The Dare

Props to special guest recapper Pamie, who wrote two whole paragraphs of this recap, all by herself! See if you can guess which ones!

A very, very, very late-middle-aged couple we'll all go to bed tonight glad we don't know walks down a hospital hallway. The woman -- let's call her Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames -- stops in her tracks in the middle of the hallway and informs the man we guess to be her husband -- let's call him Mr. Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames -- "I'm scared."

A quick shot later and we discover why, as she lies on an examination table while two hands navigate around a giant protrusion sticking out of the woman's abdomen. The hands belong to a doctor who tells her, "I'm almost done," and, from the looks of what she's contending with, so is she. The doctor, to whom the wandering hands belong, pulls Comedy Killer Deaths Like Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames's shirt back down as the woman admits, "I thought they would go away, but then they never did. They just kept growing and growing." Say, did you hear the one about cancer? No. Me neither. So, moving on.

The doctor flips open Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames's chart and notes, "I see you've had symptoms." She responds that her symptoms have been "mainly indigestion," but he counters with a note in her file that there has also been "vomiting, blood in your stool," and doubtlessly other harbingers of the very bad that render her days numbered and my lunch unfinished. The doctor asks why she didn't call him earlier, and she tells him that she knows they've been putting it off, but that "we were supposed to go to Florida to visit our son. We haven't seen him in over a year. We were gonna call you as soon as we got back, but the pain got too bad." Rather than fly off the handle and preach away as my doctors often have ("Don't you know the importance of flossing daily?" "Those drugs are supposed to be used for medical purposes only!" "I don't care what your financial situation is...you simply cannot apply to donate your eggs!" ["Well, you could apply." -- Wing Chun]), this kindly doctor is more subdued in his response, advising, "We'll just start doing some tests and hope for the best." Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames volleys back by asking what "the worst" scenario might be, and the doctor point-blanks, "That these are two tumors which may have metastasized and spread." She asks him what the chances are that that's the case, and, looking up and still being able to see the Six Feet Under opening credits in her rearview mirror, probably has a pretty good idea. The doctor evades the question because he knows they both know the answer, responding, "Let's just do the tests and hope for the best." The screen fades to white as we discover that "the best" was not yet to come for Joan Morrison, who made it from 1939-2004 before submitting to any kind of a test. But, in the good news column, at least the scene didn't end with a deranged psych patient barreling into the room and clubbing the doctor to death with a brick.

Claire "I Had To Crash That Pussy Wagon" Fisher sits at a table somewhere, staring at a photograph of Edie and smiling a loving smile like she was just asked to partake in the couples' skate at the United Skates of Lesbonia. David "Manic Panic" is soon to enter the kitchen of his house bedecked in a bathrobe and accessorizing with the weight of the world on his shoulders. As he wishes a good morning to Claire, she slides the photo underneath a nearby magazine, though it's only a matter of time before David uses the photo of Edie to conceal a mislaid copy of Rough Trade that should never have been in the kitchen to begin with. David makes for his state-of-the-art coffee/cappuccino/espresso/hot chocolate/houses-for-orphans maker, as Claire quickly leaps up to apologize, "It's not very good. I think Mom's machine is a little more low-tech." David pours and replies, "Sometimes I miss the days when coffee was just coffee." You mean, before you were attacked and everything changed?

Claire makes her way back to the table and tells David she might be too much of a lesbian to make it back for dinner (I'm paraphrasing), and he takes this as his entry point to throw her out of the main chamber of yet another Fisher home: "Y'know what? I don't want you to stay here anymore. It's too much." Claire responds, "No, it isn't," but David lists his anti-symptoms as such: "I was bad before but now I'm starting to sleep a little. I haven't had a panic attack in two days. I've even cut down on all the Ativan. So you are officially evicted as of today." She sheepishly asks if he's sure, as David takes a sip of Claire's Death Brew and proclaims it "gross." A shaking hand places it in the sink without losing a drop because it's apparently so odious that it's like oil used for deep-frying that can't be poured down the sink because it clogs the pipes and corrodes the metal and summons the devil. Claire takes one more stab with a quiet "I don't know. Maybe I should stay." But David -- remember David? He's damaged -- turns quickly around and snipes, "I don't need my baby sister babysitting me anymore, okay?" Yeesh. If you're yelling about the coffee, you're drinking too much coffee.

Contrite because this is the first time a college student on television has ever asked, "No, really, how was your day?" and meant it, David comes over to the table, sits across from Claire, and changes the topic wholesale: "Hey, did you hear those two cats having sex in the alley last night?" Claire skips back to the sixteen happy seconds of Ruth's marriage, telling David, "They were worse than Mom and George." Ha ha, you guys. They probably were Nate and Brenda. Because we're meant to search for meaning in the metaphor of sex being pain somehow, David muses, "I don't know why they do it. It sounds so painful." Well, animal life in the alley is actually conducive to romance, especially when the girl cat feels obligated after the boy cat bought them that plate of spaghetti and they met in the middle of the final strand and fell very much in love.

Most whorish. Bomb shelter. Ever. Infinity stands on a stepstool peering onto a high shelf of her kitchen cabinetry, moving around the cans of Poverty Brand Beans that litter the shelves. From about eighteen feet below, Rico "Cuckold On For One More Day" Diaz must look like an ant to her. Particularly considering the fact that he's lifting a Catholic guilt that's at least ten times his body weight. He asks her, "Did you hear what I said?" and Sideways Eight ransacks the shelves for something -- could it be an actual article of clothing, for once? -- and spits, "Yeah. You can't see me anymore. It's over. Goodbye." She looks in his direction and focuses all four of her peering eyes on him, insisting, "Goodbye, Rico." And back into the top shelves she goes, muttering to herself with a decidedly just-make-it- to-the-kitchen- don't-let-him- see-you-cry conviction, "I am so stupid." No, you're just...yeah, you are kinda dumb. But why? "I hid that pack of cigarettes from myself so good [sic] I can't find them." Rico instinctively knows their location, counseling, "Look on top of the refrigerator." Thank you for your insight, The Great Smoke-dini! How else would he have found them besides via the magic power of psychic assistance? How can he be expected know the goings-on of the top of a refrigerator if he's barely even tall enough to see over his girlfriend's hair?

Rico tries to bring it down a bit, assuring Sideways Eight that he's sorry, but that "this isn't right in some way. To my wife. To my kids." Sideways Eight lights a cigarette and gets all up in his business, reminding him, "This is not about fucking. You made that plain and clear. It's about just being friends." With which Rico unleashes with greatest, lamest good guy line ever: "I think I need more guy friends." Well, if he intends to interact socially with his new male companions in the same way he did with this girl, I hope he's ready for some lingering hugs after the dudes complain about their lupus-ridden, welfare-assed lots in life. But, in the good news column, I bet you ten bucks the blowjob is better.

Sideways Eight backs away and takes this moment to start scratching at herself frantically and announcing, "Of course you tell me today when my lupus is acting up." Snerk. Way to shoehorn that bit of continuity in there. And way for "lupus" to be a disease with an intensity and side effects roughly equal to "mosquito bite." Rico reminds her that he gave her quite a sum of money and never heard anything about her visit to the doctor, but she cuts him off and just yells, "I got the damn lupus!" Other side effects may include: pronouncements of the super-obvious, fiscal irresponsibility, and a severe and chronic aversion to clothing your damn shoulders, ever.

Sideways Eight waits a dramatic minute before leaning against counter and taking it down a notch: "You never even liked me." You're right, but it's only because we're ooked out by disease and lupus sounds really contagious. "This was about you needing to feel like a big man" -- not likely -- "and now that you got what you need, you're done?" Rico stands stock still looking down for a moment, personifying "big man" the way she personifies "Queen of England," and she breaks the silence by telling him, "Okay. Just leave the gift that you promised Nicole and get out." But Rico has forgotten the gift, a confession that causes Sideways Eight to bellow, "You didn't even bring the dumb Jack the Pig book you've been going on and on about?" Over her protestations, he promises to bring it by the following day. "Forget it," Sideways Eight whispers, setting sail on her round-the-world guilt trip. "She needs to learn. People promise you things. But then leave when they get tired of you." That'll do, Jack the Pig. That'll do.

Ruth "Cuts Like A Wife" Sibley dusts and dusts and dusts and performs other wifely duties that don't cross the line. Like talking to her husband, for example. She stares at a particularly galling collection of mounted rockzzzzzzzzz sitting on a bureau, and when she looks back up, she sees on the top of said bureau six jars with the head of a woman in each of them, because for those of us sitting around waiting for that Six Feet Under/Futurama crossover episode we knew would one day come...thank you. Had only one of his wives been the disembodied head of Richard Nixon. Meh. I'm sure it will come out that it was because he loves secrets.

Each of the glass jars is labeled Wife One, Wife Two and so on, up to Wife Six. Off-camera, we hear one of them say, "She's George's new wife. The one that came after you." Wife One -- who looks not entirely unlike Ruth except her head is in a jar and her body is made up of a wooden shelf chock full of archaeological boredom -- chirps, "Jesus, lady, what are you doing?" Wife Five chimes in then, adding, "You're snooping! You're too snoopy. I was too snoopy, and he got rid of me but quick!" Wife Four asks the leading "You want to know why George doesn't like anybody to ask about his past?" Ruth desperately responds, "Yes, tell me," which cracks the brides up for a considerable amount of time, because they know that he divorced his first wife, killed his second wife by cutting her head off! "Third wife, gonna shoot her. Fourth wife, put her into a bag. Fifth wife, into outer space. Sixth wife, on a Rotissimat. Seventh wife, made out of jam. Eighth wife..." I mean, if the historians are to be believed. Their laughter intensifies when Ruth tries to scream over them, "What doesn't he want me to know? Why can't I know anything?" The wife heads bray on in laughter while Ruth holds the duster over her face, and when she looks again they're gone. She storms out of the room in horror, comforted perhaps in the knowledge that when you marry just a head, you know that when she gets vengeful it'll be more difficult for her to scoop up poo. Because of the no arms.

David wears a look of grave concern (along with the aforementioned blue apron and rubber gloves) and asking, "Why are we buying the fake Windex when the real kind of the only kind that works?" Oh, word, David. I know the poor and the aged are used to reeling off chemical compounds which support their claim that the generic products are exactly the same as the name brands, but I'm sorry, but I am not filling my cart with "Cloke-a Cola" and "Formula 408" before leaving the store and buying my mom a genuine "Kate Spdae" bag from a street vendor on my way home. It's called Windex for a reason. And that reason is that it, um, dexes the windows, I guess.

Rico grits his teeth and asks David if he wouldn't mind picking up the deceased Mrs. Morrison. Don't do it, David! We can't have a repeat of that, and your torturer is still at large. David apologizes that he's "cleaning," and takes his leave before Rico can figure out what the word "large" even means. Awwwww. It's the opposite of you, dear. Having no respect for the concept of "earshot," Nate barely waits for David to be out of the room before he continues his attack on Rico, adding, "David can't take the van...the van is where it happened." Rico tells Nate that he should go, then, but Nate excuses himself after fourteen whole minutes of work with the argument that he needs to go "this get-together once a month where we get together with the other parents" at Maya's daycare." He's lying. But so is Rico about everything, so it's no big problem when Nate adds that, as long as he's out, Rico should pick up the real Windex and not this other Smurfy's Oil Soap he's been suffering with for so long. Rico heads toward the door in disgust. On his way out, he grabs his book for Nicole, the Dr.-Seuss-for-the-urban translation of a book that plays well with strippers and families of strippers, Hop on Baby Daddy.

Claire walks into the coach house and sits down at a table, where she sits and stares at her Edie photo once more. She hears a stirring in the bathroom and calls out "Anita?" Who? Oh, yeah. Wheel #3 in a series. But instead, the door cracks open and out pours Mena "Mena Suvari" Suvari, her forehead fighting yet harder for supremacy over her forehead-concealing bangs. Claire quickly flips over the picture she's been idolizing, but Mena Suvari is a lesbian! I know. That means nothing. But it's also her entire character, so in case you were curious, they said it once before but it bears repeating. Mena Suvari asks Claire what she's hiding, and Claire admits that it's a photo she took of Mena Suvari. Mena Suvari stands up and asks why she can't see it, and Claire gushes, "It's too good. I can't believe this actually came out of me. It's so good I don't even want anybody to see it. I'm not even gonna show it at my crit tomorrow, because...I don't know. It's just for me." And, apparently, it's also for Claire's impolite lesbian friend, who takes it out of Claire's hands and observes, "It's so beautiful." Claire stands up to her to look at the photo. It's basically Mena Suvari inside the Black Lodge, looking like she's trying to crawl out of the photo and right on into Claire's pants. She insists that Claire has to show it at her crit, but Claire just shrugs and looks all perplexed. But the good thing about hot photographers taking hot photos of hot subjects is that everybody gets credit. Mena Suvari thinks it's time to talk about her for a moment, getting all marvelly at herself, "Look at my expression. It's nice to know that finally my hours of watching America's Top Model have paid off." Wow. Couple-a things. First of all, that's the biggest shout-out in history. Second of all, even anti-establishment performance art fake-TV-lesbians love Top Model. Fall in line, world. If you have HBO, you have UPN. Trust me. Claire tells her, "I definitely owe you one for this," and Mena Suvari suggestively responds, "I'll think about how I can collect on that." That will be way too subtle until I actually see people in bed.

Oh, look! People in bed! Brenda "The No-Tell Ho-Tell" Chenowith and Nate lie in bed at the seedy Pacific Sands Motel, which the two of them have chosen for its kicky dcor, its proximity to numerous parks and beaches, and a continental breakfast where Justin Ther-neaux can finally eat his heart out. They're lying in a post-coital tableau that finds Nate asking Brenda is she's "available Tuesday," and he laughs and laughs when she responds, "Nate, I told you, this is the last time." He reminds her that she's said that for some weeks now, and chides, "Okay. We'll never talk again. Until you call me tomorrow." She asks somewhat rhetorically why she's doing this, shortly thereafter landing a totally legitimate target: "It's all Joe's fault." Guh? "If only he enjoyed nice, normal perfectly average sex." Nate gets all offended, shooting back, "Wasn't I a little above average back there?" I can only hope that the "back there" refers to a chronology rather than a part of Brenda. But Nate calls her on it, telling her that this has nothing to do with Joe and everything to do with her, noting, "You and Joe move in together, you get scared by the intimacy, you freak out, you have sex outside of the relationship. You can't fool me. I used to be Joe." Oh, God. Between Joe's personality and Nate's hair shirt, Brenda's really found the perfect man. But this bout of deconstructionist pillow talk is quickly abandoned in lieu of Nate's fishing around on the floor for something and explaining to Brenda that he's looking for the condom, adding for clarity's sake, "I dropped it on the floor." Excuse me, concierge? Do you have any rooms available that are not that room. No? What about complimentary slippers in a hermetically sealed bag? Because I don't want little Nates growing out of my feet for the nine months, is why. Not that it's any of your business. Nate holds the condom up and stares into it, musing, "Sperms. Seems so tiny to be able to do so much." As the philosopher Python noted, "If a sperm is wasted, God gets quite irate." But these aren't wasted, because Nate's writing poems about them, so they do serve the greater good after all. Maybe Nate should watch a few episodes of Top Model himself sometime. More than anybody who's ever been on either show, it certainly wouldn't kill Peter Krrrrrrrrau-zuh! to be introduced to the theoretical concept of waxing.

Another recapper friend of mine who I won't mention by name to avoid incriminating her (or, y'know, him) just told me she finds it easier to recap shows when they're really good rather than when they're really bad, because at least when there's nothing wrong with it, you can just power through and stick with events as they happened without a painful amount of commentary. When in doubt, this totally incognito person advised, just end a paragraph with "Lorelai is pretty" and you're halfway there.

George "You're No Good You're No Good You're No Good Baby You're No Good I'm Gonna Say It Again" Sibley sits across the kitchen table from Ruth. He tells her, "I'm going to be gone all day tomorrow." Ruth takes a sharp breath on her way to asking a question, I'm sure, and then quietly decides against it with a demure, wifely "Okay." He volunteers that he's going fossil hunting, and he asks her to come with him "if you wouldn't find it too boring." I find knowing this activity exists too boring, and Ruth concurs with me, responding, "I have to return some books at the library." Heh. Good one. She adds that he doesn't need to invite her, momentarily pretending that she's not, well, her, when she advises, "You can do whatever you want, whenever you want, with whomever you want." She's not threatened by other women. It's hard to climb into caves when you're a head in a jar. But then she busts out, almost yelling, "But I want to go fossil hunting, so I will go fossil hunting, darn it." Lorelai is pretty.

Michelle Trachtenberg sits at her dressing room dressing table in a bit of a snit, rummaging through tons of pre-Bedazzled costume trinkets, braying, "It's my favorite earring." Javier walks in just then and tells her they've got a whole detail of people looking for it, but Michelle just whines, "It was given to me by the only person who ever really, really loved me." Yes. But Aaron Carter is with someone else now. "And now it's lost." Like Britney's virginity. In 1990. "Oh, my God. When will someone ever love me again?" Awwww. Don't worry, Michelle. Maybe you can meet somebody new in acting class. "Everyone else has someone." I have Lorelai. She's so pretty. "Here is the entire universe. And here is me." Keith tells Celeste that she's just really tired and could do with some sleep, but she turns on him and is actually pretty funny when she levels him with "Please don't minimize my severe depression." She stands up and waltzes across the room in her pink robe, announcing, "There only one thing that'll make me feel better." She takes her leave of the room and Javier tells Keith, "Well, we're fucked." And not in a good way. Not yet, anyhow. "Halfway through the tour she always gets really depressed," Javier soothsays. "Then we go to whatever stupid gay club we can find that's still open so she can get worshipped by the fags." Keith is all alarmed and asks, "We're going to a gay club?" and Javier responds, "When did my character get its own name? I must be getting really important."

Meanwhile, back in L.A., David lies in bed.

Back at the bar, "Don't Leave Me This Way" is the best song ever. Javier makes the observation, "Midwestern queers really creep me out," which is a nuanced stroke of genius that Keith agrees with, as they watch Celeste shake her groove thing on the dance floor with a number of shirtless youths who all secretly hope that the suicide death pact between Kurt and Ram wasn't just a hoax after all. Soon Keith's phone isn't the only thing vibrating, though it certainly is one of them. He takes his leave to answer the phone, and hears David asking him if he's still working. David apologizes and says he couldn't sleep, but he stops himself shortly and tells Keith, "It sounds like you're at a bar." When David hears the chorus of the song begin and a chorus of male voices sings the "Awwwwwwwww, baby!" line, David amends his observation: "That's a gay bar." But, I mean, how could you NOT sing that part at the top of your lungs? It's the BEST! And you've been waiting for it for the WHOLE SONG. Keith tells David that he has to go, and David will probably blame a panic attack later when he bites Keith's head off, "Sorry to bother you. If anybody gets mad at you, just tell them your wife's on her woman's time. They'll feel bad for you that your wife's such a bitch when she's on the rag. G'night!" David throws the phone and looks mad. Wait. I think they're going to play another song. I requested "I Feel For You." Stay at the bar. STAY AT THE BAR.