Meanwhile, Ick and Ill are back on the same block of the same street they're always on. They should really get out more; who knows what the employment and entertainment opportunities might be outside that one-street radius? Ill leads Ick forward with her eyes covered, but she's peeking the whole time "just to expedite things." Ill tells her to "let go -- a little" and suddenly they're on the roof of their building, where there's a handy greenhouse for them to have sex in. Cue the inevitable beatific wailing of some Enya/Tori Amos hybrid as Ick says, "Wow," with emphatic eyebrow accents. Next thing we know, they're in the greenhouse going at each other like dueling air-powered nail guns. "This is weird," she simpers, "I mean good weird. But still -- I feel like me, but different. And you seem like you, but --" Straight? We'll never know how she planned to end this sentence, because Ill puts a stop to it -- with his lips! After another bout of turbo-soul-smooching, Ick says, "It feels a little less weird." "Only a little?" Ill asks, which is the signal for them to rip each other's shirts off, exposing their pasty white torsos to the repulsed plant life around them. They gnaw on each other listlessly. Ivan Sergei looks badly in need of a user's manual, leading me to concur with Sars's and manimal's contention that foreplay of the hetero variety is not his bag. The camera thankfully pans out onto the snow-covered roofscape, sparing us the stark moment of truth wherein Ill finds out Ick is packing a unit. "I was looking for someone," wheezes the ethereally emphysematous Enya knock-off.
Atmospheric aerial shot of people cross-country skiing in Central Park. Cut to Mikey looking tufted under a chenille blanket on Lucy and Belinda's mustard-colored couch. Lucy offers him coffee, jutting her pelvis toward him in an ill-conceived outfit of a white, midriff-baring oxford and flared gray dress slacks. She has correctly guessed that he takes it "black, with lots of sugar." Mikey asks after Belinda, and Lucy says she's in art class, then asks, "You and Belinda: how did that happen?" "I fired her, then I asked her out," Mikey says. "Ah -- classic love story," says Lucy, and I'll be the first to admit that Belinda's subhumanly stupid, but how kosher is it for her roommate to be oozing estrogen all over the ambulatory plankton she's bunking with? "Well, we're not exactly a love story," Mikey says, calling a spade a spade, or rather a sexcapade a sexcapade. Lucy and Mikey start talking at the same time and Mikey says, "We do that a lot," to which Lucy responds, "Yeah, we do," with such deranged enunciation that Mikey must seek solace in his piping hot cup of joe.
Somewhere on the same street, Ick and Ill stagger in the door of the Bachelor Barn with their collagen-enhanced lips soldered together. Ick clutches Ill's lapels and giggles toothsomely as they turn around in a circle. He asks if she's hungry, and she says, "Starving," clawing on his polar-fleece pullover like my cats on a priceless antique. Ill claims she hasn't really eaten until she's tried Eggs Jillefsky, and this statement catalyzes yet another dance of the seven veils on Ick's part. She basically backs toward the couch with a cross-eyed, slack-jawed leer on her face until Ill becomes inflamed by the equine nature of her face and jumps her. Fast-forward to empty plates of "Eggs Jillefsky," on the same Formica counter where Ick is ostensibly writhing bare-assed, caught in yet another vacuum-lock clinch with Ill. Calling Mr. Clean! There's not enough anti-bacterial kitchen cleaner in the world to contend with this sanitation emergency! Fast forward again to two glasses of orange juice, with two disembodied hands reaching up to get them just as a key turns in the lock. Mikey walks in blathering and says, "Whoah!" when he sees Ick and Ill rutting on the floor. Ill stands up in his boxers and says, "Hey -- morning, Mikey." Ick sticks her bare ass in the refrigerator and stands there looking like a dead ringer for Sammy Hagar. "So, Mikey has the keys to your place!" she says to Ill, who grunts in assent. "So, you guys had sex on the kitchen floor!" Mikey contributes, with facial gestures appropriate to the promotion of a delicious soft drink. Just then Barto walks in and puts down his backpack. He registers the scene with a morphine-addled expression on his face and asks, "What's up?" "Mikey has the keys, and Jill and I just had sex on the floor," says Ick, still chilling her naked butt amongst the condiments and whatnot. "And that's about it." She realizes she's late for work and somehow pulls on pants while Ill causes a distraction. She plants a grody good-bye smooch on Ill and simpers, "Bye," in a tiny wittle voice with that stadium-sized yap of hers. Ill exchanges self-satisfied smirks with Mikey and Barto and says, "Yeah," as if this foul liaison is something to be proud of.