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Impulse Control

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Impulse Control

Once free of the Bloated Blowhard, Abby whispers to Susan about what might be going on with Chuck. "He's pushing to get married," Susan says, but she's not sure that's what she wants. I mean, it's been a whopping half-year since the last time they were hitched, and she's really changed since then, you know? Her hair's longer. I wish they'd address whether the pregnancy was accidental, and why she decided to keep it. Is that too much to ask? Wait, what am I saying? Of course it is.

Arnie interrupts to ask Susan if she's constantly subject to unwanted physical contact at work. He stops short of fumbling, "Would you LIKE to be?" Abby's called away by Sam to check out a man's knee injury, so Susan just stands there stunned as Arnie asks if all the touching is encouraged. His suspenders twitch as if her answer might seriously make him consider a career change.

A crabby guy with a knee that's swollen and bruised black -- Miguel -- watches as Sam and Abby approach. "How many blonde bimbos you got in this hospital?" he asks. "Just the right number," Sam replies. Miguel's thinking, "THIRTY? Really?" Apparently, Miguel fell off a ladder. Abby prods at his knee, and he slaps her hand away. "Give me some Vicodin and I can get off your plate," he growls. Abby ignores him and tries to continue working him up and getting a full history. Pratt ducks over and sighs that she's wasting time on a cut-and-dried case: drain it, give him pills, and turf him. "That's what I said," Miguel whines. Frustrated, Abby points out that she hasn't gotten a full history, but Pratt doesn't care. He walks away griping that med students are always spending too much time on one patient, when they could do as Pratt does and apply the principles of his lovelife to his work: spread the wealth, and do as many people at a time as he can. Sam defends that Abby had just started, and was doing a great job. Arnie pops up to ask Sam if he can talk to her about the incident earlier with Malarkey. "It wasn't an incident," she says, disbelievingly. "It was a French fry." Arnie brightens and jots down her words in the "Analogies That Will Make People Like Me" column on his clipboard.

As he ties up Kem's ice skate, we pan up to Carter's face. A blinding light assaults the screen. Razors across the country spontaneously dull themselves in sympathy with the one brave blade that felled that most thorny and stubborn of tangles: The Beard. Ding, dong, the nappy growth's gone. The villainous hairs have been plucked from the demon follicles, and a cleaner day with fewer stuck food particles has begun. I anoint thee, O Kem, a modern hero. "Are you colder now?" she teases. "Yeah," he laughs. They stand, and she teeters on her skates, but once he gets going, he drags her along and she magically masters the art of balancing on blades. I can't wait until she falls and coasts on her pregnancy belly like it's a sled.... Oh, wait, they're not making her wear one. I can't tell if she's knocked up or if she just forgot to do her morning Pilates. Carter tells a charming story about how his happy memory of this rink is that his grandfather used to rent it out for him, his brother, and all his friends. And in the summer, when it wasn't frozen, Carter's mom would just come blow on the water and the whole thing would turn to ice. But then Carter pretends he wasn't as pampered as he makes it sound. Whatever. He and Kem giggle and twirl and smooch; the toothache prompts one of my molars to quit in anger and move to my mother's house. Joke's on it when it finds out she watches Judging Amy.

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