Carter follows Abby through a new-looking hallway. It's a fresh set, because they've fixed up triage to make it more secure. These people are hurdling time like it's a Honda at a monster-truck show. I think they're also shooting the show a little differently, because visually it's a tiny bit grittier and flatter. Aiming for casual interest and hitting somewhere closer to prying, Carter asks if "the gang" went out again last night. Abby gets all Fight Club on him -- "The first rule of Girls' Club is that you don't talk about Girls' Club." Not a problem, I don't think, because based on its initial ratings, absolutely no one is talking about girls club. Abby cracks that it was the usual shenanigans -- pillow fights, lesbian experimentation, etc., all of which will probably show up on the FOX show in the next week or two when the girls realize that affluent males of ages 18-34 will buy what ads are selling them as long as there are jumping half-naked boobs, and also girl-on-girl action. Abby looks rough, rumpled. Carter notices the relatively unclogged patient board; this leads to a bored Pratt expositing that Mission General reopened and is easing their overcrowding issues. "Don't sound so depressed," Carter observes with amusement. "I'm waiting on some action," Pratt says. Yeah, I'll bet.
Elizabeth and Susan wander in, the former sporting her ever-so-flattering skull-hugging head-kerchief for sanitary surgery, and the latter looking like she was just burped up by a cyclone. "When I was at school, we ate dried eel and bitter almonds," Elizabeth offers. "I can live with the headache," Susan groans, tired. "Eel?" Carter asks, grossed out but interested. "For Susan's hangover," Elizabeth says. Chen, standing nearby, toasts Susan with her homemade hangover cure -- kudzi tea. Susan musters up enough energy to thank Abby gratefully for driving her home. "Sorry about your shoes," Susan whispers conspiratorially. Carter watches this through the transparent patient board, silently thanking the set designers for coming up with that wholly impractical, yet convenient device.
A TV news segment begins broadcasting live from outside County General, so everyone gathers at Reception to watch this. On TV, Weaver is standing in the ambulance bay, giving a spiel on flu shots. She looks totally ill at ease. She shoots up a pretty blonde reporter who we'll call Jane, all the while awkwardly telling the camera that getting a shot will save you from a painful flu season and make you devastatingly attractive burp emeralds. Smiling stiffly, Weaver then sticks the needle into a less pretty, un-blond male reporter who we'll call Stone. "Wow, that was like butter," he schmoozes, flashing a cheesy grin at the camera. Yeah. Butter that burns. Weaver has whitened considerably and is staring at his shoulder as if it's Romano's disembodied arm, floating around and attaching itself to random passers-by in an attempt to slap her out of a job. "What's the other one for?" Jane asks brightly, pointing to a second syringe lying on the table. Weaver's eyes are already saucer-wide, and as she stares hopelessly into the camera lens, reality dawns on Jane and Stone. Very slowly, though. Inside, everyone is silent. "Tell me she didn't forget to switch needles," Susan sighs, with little to no real concern. "She forgot to switch needles," Carter says, stunned. On TV, the cameraman pushes into a close-up of Weaver, in which you can see baggy under-eye circles and a terrified, deer-in-headlights expression. We fade to black wondering if the message is that lesbianism makes you tired and stupid.