A/n: I'll just say it: Some episodes of Frasier suck.

In my opinion,"Our Father Whose Art Ain't Heaven" is one of the worst in the whole series. Half the dialogue jumps back and forth between melodramatic or stilted. The plot tugs on threads in a story, then abandons them for no reason. But the worst part of it is the climax. Not only is the drama over-the-top, but the Crane boys are acting completely out of character (they all start wailing and bawling over a painting!).

Even though it would get a facelift from realistic dialogue and resolved storylines, it needs a rewritten climax. And since I don't know of any author who's rewritten this scene, I want to give it a try.

Martin raised his eyebrows. "You're telling me you don't like the painting?"

Frasier shrugged. "Well, it's not that I don't like it. It's just that I don't love it...it's not me."

That was putting it mildly. If he had been completely honest, he would have called it a monstrosity. But he needed to say something—it didn't have to be the full truth, but close enough to it—and Martin would say, "Sure, Fras, I'll take the painting back."

But Martin didn't. Something occurred to him, and his face darkened in anger. "If you didn't like it, why were you fawning over it at the restaurant?"

Frasier fought the urge to get snippy. What was the point in spelling out the obvious?

"I had to, Dad. It was full and we didn't have a reservation."

"So you lied to the guy."

"It was just a little flattery."

"Yeah, well, it's still lying. I thought I raised you both better than that."

Now he started to look irritated. "Come on, Dad, you were a cop. You know how people are."

Martin smiled darkly at him. "Yeah, I should. Especially when they're my own son."

And he hobbled out of the kitchen, leaving Frasier to follow after him in indignation.

"Well, what about you, Dad?"

"What about me?"

"Daphne was going to make that sheep's head stew, and you made an excuse."

"I had to, Fras! I didn't wanna barf all over the table!"

"Well, that's why I want to take the painting back. I don't want to look at it and barf all over the table."

Martin pointed a finger over his shoulder. "You know what? You'd better get used to that thing, 'cause I'm not taking it back."

"Yes, you are, Dad!"

"Like hell. It's a masterpiece."

"Look at my apartment, Dad. Don't you notice a theme here? African statues, wooden hues, soft tones. And then there's that gaudy monstrosity, with neon colors and blood spewing out of an epileptic bull. Wasn't there a song in Sesame Street? Oh, yes, there was: 'One of these things doesn't belong here!'"

"What, do you think I'm blind? I knew that painting was hideous. Even Thomas Kinkade knows better than to dump that much color on a canvas."

"Then why did you buy it?"

"Because you said you liked it."

"Well, ask me if I like something before you buy it."

"I wouldn't have to ask if you said what you mean!"

"Well, I am now!"

Just then, Niles came out of the hall. He was holding a hair dryer in one hand and his cellphone in the other.

"Can you believe this? The last three people who were coming to my party just said they couldn't make it. Apparently, Maris told them I purchase my hors d'oeuvres from some place called 'Costco.' But that's not even the worst of it. Now she wants me to come over and personally fix her ice sculpture—because Sven had to leave on some sort of emergency. You think I'd tell her to take that little excuse and shove it? Ho, ho, no. I'm going over there, and I'm going to make a few small repairs to that sculpture. By the time I'm through, it's going to have orifices in certain bodily regions that are...shall we say?...unsuitable for public discourse."

Martin and Frasier didn't answer. They were looking away from each other and brooding.

"Dad...Frasier...what's going on?"

"Oh, nothing," Martin said. "You and Frasier were lying to get what you wanted—what else is new?"

Niles cocked his head. "Wait a minute. Are you talking about the painting at the restaurant?" He gave it an obligatory glance. Everyone else could see him dying a little inside, but he forced a grin onto his face. "Come on, Dad, you know I think it's lovely—"

"Oh, give it a rest. Seriously, you two are so full of yourselves, you think you can just lie and get away with it."

"We do not."

"No? What about that snobby club? You and Frasier were tripping over yourselves to get in. They had one opening, and you kept stabbing each other in the back. Is that what it takes to live in high society? You have to treat people like crap to get what you want?"

"No, Dad, it's what it takes to live in the real world—the world where people lie and scheme to get into high society."

"Yeah, well, you're not Maris. After all those years of living with her, don't you think you should know better?"

"Dad, don't make this about me. This is about Frasier. Maybe you should remind him of last Thanksgiving, when he tried to enroll Frederick in that private school. He spent the whole day buttering up the headmaster."

Frasier gritted his teeth. "Niles, will you shut up?"

Niles lifted his hands and stepped backward. "I'm just the messenger."

Frasier dismissed him with a sigh. "Just for the record, Dad, I was doing what was best for Frederick."

"No, Fras, you were doing what was best for you. You could have sent Freddie to any one of those fancy schools, and he would have been happy. Did you? No. You had to find the snootiest one with the snobbiest faculty, because it's all about you and your ego. You have to be a blue-blood coast to coast."

Niles cocked his head. "That's what this is about. You resent the fact that one of your sons didn't grow up to be a beer-guzzling baseball head. You had a fifty-fifty chance at one of us turning out to be like you, but we turned out like Mom. What else, Dad? Are you wishing we'd gotten our Ph.D.'s out of a box of Cracker Jacks?"

Frasier chuckled. "That's not what this is about, Niles. It's about him and his insecurity."

Martin rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."

"No, Dad, it is. You never wanted to move in with me, because you and I live in two different worlds. Then you finally thought you could get me something I liked; you tried and it didn't work out. Instead of admitting that gift-giving isn't your strong suit and you and I don't connect over the things I like, you tried to assassinate my character. There could hardly be an easier way to cover up your own flaws than to point out my own. Instead of building up walls around your self-image, you tear down mine."

Martin knew he pegged it. He kept his mouth shut, as if it would keep the truth away, but he let out his heaviest sigh yet.

"It's not like I have a choice," he said. "You two were smarty-pants, and I was one of the little people who kept the world running. And sure, I'm your old man, but so what? You don't appreciate me or anything about me. You act as if you're too good for me. God forbid you should do anything that would lower your IQ. And instead of being the father who raised you to be cultured and educated, I'm your father who buys a tacky wine rack from Price Busters. I'm your father whose art ain't heaven. I tried to get you something you'd like, 'cause for once I thought I had a shot. Instead, I got a $5,000 reminder of what happens when I try to connect with my own son." He glanced at the painting, then back at Frasier. "I'm not going to try anymore."

And he hobbled past them and headed for his room, leaving Frasier and Niles to stare at him in bewilderment. He pulled the door shut, and it punctuated the conversation with a heavy thud.

THE END