Previously on Jack and Jill: Jack and Matt have end-of-date awkwardness, discussing when, if ever, she will invite him in; Elisa's fire-engine red office casuals draw stares from a handsome stranger and she thinks it's love; Barto offers Audrey "something better than safe" and, judging from his mild manner and cozy sweater, we suspect that he doesn't mean "danger"; Jill learns that the woman he just bunked with is married, "but that doesn't mean we can't have fun, eh?" she says, speaking for married women everywhere -- or at least adulterous Canadian wives on The WB.
Mikey's fern bar. Jill swills a refreshing Dos Equis. Ogling two women dressed for winter IN LOS ANGELES, where this New York-set show is blatantly filmed, Mikey announces his desire to seek out "a pseudo-girlfriend," a phenomenon he defines as "more than a one-night stand but less than someone you've got to go out with every Saturday night." I believe the correct term would be "quasi-" or even "semi-girlfriend," but who's asking. Certainly not Randi Mayem Singer, who wrote this episode. Apparently "the beauty of" this arrangement is that the hapless pseudo-girlfriend never knows about her rookie status, and is therefore deprived of the contingent glee when, if ever, she gets "bumped up." Let the record show that Simon Rex learned a few things about getting bumped up in his career trajectory from Young Hard and Solo to prime time. The man-child knows of what he speaks. And Mikey, that troglodytic comment just earned you the nickname "Missing Link."
Jack walks into the bar, wearing a wrongly-placed barrette that makes her head resemble the body of a squid. Jill grills Jack on Matt's whereabouts while Link smirks knowingly. Despite the fact that he's the sole bartender in an ostensibly crowded bar, he has ample time to stand around coining synonyms for the phrase "fuck buddy." "Maybe you're a pseudo," he suggests to Jack, flaunting his agrammatical joie de vivre by using an adjectival prefix as a noun. Jack protests feebly that she's seen Matt "every Saturday night for the last…week." Link and Jill debate the likelihood of Matt juggling other pseudos, and Jill decides he wants to procure a pseudo-girlfriend of his own. Right on cue, a busty brunette with a poodle perm swivels around on the barstool behind him and asks if he's David Jillefsky. When he says yes -- with the unctuous leer of the about-to-get-lucky -- she hands him a summons and says, in the saucy, suggestive manner of subpoena-deliverers everywhere (oh, never mind), "Congratulations. You've been sued." Hoisting her chest off the bar, she hobbles into the night. Trusty Link assures Jill that she was not pseudo material.
Roll credits. Boys walking together, girls walking together, cops walking together, district attorneys walking together -- oh wait, I was dreaming of Law and Order. And now it's time to wake up and smell the bitter brew . . . but I can't, because I'm too preoccupied with your Wind Song. Which haunts me so that I must quit my job at the foundry and mow you down on a trestle bridge.
Jill faces his lawyer in Cloudia's Café, the kind of brightly-lit, muffins-‘n'-cocoa bakery you find on every street corner in Manhattan. Or at least on the Warner Brothers lot in Studio City. The lawyer, a dissipated character actor destined for "Hey, It's That Guy!" status on Fametracker, explains the case to Jill with his mouth full, the soundtrack drenched in gratuitous chewing sounds. Jill is apparently being sued for alienating the affections of Laurie Tindell from her husband, Michael Preston. "I didn't steal anyone's hhhwife!" Jill protests adenoidally, causing everyone in the café to drop their forks and stare at him, shocked as they are by the slightest thing, like New Yorkers everywhere . . . in Utah.
The lawyer sprays, not says, more dialogue while continuing to chew audibly. He dismisses the case as harassment and promises to "make it go away" before cutting to the chase: "So . . . you had some hot sex with her, huh?" He then bares a set of nicotine-stained teeth and chortles at his own witticism while Jill stares slack-jawed into space. I could be wrong, but in this scene they might be broaching the revolutionary concept that lawyers have questionable morals! What will they think of ? Maybe something about how bartenders are salacious knuckle-scrapers, maybe? Oh, wait -- they already did that. Let's move on.
News office. Jack, festooned in Polarfleece, runs into Matt at the elevator. Naturally, she is wearing a tasseled yak-fur hat with earflaps. And he has on a Shriner's fez and two oven mitts. Oh wait, that was actually an acid flashback. He's dressed like an on-air news personality. Let's call him Anchormatt. They trade amorous chit-chat until Anchormatt breaks from an incipient clinch to board the elevator with another colleague. He makes a big point of thanking her for the nonexistent "work she's been doing." Perplexed, Jack bobbles her hatted head in a gesture I assume is meant to suggest humorous consternation. She heads straight to Elisa's desk, where Elisa is staring dreamily at a video monitor. Jack whips off the hat and says, "Should it bother me that Matt doesn't want anyone in the office to know that we're dating?" Bare-headed, she's got the critical case of hat-head she bought and paid for when she donned that silly rag in the first place. "Doth it bother you?" asks the lip-glossed Elisa, or should I say lisp-glossed, as she mangles every sibilant. I hereby dub her Elispa. Today Elispa has borrowed her wardrobe from Holly Hobbie. You know what they say -- when climbing the corporate ladder, be sure to wear lots of pastel rompers. Jack blathers on about whether it's good to publicize an office romance, especially since she and Anchormatt "are not necessarily exclusive." Elispa suggests that perhaps this is the bothersome factor, then turns back to the video screen. Jack sees that Elispa is scanning Office Fight Night footage for "that mystery guy." Elispa succinctly says, "Scho?" Just as Jack is lecturing her on the dangers of wanting candy from strangers, Elispa freeze-frames on the boy in question, filmed in @Bar carrying a video. More simpering from Elispa, more safety-first from Jack.
@Bar again, where a crimp-haired blonde is doing all the work Link neglected to do in his last scene. Jill and Barto have another round of frosty, delectable Dos Equis. And what do you know, Link is getting bumped up to manager by his shaggy, flannel-clad boss. Shaggy lists the numerous new chores Link must take on tomorrow, which is apparently his day off. Link protests feebly as the boys congratulate him. And at this moment -- with all three male leads facing the camera, their features underlit by the bar -- I realize that every last one of them has a cleft chin. Not to mention the tufted hairdo popularized by my Abyssinian guinea pig, the aptly named Reh-Reh. Barto, however, can't quite pull off the tufted look, so his hair has been ironed into whorls and laminated to his scalp. Which is why they call him the brains of this outfit.
Outside, Audrey and Jack walk through some smoking dry ice intended to make L.A. seem like New York in winter. Like a dog returning to its own vomit, Jack is again sporting the llama-wool hat. Meanwhile Audrey is working the cowboys-and-Indians motif with a leather duster, suede mini and a set of tres Pocahontas mini-braids. Perhaps, in line with the American-history motif, her lime chenille sweater is a reference to the carpetbaggers. I'm caught between wanting to call her Ferret-Face due to her beaky physiognomy, and Low Rent because an early episode had her starring in a poor man's version of the musical Rent. Which is saying a lot, because Rent itself sucks out loud. I'll go with Ferret for this episode, the better to set up a joke toward the end. To enjoy this joke, you must keep in mind that a ferret is similar to a weasel. Stay tuned.
Anyway, Ferret-Face quizzes Jack about what Barto has or hasn't said about her. She reveals that she found his offer of something "better than safe" quite romantic. She's in for a bitter pill when she finds out what he really meant was condoms and a total vasectomy. Jack echoes Barto's comments about Ferret-Face ditching healthy relationships because she's scared she'll "ultimately lose control and be completely happy." It's hard to take Jack too seriously, however, since with her exaggerated features and fuzzy Incan headgear, she resembles a manic sock puppet in this scene.
Ferret-Face and Jack walk into the fern bar to find Barto and Jill sitting there with Link. FF brays, "Hi guys," then whispers, "Barto, can I talk to you for a second?" Barto says Meg is waiting for him at the library -- they have a "huge test." In the magic underlighting of @Bar, it's revealed that FF also has a cleft chin. Which could well mean that, like Amanda Peet, Jaime Pressly is packing a Y chromosome or two. But for the time being, the dude looks like a lady, albeit with the features of a burrowing vole. "Who's Meg?" she asks aggressively, and Link says, "One of his study groupies." FF flees in search of night-life options featuring more cedar shavings and hoardable roughage. Jack starts hectoring Jill about his lawsuit, claiming that if the case gets to court she will ask for jury duty. He retaliates by implying that perhaps Anchormatt is not actually on assignment when he says he is. One-trick pony that he is, Link pops up to spout helpful bons mots about pseudos. Getting Jack to admit that she and Matt haven't had sex yet, he says, "Okay, rule of thumb. If you're not sure you're the only one, you're probably not." He and Jill nod sagely at each other while Jack tries to swill her San Pellegrino water in an insouciant fashion, but succeeds only in looking dyspeptic.
Jill inadvertently hits on the plaintiff's lawyer, a scrunchy-wearing gal who imbues each sentence with a surplus of smarmy topspin. Jill discovers her affiliation as the judge opens her chambers. The ragtime noodlings of just comeuppance play in the background as Jill stands in the hall with his mouth open. Meanwhile, back at the Bachelor Barn, Link sits at a breakfast bar in an ecru jersey and orange Polarfleece. As he examines his key-ring, which is newly enhanced due to his managerial duties, Barto comes up and pats him on the back. My boyfriend exclaims, "They're gay!" Link says, "Don't you think this is, like, too many keys? All of a sudden I feel weighted down by keys." Barto says that perhaps Link should look past the keys to what they represent, then heads to the door where the ferret lies in wait. She's dressed in a puffy, winter-white ensemble that makes her resemble an ambulatory maxi-pad. Barto asks her to excuse him due to the fact that he has "the biggest exam of [his] life" in 52 hours. The arctic weasel will not be denied. "Look," she says. "You said some pretty intinse [sic] things to me the other day and I just wanted to finish the conversation." It seems Barto can live without the sexual tinsion Ferret-Face is peddling. He leaves for the library while FF looks incredulous at his immunity to her wiles.
Jill stands in the courthouse hallway, berating his lawyer for not having the case dismissed. The lawyer explains that this is because the plaintiff's lawyer requested a judge whose husband just left her for "a 26-year-old hostess at Red Lobster." Check the Yellow Pages, writers. No Red Lobsters in Manhattan. None. ["There’s one in Queens, though. Can someone shoot me for knowing that? Great, thanks." -- Sars] Jill's lawyer goes off in search of more food to chew audibly, leaving him open to more spunky, flirtatious one liners from Scrunchy McBeal.
The set: a supply closet. Clearly, The WB blew this show's whole budget on its cleft-chin allowance, forcing the characters to skulk around boiler rooms in clothes they've knitted themselves. Anchormatt lurks behind a shelf of videos, all the better to accost Jack. Freak that she is, she looks elated to see him. They arrange a date for 8 PM, and she bares her big horse-teeth in delight. Later, she walks arm-in-arm through Central Park (South Central Park, that is) with Elispa. My boyfriend walks through the living room and shouts, "They're gay!" Jack quizzes Elispa on whether she should ask Anchormatt to make their liaison public. "You mean as a thinly-veiled premise for discussing the exclusiveness issue," says Elispa, having a field day with the many "S" sounds in that sentence. "Just hang in there," she continues. "See if there's a shift." Or seashells by the seashore, whichever comes first. Jack reveals that he's making dinner for her that night, after only four dates, including a Saturdate. Elispa classifies this as a "total shift," then advises Jack to "feel pretty secure about [her] underwear selection." Jack does eyebrow gymnastics of anticipatory trepidation. Apparently, in Jack and Elispa's world, when a fella wants to have sex, one simply has sex with him. Antioch College this is not. In fact, it would seem that the morals for this show are provided by Maxim magazine.
Link works the phones with the dreaded Keyring Of Unwanted Responsibility at his side. The crimping-iron addict, whose hair flares out to resemble the headdress of Nefertiti, is detailing the bar in a pair of rubber gloves. Shaggy approaches and asks how Link likes his new job, then cuts to the chase: "You've got to fire Belinda (Rubber Gloves). We're overstaffed on waitresses and let's face it -- Belinda's a little bizarre. So get rid of her. By tomorrow." Wow. That dude doesn't have sideburns for nothing. He's a hard-ass. Link looks stricken, then makes eye-contact with the doomed Belinda, who congratulates him on his promotion while impishly snapping her gum. In her chest-hugging micro-tee and crimp-hair-don'tness, she seems as innocent and pure as an endangered harp seal.
More legal hijinks. Scrunchy interrogates Jill about his sordid dealings with the plaintiff's wife. Crackling repartee ensues when Jill tries to bank her questions right back at her. She goes for the throat by claiming that Jill neglected to ask Ms. Tindell if she was married in order to preserve his "adolescent fantasy of true love." Jill sputters, "Is this, like, legal?" to which his lawyer says, "That went well." Jill offers the side-splitting rejoinder, "You're fired."
Jack bustles around in a towel, fondling her own underwear while Ferret-Face watches from a window seat. My boyfriend passes through and yells hopefully, "They're gay!" FF asks why Jack doesn't just ask Anchormatt if he's seeing other people. Jack says it's too soon; yet, as FF points out, she's preparing to bunk with him that very night. This back-and-forth leads to the unsavory revelation that, though Anchormatt has a "certain reputation" and Jack "can't expect him to be exclusive," she wants "to rip his clothes off -- so much." So nauseating was this confession that henceforth, Jack will be called "Yack."
Jill looks for lawyers in the Yellow Pages. Cleft-chin twin Link enters, looking dejected about having to fire someone. Barto too appears with study-chum Meg. They are reciting medical facts while balancing books on their heads, the idea being that "if you can retain material while executing a simple motor task, then you have successfully memorized that material." Link suggests sex as a simpler motor task, causing Meg to drop her book in the sink. Barto says that he and Meg are just friends. Meg, a big gal by this show's standards, looks mildly chagrined. He then says, "Sex is a surefire way to deplete mental stamina, not to mention make me sleepy." I take it this is the sole reason for his avoidance of the crafty rodent who is stalking him. Anyway, Jill decides to defend himself in the case, and -- in lieu of unavailable first choice Barto -- accepts Link as his character witness.
Close-up of a cutting board with garlic, chives, and tomatoes -- oooh, the patented Stir-Fry Of Seduction. And it must have worked, because Yack and Anchormatt are lounging by the -- blazing fireplace? In a New York apartment? At any rate, they are sipping red wine and listening to mood music, like any pair of self-respecting yuppies in a Turning Leaf commercial. Yack spoils the moment by asking Anchormatt about his mantel, in particular the pictures of him with Fawning Women Of Unknown Provenance. He is none too forthcoming about this, nor when she asks him where he was the night before. They share an uncomfortable silence; Anchormatt asks if she'd like him to take her home. She says yes and he puts his hand to his forehead as a mournful folkie bleats in the background. Yack closes her eyes in acknowledgment of her failure to fork over her underwear on a shiny platter, as one must do when a man cooks anything, ever. Clearly, she'll have some 'splaining to do when she sees Elispa.
Jill deposes Link, with predictably disastrous results. Scrunchy, Esquire reveals on cross-examination that Link, too, slept with a married woman, a charge he dismisses by claiming, "We were really careful." Jill looks dejected. The judge shakes her head in disgust -- or perhaps just sadness, due to her own husband's recent desertion with Susie Crab-Legs.
Elispa fritters away the peak hours in her crowded newsroom by begging Blockbuster Video for information about Mister E. Get it? Mystery/Mister E? Good, because I'm running short on snappy monikers. Apparently, the video footage showed him carrying a Blockbuster copy of Life is Beautiful. Which he washed down, I suspect, with a delightful Dos Equis. Yack appears and threatens to "stage an intervention." Elispa invokes fate, and Yack says, "Sometimes fate is just a weird, meaningless coincidence." Elispa looks even more plaintively dopey than usual, causing Yack to toss her a bone. "And sometimes . . . it's fate," she says, restoring Elispa's face to its habitual expression of childlike wonderment. Sadly, though, her hair, which has been ironed, remains as flat as her dialogue in this scene.
The sad-sack cuckold has his day in court, and removes his glasses for the occasion. He delivers the goods with a soliloquy on marital bereavement that leaves the judge and stenographer weeping quietly -- and Jill gaping dumbly with an "uh-oh" expression on his face.
Yack is back in the video closet. As is his custom, Anchormatt is hiding in the stacks. He asks her out for the following night. She says yes and abruptly flees, leaving Anchormatt alone in the closet, looking mystified. Later, Yack encounters Jill in the apartment hallway, looking sportif with his basketball and Knicks sweatshirt. He asks her about Anchormatt and she waffles, concluding that he's great but she doesn't know what she wants -- she knows what he wants, but doesn't know "what else he has." She concludes that she shouldn't be "sharing this" with Jill, since he is "just bursting with smartassiness." While she, I should note, is imploding with dumbassiness. They move on to discussion of the lawsuit and Yack asks if he regrets hooking up with that woman. Jill says he doesn't regret it because "it felt real at the time" and he took a chance et cetera and so on, so follow your heart. He fakes Yack out with the basketball and warns her if she tells anyone he sapped out, he'll deny the conversation ever took place.
Link disposes of Rubber-Gloves, and she smiles through brave tears to thank him for being "so cool" about it. Somewhere across town, Ferret-Face walks through the library as if it's the mothership of an alien species. She stares at the many books with slack-jawed incomprehension because dancers, it seems, are illiterate. Some non-shaving boy band whines in the background about "falling for her charm" as FF spots Barto laughing with his med-school pals. Meg has caught the mini-braid virus that's been going around, and FF sizes her up before fleeing. Barto looks up too late, then stares musingly into space like a man tormented by a pesky, lingering waft of Wind Song. Or the spoor of a marauding weasel, take your pick.
Back at the burrow, FF nibbles on some pellets while Yack folds some gold lamé tap pants. Yack has internalized Jill's carpe diem lecture by deciding to have sex with Anchormatt, regardless of whether he's exclusive or not. "We're two mature adults who want each other," she explains, while vigorously brushing imaginary lint off her duvet cover. And I, I explain, am a mature adult who wants all of you dead. FF says Yack has changed, and Yack fires back that Ferret, who was once "the queen of what-the-hell," is acting suddenly cautious about Barto. "What are you so afraid of?" asks Yack. "He's a great, smart, cute, sensitive guy -- the kind of guy you could actually end up with." Ferret implies that this in and of itself is scary, and I'd just like to add that if I were thinking of dating Barto, I myself would be just a leetle bit worried about back hair. Not to mention condescending doctor-speak. So there's that.
Street scene. Yack walks the streets of So Not New York, accompanied by the Incidental Music Of Unwanted Discoveries. Even her Prada bag is cold comfort when she spots Anchormatt in a coffee-shop window, brushing the lacquered bangs away from the face of a Crystal Bernard Doppelganger. Close-up of Yack's stricken face and flyaway hair.
Never having to see another Mastercard ad that tries to commodify nonconformity: priceless.
Scrunchy's closing argument. She contends that, "by making efforts to persuade Laura Tindell that her marriage was a failure, David Jillefsky intentionally sought to end the marriage contract between two people." They adjourn for lunch and Jill accosts Scrunchy, who displays yet another Goody hair product in her meager ponytail. "You've almost got me thinking I'm a jerk," he says, petulantly. She says she shouldn't even be talking to him, and he self-servingly suggests that perhaps she "can't help it." He walks out, leaving her to execute a decathlon of facial gymnastics ranging in import from "why I oughtta" to "you're so right!"
Yack's in the closet again. Are we sure she's not actually a janitor? Anchormatt ambushes her, as is his wont. Not since Halloween's Michael Myers has there been a character so enamored of sneak attacks. Jack shuts him down on that night's date and implies that it's over between them. She comes out of the closet (and for once my boyfriend is nowhere to be found). Anchormatt trails after her, asking for reasons. She hums a few bars of "it's not you, it's me," then goes on to explain that she can't handle "the kinds of casual relationships" that he handles. The way she says this, it sounds like the relationships he's handling are with children, animals, and dead people. He objects that he never wanted it to be casual, and she confronts him on his blow-dried breakfast date, then back-peddles by saying, "You're allowed to have breakfast with whoever [sic] you want to have breakfast with." Anchormatt protests that he doesn't "want to have breakfast with anyone." Clearly, he's forgetting that the best part of waking up is Folger's in your cup! He goes on to say that he brunched with that floozy in order to inform her that their breakfasting days were over. Yeah, tell me another one. And he does, enthusing, "I only want to be with you!" Credulous rube that she is, Yack buys it. The soundtrack cues up another whimper-rock ballad as they make out in the newsroom as if slow-dancing under a mirrored disco-ball. Elispa and colleagues look on in awestricken approval. Anchormatt pries himself from Yack's clutches to announce, "So we're dating. And it's kind of serious." Yack giggles and does ten eyebrow pushups, though clearly Matt's chin-cleft deficit means that his days on this show are numbered. Suffice it to say that their honeymoon won't last long without the services of a plastic surgeon.
Jill's closing argument. And what do you know, it's a tearjerker. He apologizes and reiterates that if he'd known Laurie was married, he never would have dated her in the first place. "But I wasn't wrong in putting myself out there, because you have to, completely," he says. He goes on to reprise the speech about risk-taking he gave to Yack, leaving the judge looking deeply moved, the plaintiff looking achy breaky, and McScrunch looking like she's swallowed a sack of nails. Welling, bass-heavy music underscores their shared epiphany.
Barto takes a study break, making meaningful eye contact with his anatomy skeleton. Could he be thinking of time's winged chariot? Right on cue, here comes the marginally less skeletal Ferret-Face, wearing a bust-enhancing baby-blue shirt she must have stolen from Elispa. "You owe me a second," she tells the dumbfounded Barto, who dothn't protest too much. She tells him he was right that she gets scared and pushes people away. He says that's not important now, and he really has to study. She remembers that he has five hours until the biggest exam of his career, and he's flattered that she's kept track but -- "I want you," interrupts Ferret. Pop goes the weasel, ladies and gentlemen. That was the joke I've been saving for the bitter end -- I can only hope it was worth the wait. "Well," Barto squirms, "I'm triply flattered, but I think I made it clear that I'm not interested in jumping into bed with you every time you get bored." Ferret-Face mouth-breathes and lip-reads at the same time. Then she grabs his head in a vice-like grip and goes at him like a plunge router. When they part, she says, "I. Want. To. BE. With you." This statement gives rise to bilateral CPR, accompanied by the deafening strains of Van Morrison. Barto pulls back and breathes into her hair like he's thinking of munching on her head. "Well, this is good," he says. They share a chuckle, and FF gives a toothsome grin that makes her look capable of gnawing a redwood into kindling. "But now you have to go," he concludes, shoving her toward the door. She says, "Whaaat?" truly incredulous that her estrogen tsunami hasn't achieved the desired effect. They resolve to meet again in seven hours, and FF scurries back to the Habitrail Hideout to work off some sexual frustration on her squeaky metal wheel.
@Bar. Link turns over his key ring to Shaggy, explaining that he can't accept the promotion. Shaggy, whose chin is the uncleftiest of all the male characters on the show, must now devise an exit strategy for himself that doesn't involve grooming Link as his replacement. Link spouts some turbo-inanity about figuring out "all this life stuff." Shaggy says the job is not much and Link says he doesn't want to be "the boss of not much," which is sort of a backhanded jab at poor Shaggy, who is, in effect, the owner of not much. Shaggy relents and urges Link to resume his former duties -- of standing behind the bar like a Members Only-clad lawn jockey.
Cue the syrupy Jewel-track that tells us it's Elispa's scene. She's reading on the bus when a second bus toting Mister E pulls up beside her. She gets his attention and he exhorts her to get off at the stop. But sadly, she has taken the express, and not even her cleavage-baring top and autumnal broom skirt can persuade the gruff driver to stop just for her. Elispa gropes the back window like a myopic mime while Mister E stares after the bus, wincing in the agony of defeat. He waves goodbye, and I size up the divot in his chin to find out if he really means it.
Scrunchy approaches Jill on the street outside the courthouse. Her face is distorted with the anticipation of using all the barbed witticisms she has up her sleeve. "I guess congratulations are in order," she says, but refuses to actually congratulate him. "I understand -- you're bitter," Jill says. "I would be too if I got my ass handed to me by a layman." "I -- think I'll survive," responds Scrunchy, with a crimped brow of restrained hilarity. Jack asks her out, and she agrees, gazing at the taillights of his cab with wistful perkiness. Let's hope this character undergoes a plot twist that lands her in the dental scene from Marathon Man. Her Wind Song gives me a rash.
Anchormatt and Yack gaze languorously at each other over a Scrabble board, each sipping a fine Merlot. Anchormatt offers to "order Chinese or whip up some pasta," so determined is he to see Yack's underwear. Yack reclines sultrily and scratches her head like a chimp. She knows what the answer to his question must be. "I have a much more important question," she says. "What are you going to make me -- for breakfast?" A crescendo of whimper-rock drowns out Matt's litany of breakfast options ("Let's see -- Ovaltine and Tater Tots? Count Chocula with a Tang chaser?" Okay, I'm lying), and they get horizontal for another bout of extended groping. My boyfriend pops in and says tentatively, "They're . . . gay?" And for once he is right, because it's just a matter of moments before Anchormatt finds out exactly how much Yack knows about the crying game.