Jill walks into the Bachelor Barn and finds a note from Jack on the primary kitchen island. What do you know, she wants to meet him at Grand Central Station! The camera glances lingeringly at the Chrysler building as it makes its way down Grand Central's facade to the smirking maw of Amanda Peet. Jill sprints toward her and asks where they're going, and it turns out Jack's hatched a kooky scheme where they're going to have sex on a Queens-bound train. Naturally, Jack has compulsively planned these impromptu monkeyshines, finding out that there's ten minutes of tunnel time -- so if they're certain to be having sex when the train hits the tunnel, they may not get arrested! What could be sexier than that -- except maybe the logic section of the GRE? "Even if we do get arrested, who cares," burbles the impetuous Liver-Lips, "because I'll have a wild and crazy entry in my journal!" "You don't have to do this," Jill says -- but I'd go even further, saying, for the love of all that is human, you MUST NOT DO THIS. "And if this doesn't take Becky Hart out of the running in the 'feeling free' department then I say we just find that girl and have a ménage a trios!" Jack brays. It's an Olympian task to recreate the loathsomeness of this moment but, as this show's reluctant Boswell, I must try. The split second Jack says "trois," which she pronounces "twa," she unfurls her top lip from her unsightly chompers and starts neighing in falsetto like a birthing mule. She then jiggles her shoulders, face twitching in a strange rictus of self adoration. Naturally, Jill finds this beguiling. "I love you," he simpers and she says, "I know you love me, but you're not going to love me for very long if you don't stop thinking of me as some fuddy-duddy." Fuddy-duddy? Wild and crazy? Clearly Jack's been channeling Barney Fife again. Or Mr. C. Or any other number of authority figures cast in Ron Howard vehicles. "Your diary, my journal, Becky Hart, it's in the past -- who cares?" says Jill, echoing the thoughts of the viewing audience (with special emphasis on manimal and myself) regarding the entire season of this show. "But I'm not wild and crazy!" Jack reiterates. It would seem that the dialogue is now being generated by a parrot with voice recognition software. "You ran out of your own wedding and drove to New York to start a whole new life. You then broke up with this incredibly stable guy to get on a horse with me -- come to think of it, I've gotta keep my eye on you," Jill says. Jack, pleased with this flattering portrait of herself, morphs into some teeth on stilts and says, "Thanks." Jill asks if they can still have sex on the train and Jack starts backing sinuously toward the door before breaking into braying guffaws as Jill grabs her. But they don't make much headway, because they run into Rudy Giuliani in the lobby, sharing a big apple with Spike Lee and Central Park.
Annie and Barto edge toward the board where their grades are posted. The board is swarmed with extras doing their best to look academically anxious. "Oh, I bombed, I know it," Annie says, and Barto says, "I'm sure you did fine," administering a brief, patronizing shoulder fondle. She checks the board and turns around with a predictable look of giddy astonishment. "I told ya," Barto says, shoving her aside and edging to the board. He has an abrupt spastic fit, wherein he pumps his arms in the air and shrieks, "YES!" four or five times before turning to the repulsed crowd and saying, "Hi. Good stuff. Moving on." Annie looks smitten with his egomaniacal outburst. They stagger down the halls in the throes of manic self-congratulation, stopping to embrace and say, "We did it!" Barto decides to call Audrey and scurries to a payphone, leaving Annie to fiddle with her matted hair, looking crestfallen. "Hi, it's me. Pick it up," he says stridently into the phone -- and I don't know about Ferret, but this kind of asinine imperative is precisely the reason why I screen my calls at all times. The expected response fails to come and Barto looks offended and slams down the phone. I guess in his world it's a violation of dating etiquette for someone not to be home at all times, on the off chance he might call to gloat about his academic triumphs. "She's not home?" asks Annie, manifesting false concern. "I guess not," says Doofus, with a Christ-like look of infinite -- but nobly borne -- suffering. Annie suggests they celebrate and Barto hesitates for a split second before heartily agreeing. She looks elated, as would anyone anticipating an evening of face time with a smug, perpetually congested stoner.