At a dark tavern, Romano slurs an order for another drink. "And stop skimping on the peanuts," he drawls. The bartender shakes his head at him in irritation. The televisions are showing the World's Strongest Man contest that's always on ESPN2, and which is totally entertaining, but it's not good enough to be the backdrop for Romano's shame spiral. "How about putting something on for those of us in the room without hairy knuckles?" he bleats. The guy next to him takes offense. "Something wrong with this show?" he challenges. "Yeah," Romano nods. "It only appeals to folks making less than twenty grand a year." The man spits, "Thirty." Romano commends his on finally getting a raise from the car wash. "I'm a copier tech," the man growls. Romano disses his dirty fingernails and implies that the man gets a homoerotic thrill out of watching huge men pull trucks with their teeth. Robert, look at the TV. Gay or straight, there's nothing erotic about these men. His fellow patron doesn't agree, though, and stands up calmly before taking a swing at Romano. A second guy leaps into the fray for no apparent reason, and decks Romano with another blow to the head, because, dude, testosterone ROCKS! Viva la Vas Deferens! Barfights are for men with giant penises! Raucous guitar music blasts up from out of nowhere as three or four more punches connect with Romano while he's lying on the ground bleeding out of the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I'm goin' down," trills the singer annoyingly, and we cut to black with this really jarring and embarrassingly obvious music cue ringing in our ears.