P3. Dot-bomb yuppies. Guest testicle. Phoebe. She's dragged another one of her "Knock Me Up NOW!" dates to the club, and swings by the bar to pick up a round of drinks from Raige. They chat about Phoebe's date for a bit before Raige totes a tray of cocktails over to the Stoopid Magikal Kreatures on the other side of the bar. Who knew they could drink? From the looks of things, the ogre favors rum and Coke, the assy nymrod's sucking down a screwdriver, and the stupid leprechaun's got a glass of white wine. I hate this show.

The guest testicle leads us into another brief closing travelogue that whisks us over to the Golden Gate Bridge. Chris sits cross-legged atop one of the main supports, quietly regarding the fog-enshrouded traffic on the deck far below. In orbeth the Dolt, who wants to talk. "There's nothing to talk about," Chris replies thickly. "I think there is," the Dolt offers. "It doesn't matter," Chris insists, his eyes wet with tears. It does to the Dolt. "You're my son. I think I deserve to know what I did that's so bad." Chris sighs and glances down before leveling his gaze at the Dolt and admitting, "You were never there for me. You were there for everybody else -- for Mom, [the Psycho], half the world -- but you were never there for me. You didn't have the time." The Dolt, looking guilty, suggests that maybe Chris traveled to the past to salvage not only his brother's life, but also his relationship with his father. Chris begins to weep and sobs, "I doubt it," before orbing away. The Dolt sighs in the breeze as we fade to black.

Next week, it's another clip show, this time centered on the Glamorous Ladies' collective misdeeds with regard to, um, something. I'm sure it's all Phoebe's fault. Isn't it always?