We fade in high above the main floor of a purportedly tony eatery, and the first thing I notice about the purportedly tony eatery is that it has the same black-and-white checkerboard floor as the St. Regis ballroom and Slampiece Ratbag's piano bar. Nice to know they're getting their money's worth out of the set. The camera pans down through the chandeliers to follow a staggeringly suave wine steward as he makes his way past various well-heeled diners towards a particular table. Said table contains none other than Chronic and the Feebs, and ew. They're macking like two horny teenagers in the back row of a darkened cineplex, rather than comporting themselves as two thirtysomething adults should while on a date in the sort of establishment that includes a staggeringly suave wine steward on its payroll. Jackasses. Guido Suave politely clears his throat, and the two imbeciles break apart with ropes of saliva dangling from their lips. It's gross. Guido Suave expertly handles the awkward and vile situation by assuring the giggly contrite Feebs that one need never apologize for a kiss, but you can tell that were he not several levels of class above these two nimrods, he'd be cracking that bottle of '95 Brunello di Montalcino open on Phoebe's skull. Chronic, displaying typical amounts of both tact and concern for the help, mops Phoebe's spit from his mouth with a napkin while dismissively waving Guido Suave away to decant the wine. Guido Suave tosses a subtly sullen glare in Chronic's direction and exits the frame. After he's gone, the revolting duo natter about Chronic buying his grandfather's winery, which he'd been wanting to purchase ever since the old coot sold it all those many years ago, and you know what, Chronic? NO ONE CARES. No one! Not one single human being alive on the planet! Nor any of the dead ones, for that matter! Nor any of those yet to be born! Nobody! SHUT. UP!
After a couple of "soulful" glances, Chronic breathes, "You know what? You are special, Phoebe." Gag. Unless, of course, he meant "special" as in "education" or "Olympics," in which case I'd be forced to agree with him. He doesn't mean it that way, however, and thank God for that. Were I forced to agree with Chronic, I'd have to open my wrists and bleed out all over my laptop, and do you have any idea how much it would cost to clean that crap out of the keyboard? I'll tell you: A lot. Also: Shut up, Chronic. Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in, and she leans forward with glistening eyes to purr, "I love you, too." The sound effects editor pulls the Needle Scraping Off A Vinyl LP effect out of his ass to emphasize Chronic's extreme discomfort, like, show of hands, Twelve-Year-Olds Who Watch This Crap: Have any of you even seen a vinyl record, much less dragged a stereo arm across one to gouge up the surface of your bitch sister's favorite Supertramp album so it'll skip, thereby getting even with the pig for telling your mom you skipped your hateful piano lesson to sneak into Breaking Away? What's that? None of you have? Didn't think so. So, toss that fucking cliché into the garbage can already, Sound Guy. It's wasted on the preadolescent idiots who comprise your target audience.