Wherever Dr. Susan "I Need Another Job" Lewis is, it's dark. The lights are off. She's exiting the room of an apparent chronic masturbator who, she says, needs to use lotion or else "he's literally going to jerk it off." Her parents must be so proud. Jerry says that the paramedics are bringing in a fall victim; she brays that he needs to call the idiots in Engineering to come fix the lights. On cue, the lights flicker back on, and Susan rolls her eyes. Suddenly, a curly-haired blonde bursts in and screams, "Nobody panic!" Thanks for that. Because I was totally about to freak out about the ER being too quiet. Susan makes a crack about the nuts coming out when the sun goes down, and the double meaning to that last sentence just had me giggling so hard that I had to stop typing for five minutes. I am so easy. Which bodes poorly for the show, given that it doesn't really entertain me nearly as much. Dr. Kerry "Weavus? What Weavus?" Weaver appears next to Susan, trying to sound totally controlled but looking quite tense. "Are we ready for him?" she asks. "Who?" Susan asks. After a dramatic pause, Kerry intones, "The alderman." Pause again. People, he's not the president. He's not a mob leader. He's not even the president of the local chapter of the NAACP, here to investigate why men of color here are relegated to being either doormats (Gallant) or assbags (Pratt). No, he's just a city councilman. Bully for him, and all, but he's not so important that I'd let him eat cookies in bed without sharing.
The paramedics burst in with the alderman on a gurney, accompanied by the same freaked-out blonde. The press is clamoring to get inside, and failing. The alderman is John Bright, and he took an eight-foot fall off a stage. "It was a dais," his assistant corrects. Well, that changes everything. Weaver muscles her way up to Bright's head and coos, "Alderman, it's an honor to have you here." Such an honor that he can cure the grief of a miscarriage. Maybe he's some kind of magic alderman. Maybe, if he'd been here last week, he could've pulled another Weavus out of a hat. Speaking of, I'm really going to miss the Weavus. I feel like somehow, the Weavus was meant to come to us as the counteragent to Rex the Wonder Preemie -- sort of a Battle of the Plastic Fetuses, or little matching angel and devil babies to perch on patients' shoulders. I guess that dream will never be.