"Actually, it was no problem at all," Piper perks into her own cell as the shot cuts to her casually ambling down the street. She's chatting with the Dolt, of course, who at this moment is hosting a play date at the Manor for a passel of rugrats and their mothers. Piper rather darkly warns the Dolt to watch out for "Eve," one of the mothers involved. The Dolt assures her he can handle everything on his own, thank you very much, and hangs up to return to the festivities on the sun porch. The dead-eyed and murderous Psycho, incidentally, has so cowed his fellow 'rats with his murderous glares that each 'rat wears a rigid expression of unalloyed terror on his or her face. I'm betting the Psycho broadcast a telepathic replay of Tiny Gay Chris's gory death at the Psycho's own hands to get them all to shut up. Evil child. In any event, the Dolt joins the ethnically diverse mothers on the wicker furniture at the far end of the room and, long story short, Eve is a total slut who hits on him. No, seriously. She's such a tramp that she tries to get into the pants of the Dolt's glamoured self, which, as I've noted before, resembles nothing so much as a deranged, heroin-addicted Dutch serial killer. And her quest to get him out of his clothes is helped immeasurably by her own apparent child, who dashes across the sun porch floor at this very moment to fling his bowl of rapidly melting ice cream onto the Dolt's shirt, and oh, my God, that's disgusting. It's vanilla, and it's drippy, and it's viscous, and it lands with a loud, wet "SPLAT!" on the Dolt's chest, and, well...yeah. Do the math. Gross. Eve apologizes profusely and, pulling an Edie Britt, caresses the Dolt's thigh while ineffectually rubbing a napkin all over the mess on his torso as sensuously as she can. The other mothers exchange knowing and -- given their presumed knowledge of Eve's current marital status (it's "married," in case you didn't get what I was hinting at) -- oddly amused glances as the Dolt stammers and splutters and...scene.