An emergency teleportation beam whisked Jerry away to the Galactic Medical Center. The nurses here wore prism-like prosthetic eyes, yet their tones were surprisingly gentle. “Don’t worry, we have the best doctors in the entire galaxy,” one reassured him. Before the words faded, a gunshot suddenly rang out from the examination room. A doctor with compound eyes collapsed into a pool of blood. Rick held up the gun and blew the smoke from the barrel: “Now we’ve got the second-best. Make do with it.” Beth, finally losing her patience, shoved Rick into the waiting room and ordered him not to cause any more trouble. The TV in the waiting room looped alien pet funeral service ads. Finding the footage boring, Rick quickly dismantled the set-top box and stuffed in a glimmering blue crystal—an interdimensional signal-receiving time-space crystal. In an instant, the screen flickered to life with absurd programs from parallel universes: a documentary tea ching Zerg how to train human pets, and a cooking show hosted by a three-headed alien.
When Jerry was roused from his stupor, his hospital bed was already surrounded by solemn-looking aliens. The lead alien ambassador, whose head was shaped like a letter “T,” cleared his throat, his tone as formal as if delivering a royal decree: “Congratulations on your recovery, but the galaxy is in crisis—the greatest civil rights leader is on his deathbed, in urgent need of a heart transplant. And your penis is a perfect match for his physiology.” A doctor with bulbous cheeks stepped forward immediately to elaborate, projecting a holographic diagram of blood vessels: “In terms of elasticity, thickness, and vein distribution, your genitalia is far more suitable as a heart replacement than any artificial organ.”
Jerry was completely dumbfounded. Before he could refuse, the surrounding aliens launched a relentless moral offensive. An alien scholar shook his head and pontificated: “Earth civilization is too primitive, still stuck in the phase of phallic worship. You couldn’t possibly understand the leader’s significance to the universe.” Another hot-tempered alien slammed his fist on the table and roared: “This is a waste of time! Earthlings have no sense of sacrifice at all!” These words pricked at Jerry’s ego—this man, who had spent his whole life craving approval, suddenly felt he bore the honor of Earth on his shoulders. “Take it!” he slammed his palm on the bed. “Let the entire galaxy see the courage of Earthlings!”
But when the doctor picked up a laser pointer and traced the incision line on his crotch, Jerry’s momentary enthusiasm cooled instantly. “I need to discuss this with my wife,” he stammered, secretly planning to let Beth be the “villain” who vetoed the idea. When Beth was ushered into the examination room, Jerry winked frantically to signal her, but the doctor had already prepared a backup plan. He handed over an exquisite album filled with pictures of mechanical penises in various styles. “After the removal, we’ll install the most advanced model for free—it has vibration modes and can even project starry skies,” he explained. Beth’s fingers paused on the album, and Jerry’s heart leaped into his throat.
“This isn’t about mechanical penises!” Beth suddenly slammed the album on the table. “My husband just came here to treat food poisoning—you can’t turn him into a eunuch!” Jerry had just breathed a sigh of relief when the doctor said calmly: “This leader maintains peace for hundreds of billions of lives. His death would trigger a cosmic war.” Beth’s expression wavered. She turned to Jerry: “If you truly want to do this, I won’t stop you.” Jerry was now stuck between a rock and a hard place, realizing he had unwittingly pushed himself onto the edge of a moral cliff.
While confined to the doctor’s office to “say goodbye to his penis,” Jerry stumbled upon the leader’s medical records. The information on the screen made his eyes widen—the so-called “anti-narcotics crusader” had been secretly using interstellar drugs for a long time! He immediately hatched a counterplan. At the galaxy-wide live broadcasted commendation ceremony, Jerry cleared his throat: “The leader has dedicated himself to fighting drug addiction—truly a noble role model.” Then he suddenly changed tack: “But did you all know? He’s been using banned substances this entire time.”
The audience fell deathly silent. Just as Jerry was savoring his triumph, a reporter stood up to retort: “10% of the atmosphere on his home planet is composed of that drug! He’s been fighting it since the day he was born!” This single sentence completely turned public opinion. The crowd began to roar: “You just want to keep your penis!” To make matters worse, the T-headed ambassador suddenly announced: “Thanks to the attention Jerry’s story has generated, the entire galaxy has donated funds for the leader—enough to buy the most advanced artificial heart, a million times better than his penis.”
Humiliation and rage clouded Jerry’s judgment. He stole a “gun” and rushed into the operating room, screaming at the doctors to perform the transplant immediately. When Beth and the security guards arrived, the room fell into an eerie silence—what Jerry was holding wasn’t a gun at all, but that star-projecting mechanical penis, which was beaming pink heart patterns onto the surgical lamp. In the chaos, Jerry was shot by security guards, taking fifty-seven bullets before collapsing to the floor.
When he woke up again, Jerry was lying in a hospital bed, with his whole family gathered around him. “I just wanted everyone to like me,” he mumbled, voice trembling with grievance. Morty patted his shoulder: “You can’t make everyone like you. It’s like when I do Rick and Morty commentary videos—I always get hate, but you just wait until they get tired of yelling.” This sentence was like a key, unlocking Jerry’s. He suddenly sat up: “C’mon, let’s take the whole family to the zoo!” The response was a chorus of refusals. Beth shrugged helplessly: “What do you expect? You’re always stirring up these farces.”