Eric’s POV

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Eric's POV

Eric's blue hatchback sputters down the street. Greg's convinced that something horrible is about to happen. Through gritted teeth, Eric explains that he's just going over to a friend's house. "You're not a friend," whimpers Greg. "You're some kind of stalker who needs to drive slower!" Eugene points out, "That's not a 'friend' face." Eric insists it is. "You must be her friend if you're okay with her having sex with someone else," Eugene blurts. Eric winces and screeches the car to a halt on the shoulder of the road. He drops his head onto the steering wheel. He can't run from the truth, and the truth is, we're all kind of over this subplot.

Rachel is gazing down at Lizzie with an unreadable expression. Lizzie is perched in the chair positively glowing -- and so is her hair. Glowing orange, that is. She looks like Sideshow Bob. Any second now she's going to run for Mayor of Springfield, or break out into the score of H.M.S. Pinafore and try to drive Bart to suicide with her warbling baritone. Larice is calmly fussing with Lizzie's hair. Rachel lies that it's gorgeous, then casually tries to ask Larice if this is step one in the process. "No, this it [sic]," Larice says. "This how we did it at Expressions." So apparently, Expressions was a clown shop. Rachel looks ill. Lizzie wears an oblivious ear-splitting grin. I know Lizzie's hair is the focus of this scene, but damn, Rachel needs some help, too. Her hair is nasty. It's in poofy layers around her face, and looks dry and soaked in hair spray.

Eric is sitting under a T-Rex statue that's growling down at him. His head's in his hands. He's stressed. He's a sensitive young man with heartstrings like a chicken -- highly pluckable. Eugene apologizes for making him cry. "I was just saying that, what if Steven is there and they're having sex, or whatever," he explains. Eric shouts that such musings aren't helping right now, so Greg intervenes before Eric rips off Eugene's bald head and lobs it clear across town, past the freeway, off the Hollywood sign, through downtown, around the Staples Center, swish, nothin' but net. "Dude, you gotta nail another chick," Greg suggests. He's got some tail primed and ready for Eric. "If you love Lizzie, you'll nail Alice," Greg avers.

Cut to Eric and his goons rocking out in the car. Eric is celebrating the ass he is about to receive. They're singing along to a song whose title I don't know, but which goes, "Ain't nothin' wrong with that/ We're hittin' switches/ Ain't nothin' wrong with that/ We pimpin' bitches/ Ain't nothing wrong with that/ Gettin' yo' cabbage/ Ain't nothin' wrong with that/ We livin' lavish."

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