorry, Your majesty,
just securing these balloons onto your--
Super comfy pamper time floaty throne?
Sure, let's go with that.
All right, let's get the pampering over with.
Ooh.
Ahhh.
Ooh, yeah, baby.
Thrashy-thrashy.
That's right, groom me.
Groom me like you mean it.
Give me all the grooming you've got.
- Eh. - Ah-ah-ah-ah.
There is only one set of hands
that is fitting to be touching the royal feet.
And that is...
the hands of the king himself.
Oh.
♪ Hm-hm-hmm ♪
Ooh.
[scraping]
Eee.
Oh.
Eee.
♪ Ahhh ♪
Mmm.
There, it is time to be beholding
the shiny clean and perfectly polished royal--
Eee.
No, Mort,
not the minty fresh king feet.
Ah, ooh, oh.
Ah.
[whoosh]
Hi.
- Ah. - Ahhh.
Ahhh.
[whoosh]
Ahhh.
[crash]
Oopsy.
[clears throat] You have all been called here
to dig a royal proclamation
from King Julien himself.
30 peanuts says this is about his feet.
- Make it 40. - Deal.
[clears throat] From this moment
that is happening now and on,
those who touch the king's feet,
which are mine,
will be punished most savagely.
I drew that. Me. I did.
- Oh, jeez. - Oh, man.
No feet?
Well, that's five minutes of our lives
we're not getting back.
Until I get my time machine fully functioning.
Wait, this is a very serious proclamation
that I am proclaiming.
Look, it is posted right here on the plastic volcano.
And anyone who dares to be touching my beautiful feets
shall be banish-ed from my kingdom forever!
Ever, ever, ever.
What are you doing?
Echoing you for dramatic effect.
Oh, nice, I like it.
Now, go to rebuilding my super comfy pamper time floaty throne.
And make it floatier and super-duper comfy.
Banished forever?
- Forever. - Ever, ever, ever.
[bell tolls]
[whimpering]
[snoring]
Must not think about feet.
Must count sheep.
Yay, sheep.
One... million...
[yawns] three.
Feet, Mort.
Must count feet.
Okay.
[giggles]
[snorts]
[gasps]
Oh, no, not the feet.
But I must touch.
No, no, no, no.
Oh, that's good.
Much better.
Mmm.
Ah!
- Huh? - Ah!
- Ah!
What in the feets are you doing?
Grrr.
Ah, ah!
[thuds]
[groaning]
I--wait--you have to--I--
You--you--you
are hereby banish-ed from my kingdom forever.
Maurice.
Ever, ever, ever--
what--what, wait,
do you meant that Mort is exiled for eternity?
Forever or for eternity.
I'm flexible.
But the no feet-touching law
must be of zero tolerance.
[whimpering]
Hm.
[weeping]
You cannot escape us, Mort.
Hug us.
We need hugs.
Oh, get away.
Go away, shoo, no.
Hey--hey, hey, Mort.
Yeah, I heard about the whole foot banishing thing.
And if there's anything I can do--
Trust me, cure me, fix me, save me.
Whoa, whoa, okay, I'm an otter, not a miracle worker.
But I do know someone who takes the hard cases.
Yippee.
Negative, Marlene, we are not accepting new recruits
at this time.
Oh, come on, have a heart.
No, thank you.
Besides, Mort would never pass our psych screening.
How Rico slipped through is still shrouded in mystery.
[tapping]
Hey.
Mort really isn't that bad, are you, Mort?
What--Mort?
[splat]
Okay, yeah, he is that bad.
But that's why he needs you.
I mean, you're the only one who can help him.
You are a role model.
You are a natural leader.
Well, guilty as charged.
Me, help me.
Sad eyes, fall in now.
Recruit, I'm gonna mold you like a lump of wet clay.
Yeah, have fun with that.
Oh, goody.
I'm wet clay.
[whistle blows]
What's that, Mr. Foot?
You want a hug?
Okay--ow!
Oh, all right, hug then--
oh!
Well, if you must.
Oh!
If you insist on hug.
[zapping]
[slurring] Did I do good?
Oh.
Say it with me.
They're just feet, not love.
[whistle blows]
Hmm, what's that?
You want a hug? Okay.
Ow!
No, no hug for you.
Say "please."
Ah!
Oh, sure is empty around here without Mort.
Yes, and quiet.
Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet.
Yeah.
I do not miss him one little bit.
[balloon deflating]
Now, Your Majesty, you don't really mean--
Maurice, I am not hearing the bfff.
Without the bfff,
my super comfy pamper time floaty throne
will just sit here and be a stupid chair
on the ground.
[blows raspberry]
No, no hug for you
or you.
Ah.
Don't look at me like that.
All right, a little--ah!
Oh.
When I find the wiseacre who took my shoe,
I'm gonna--whaa!
Quickly. Prolonged exposure could contaminate
the entire sector.
This is for your own good, Mort.
Oh, I want to hug it.
But I shouldn't.
You'll do more than hug it, recruit.
Rico, engage.
Oh, oh.
Oh, the horror.
[gasps]
Enjoy the feet bad.
It worked.
[whistle blows]
Bad feet, no.
No.
Bad feet.
[gasps]
♪ Ahhh ♪
Oh, sweet foot.
Hug this!
[crashing]
Wow, he's violent... but cured.
Like a Christmas ham.
He is 100% lemur-foot-phobic.
He won't even be touching his own toes.
Ah!
Skipper, look.
- Rico. - [retches]
Help, I am in need of helping.
Kowalski.
Gaining altitude at the current rate,
and given the cross wind,
I project the balloons will be punctured
in 22.6 seconds.
Hot dog.
Ringtail's in trouble.
King Julien.
Suit up, men.
You too, Private.
But I'm Private.
All right, he's Private number two.
I like number two.
OperationLuftballons is a go.
[sonic whooshing]
What is--oh, hot, hot, hot. Help.
[popping]
[splintering]
Ah!
Cheese and crackers.
Struggling will just make it worse.
Huh? I cannot hear you
over my frantic and panicked struggling.
[popping]
Hold still.
Almost got you.
I--ahhh!
Grrr.
I got you. Yay.
[straining]
Oh, no.
What? What is with the stopping?
Yank me into safety already.
King Julien feet bad.
What? No, no.
Uh, feet good.
Please, I never thought I'd say this,
but touch my feet.
Grab them.
The boy will never touch Julien's feet again in his life.
Hug my feet. Squeeze them.
He is 100% lemur-foot-phobic.
Mort, love them.
They're just feet, not love.
Feet.
Ah!
Yay.
This is about feet again, isn't it?
Deja vu.
We tried to make Mort foot-phobic,
but we failed.
Ironically, if not for our failure,
Julien would be sleeping with the hot dogs.
Dead.
Exactly. That's not failure.
That's redefined objectives.
Right.
Attention, peoples.
I am hereby decreeing
that my new no-feet-touching decree
is a decree I am un-decreeing forever.
Ever, ever, ever.
[murmured sighs]
What?
Okay, fine.
I also officially thank Mort for saving me,
welcome him back to the kingdom, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
I'm home!
No, not the feet.
Fine, I shall be permitting one hug.
How bad could one hug be?
Eee-he-he-he.
Ah!
It's bad.
Bad, bad, bad.
[brassy detective music]