Carol and Molly are setting up decorations for the alumni dinner when Jackass busts all up in the how-wouse (Curses! The wrath of those damned P'zone commercials...). Jackass wants Carol to read something he wrote. It's called "My Life As A Critic." In this thrilling tale, Jackass admits that he thought Raiders of the Lost Ark would suck and never make money. He thought Wendy's would fail because nobody would want to eat square hamburgers. He thought Aquaman would last longer than Superman. He thought the greatest comedic genius to ever come out of Saturday Night Live would be Tim Kazurinsky. He thought that hiring a guy to act like a gang member wired on crank to hawk P'zones would be a good thing. As Carol reads these, Jackass asks her to put them in their proper context. Meaning he doesn't know jack shit about anything and that the notion that she should let his ramblings about her short story affect her psyche is ludicrous. Carol gets all warm and bubbly after reading this essay, and makes a mental note to hump Jackass blind, even if he really is Satan in disguise. Especially if he's Satan in disguise. This show's giving The Osbournes a run for its money in the Satanic-subtext department lately.

Back at the bowling alley, trucks are strewn all over the parking lot as Ed and Barry show up. Phil's outside offering the truckers a 10\% discount on fuzzy dice if they'll all just leave. Ed recognizes this stance as a method of intimidating Barry into backing down. Barry about pisses his pants thinking he's about to be thrashed by dozens of angry truckers, but Ed assures him that all this means is that Gus Ryan has blinked. Blinked because he just got a dirt clod in his eye with the name "Barry F'n Gleep" written all over it.

At the alumni dinner, Carol asks the one and only Rob Stanley if she may get him a glass of water. You can tell it's a pretty swanky dinner when they're serving water in actual glasses. Stanley says sure, and then says that he's a bit worried because he's concocted a pretty boring speech to give tonight. Carol says that if he really wants to read something pretty boring, he needs to give her latest short story a gander, shoving the story in his hands. Stanley tells her that it would be a pleasure to read her painfully boring story, and Jackass grins from a distance, knowing that yet another man is going to have to suffer the wrath of Carol Vessey's misguided attempts at fiction and earn her scorn when he threatens to commit suicide halfway through reading the tripe. Or something.