The next day, Schmarce is splooing on about how she and Eli talked until four a.m. "Gay," trills Hunter. Speaking of "gay," but in the Smurfy sense, Hunter's wearing a plaid mini-skirt, a sweater vest, a white shirt and tie, and a headband. Hank4 glances over at me as if to say, "Now, why can't YOU wear something like that?" It's that whole schoolgirl fantasy thing, I guess. I look over at him as if to say back, "I wore that black velvet bustier, fishnet stockings, and black velvet knee-high boots last week and you seemed to like THAT all right. You want a Catholic schoolgirl, start haunting St. Gabriel's up the street. My catechism days are far behind me, bro." Schmarce ignores Hunter's comment and says that they kissed, and that Eli held her for an hour. Why? Was she falling off a cliff? Cuddling's all well and good but -- AN HOUR? Somebody call the co-dependent hotline, I think we have a candidate for the "Too Needy" department. Hunter says, "Oh, I'm sorry, he just doesn't KNOW he's gay." Schmarce looks at her: "Okay. You were right about those other times, but not this time." Hee. Schmarce goes on to say that she and Eli made a great connection, and that it's really weird because she's never really dated Jewish guys. "Well," says Coco, plumping up her cleavage, "they say they make the best husbands." She stops dead. "Oh my God. Was I not supposed to say that out loud?" "No," says Hunter, "it's just the stuff about being cheap they don't like to hear." BWA HA HA.
Somewhere on the soundstage, Quentin's all up in arms because Rob didn't answer any of his calls last night. "Oh, sorry," says Rob, obviously NOT sorry. "I would have if I'd known it was you." "You gotta get caller ID, man," says Hairless. "Get with it!" "Yeah," says Rob, "I really...do..." As Rob makes a mental note to change his home phone number, Hairless tells him that the birthday party is back on because he just can't live a lie anymore, that he's just gotta be who he is. "I gotta stand up in front of the crew, the other actors and God and say, 'I'm Quentin King and I'm twenty-eight years old!" "Okay," Rob says, praying to Mother Mary that Hairless doesn't burst into song. "All right," says Q under his breath, "I'm thirty. I'm thirty. There. I said it." "Thirty," says Rob. "You're really sure you're THAT old?" This gives Hairless pause. "Lemme give it some more thought and I'll get back to you tomorrow," he says, running off to see if there are any existing copies of his birth certificate lying around that he can have destroyed.