As the girls walk off, Dave comes running up to Kevin as Kev is throwing stuff into the dumpster. "Kev," says Dave, out of breath, "how much did you get when you sold Quentin's old t-shirts to that celebrity resale store?" Who is this "Quentin" of whom you speak, Dave? Kevin tells him that he got fifty-five bucks. Dave's firmly entrenched in awe. "How much do you think I could get for Hunter's old lingerie?" Dave asks. "Washed or unwashed?" says the entrepreneurial Kevin. "Washed 'em myself," says Dave. "Oh, that's too bad," says Kevin. "They pay double if it's straight from the star." No, that's eBay, actually. Trust me. One late night at work, DJ Sumo Todd, my boss, Machew, and I were distracting ourselves from the task at hand by surfing eBay for useless shit. Machew jokingly typed "used panties" into search and, I swear to Christ, there were thousands of items for sale. And these weren't even CELEBRITY panties, for God's sake. To make matters worse (as if they could be), an advertising banner FOR OUR SITE (the one I work for, not MBTV, thank you) was placed directly above the listing of used panties up for auction. Actually, that doesn't make matters worse, it makes them BETTER. Oh-ho-ho! Our site being advertised along with used panties! BWA HA HA! BWAAAAA HA HAAAAA. Ow. My stomach. No, really, MY STOMACH. GET THE BUCKET.
As Dave runs off in search of someone to wear Hunter's panties so he can get more dinero off their sale, Rob's in a random bar somewhere, talking to some halter-topped chick with no bra. "That is so true," she says, giggling, "blue jeans aren't always blue!" "Right," says Rob, who's obviously used this routine on unsuspecting idiot-chicks before. "Sometimes they're black, sometimes they're white." "But they're always called 'blue jeans,'" says the dingbat. "I mean, why is that?" Oh God. We're not going to have to sit through a pathetic Rob-trying-to-get-laid scene, are we? "Because they're depressed they're not corduroys," quips Rob. Oh God. We are going to have to sit through a pathetic Rob-trying-to-get-laid scene. That much is clear.
The girl with half a brain digs Rob's scene, and touches him in a manner which suggests that she could be without that halter-top in a manner in milliseconds. At this point, Hairless inconveniently enters and apologizes for being late. Half-a-Brain can't believe that QUENTIN KING is standing right next to her, and proceeds to tell him that he is the sexiest guy on Grosse Pointe, thus proving her to not only be irretrievably stupid but also certifiably BLIND. Rob realizes that there's no future with him and Helen Keller -- at least, no future involving hot, butt-nekkid sex -- so he asks the bartender to get his potato skins wrapped up to go. BUCKET. BUCKET PLEASE.