B-roll of our nation's capital at night flashes by: The Lincoln Memorial, the statue of raising the flag, the wonderfully phallic Washington Monument...then we land in the traffic-flocked Budny van, inside which The Problem are moaning for food. Jane is so hu-nnngry. Anything. She could be spending this time begging her agent for a better part. Scotty, whom I will now nickname "Hotty" since everyone is so in looove with him, says to Yawn, "Speaking of consuming, how long will your vow of celibacy last?" Jane mentions that it has been four days since Yawn, "Super-Ho," had a piece. Oh, gross. Does anyone need to hear this? Does anyone still believe that Yawn is the hot one in this band? How many of you are hurling right now? Yawn's head grows three sizes as he muses that he's trying to "get his house in order." What is that, code for a herpes sore? Valtrex twice a day, Yawn. Nothing's in your way. Jane sees a limo and wonders what kind of wacky stuff could be going on in there, and world-weary Yawn is all like, "oh, nothing, for I have seen it all."
Inside the flashily-lit limo, some techno pounds and an American-accented Eurotrash dude -- is that Ameritrash? -- in a tacky suit yammers into a cell phone. He has to sign something for his dad and make an appearance at a boring party. The limo driver rolls down the glass partition, whips out a gun-with-silencer, listens to Ameritrash beg for his life, then shoots him. Dead, I presume.
I have forsaken all other responsibilities to write for you this recap, which will not suck and be as campy as the credits are. Or, so I hope.
Oh singing bellybuttons, why do you mock me?
Yawn, Hotty and Jane are wandering around the "streets" of oh, let's say Washington, DC. Jane is starving...for a better part. They only have $9, and Hotty suggests they get nine 99-cent tacos. Hey, it's an idea. Hotty spits a huge loogie. Jane rejects his taco idea, and I can't believe this is passing as entertainment. Oh wait, it isn't. Seven episodes, you board posters say? That makes three more after this. See, I can count numbers and budget too. Yawn says "whoa" about seventy-five times and calls their attention to some faint music. We can barely hear it, and the closed captioning only says, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," with those cute little music notes, but Yawn insists it is The Problem we hear, and that this is "a cool moment, a really perfect moment." It would be, for a band on the road. A far better moment than, say, seeing your record in the cut-out bin. They walk right on in to a busy kitchen and interrogate the hapless sap by the boom box. His cousin left the CD in his car, taking the Foreigner CD. Oh man, Foreigner. They actually had a lot of hits. One of my most embarrassing moments was when I was busting on this guy that works in the Trocadero here in Philly for putting on their greatest hits CD. I told him I would show him what love was, if he needed to know so badly, and everyone laughed at me for being lascivious. I wasn't! I was just saying. No one said I was hot-blooded, thank god. Or asked me if I do more than dance. Or called me a jukebox hero. And Lord knows I'm not as cold as ice. Though I don't take advice, and someday I'll pay the price, I know. I've seen it before, it happens all the time...someone slap me, I can't stop. ["I've been waiting for a recapper like you to come into my life. Oh great, now you've got me started." -- Sars] Anyway, the kitchen guy is like, "The vocals are kind of thin, but the lyrics are awesome. You're The Problem?" They are, and Jane will trade him their new CD for some chicken. She practically passes out into his mixing bowl. He says no, but for them to just go into the party. Party?