Mark unloads Gluttony's concerned parents onto Susan, and runs off after Rachel, who babbles that Vulcan Jen will buy the tickets and all Mark has to do is transport her to the airport. Mark tries to calm her down, explaining that no one expects her to leave. "Elizabeth does," she whines petulantly. A clueless Mark insists that his wife just needs time. "No, she asked me to leave!" brats Rachel, tears spilling down her cheeks. "She wants me out of the house....I understand. She's not my mother. She cares about Ella and I hurt her baby. I don't want to cause you any more trouble. I should just go." Mark starts to argue that the decision is far from made, but he suddenly chomps on his tongue and it begins to bleed. Wincing and nursing the wound, he sends Rachel home with the promise that her exile is far from being a reality.
Mark rushes away right past Susan, who is learning that Gluttony put on fifteen pounds in the past couple of months. "I just can't seem to stop her from eating," frets Mrs. Gluttony. Distracted after spying an obviously panicked Mark, Susan promises to send a nutritionist to counsel their daughter, and rapidly scoots after her friend.
Susan finds Mark huddling in a corner holding gauze to his tongue. "Ooh, you did a really good job," she grimaces, noticing the blood and mock-sternly ordering him to stick out his tongue. Mark rolls his eyes, but obliges, twisting his tongue to the right. "You bit it on the right side -- I can't see when you do that!" she laughs. "Come on, stick it out straight!" Mark blinks. "I did," he insists. He puts it out again. A gong strikes. The tongue is askew. Susan's face is awash with fear. "What?" Mark prods. Gong! Sorry, Mark. Thanks for playing. Hey, wouldn't it be a blast to combine ER and The Gong Show? Imagine how different season eight would've been with an interactive internet boot to deposit up people's bums. Mark's ass would rival Imelda Marcos's closet. Gathering her wits, Susan subtly tries to yank Mark's tongue straight to check the cut, pretending everything was fine. "It's not so bad," she sputters. "Just keep applying pressure." But Mark knows something's off.
Cut to the bathroom. Mark's glasses lie on the sink, and we pan up to his reflection in the mirror. Mark rubs his eyes, then lets go and stares at himself, possibly testing how long it takes to focus. He sticks out his tongue and notices the right-side wonk. SinkCam shows him splashing soothing cold water onto his face, with the strange hollow sound one might get if one listened to this through the drainpipe. We're then treated to a glamour shot of Mark's scar, which spans his bald pate; finally, as he dries his hands, frustration overcomes him and he bangs his forehead against the shiny towel dispenser. ["Because that's good for YOUR BRAIN. Yeah, I know the brain is well insulated by the skull. Still, that shit doesn't help any." -- Wing Chun] NostrilCam shoots straight up at Mark's face from the floor, and takes us to commercial with a truly terror-inspiring shot of Mark twisting his face into an expression of pained panic.