Grosse Pointe
Star Wars

Episode Report Card
Erin: B | Grade It Now!
If you can't cut the mustard, at least cut the cheese

Elsewhere on the lot, Hairless is hastily chasing after Hunter. "I want this to end!" he calls after her retreating back. "I'm tired of being the cheese stands alone!" Sorry, Hairless. Dave is the cheese stands alone. You're just alone.

Hunter wants to know if Hairless has learned his lesson. Indeed he has. In fact, he's learned his lesson so well that he wants Hunter to "let [him] back through the doggie door." Wha? Wha-hoo? What do doggie doors have to do with anything? Is Hairless having an affair with a...dammit. There I go. Losing my appetite. And with so many olives left to eat...

Hunter says, "Look. Like it or not, we're in this together. And so, if I happen to have a bad reaction from the disgusting food they put out at craft services, I expect you to not go blabbing about it. Like I would never blab about the sock in your pants." Quentin tries to deny it by saying, "That's a damn lie!" Hunter just looks at him, and Q owns up to the sock-stuffing. "We gotta trust each other," he sheepishly emits. "Exactly," smirks Hunter. "Like, I would never let it get out that your hair was originally growing out of the head of some Romanian woman. Or, like the time you slept with that girl but she turned out to be a..." Thank God Quentin stops her before I discover something about Q's past that I just really don't EVER want to know.

Hunter then agrees to rip up the restraining order. Oh, but there's just one eensy weensy little ol' condition...

After the last shot of the night, Quentin clears his throat and steps forward: "Excuse me. Yo! Hold up! Before you go, I have an announcement I'd like to make. The other day, I did something I'm not proud of. I passed gas and blamed it on my costar. I know. It's not cool. I just wanted to say, I'm sorry." Hunter walks up and embraces him, saying that it's perfectly understandable and that even Russell Crowe does it occasionally. Right, Hunter. But he's, you know, RUSSELL CROWE. Who the hell cares if the man farts or not? Jesus, I think I'd forgive perpetual body odor and a tendency to vomit on me during sex if it was Russell bloody Crowe.

On a distant part of the set somewhere (or somewhere else in the city entirely, I'm not quite sure; I don't think anyone actually ever LEAVES the WB lot...), Courtney's seated atop a motorcycle, togged out in a blonde fright wig, head-to-toe black leather, and gobs and oodles of cleavage. She's holding up a beer and reciting her lines in a sort of Breck-Girl fashion. You know. Like cardboard. Only deader. Bob-san walks up and tells her she's doing great, but could she just try holding the beer right about...HERE. "Here" just happens to be between her colossal tits.

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Grosse Pointe




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