Ferret gets down to business, chewing on the closest edible item, which turns out to be Barto's hot dog. I think I know where this is headed. "Do you want a hot dog?" Barto asks. Ferret declines with her mouth full, and he asks, "So why are you eating mine?" "I just wanted a bite," she says, refusing to relinquish it. "Okay, maybe two," she adds, and they stand there staring at each other with what we are to interpret as mounting lust. "Oh. My God," they say in unison, and Ferret asks, "Where can we go?" with a lascivious twitch. Barto spins her around and hustles her off-camera, leaving us to contemplate the numerous savory options for clandestine sex in a bowling alley. The shoe repository? The unisex public bathroom? What do you make of the fact that Barto finds it aphrodisiacal for Ferret to devour his stolen wiener? Do you think maybe there's a Freudian lesson in there, maybe?
Jack glares hatchet-faced over the horizon of a bowling ball. It's another gutterball, but Jill feigns enthusiasm, shouting, "Alllmost hit somethin'. Wasn't a pin, but still. Hey, good form." Jack returns to position, looking haggard despite the fact that her festive fuchsia mini-T matches her ball. She stands there for a second and says, "I need help." Jill jumps up and starts critiquing her technique until Jack wheels around and says, "I'm not talking about bowling." Jill resumes his habitual "why me?" pout, staring wistfully at the ball while thinking, I guess, of other balls he has known. "I'm scared," she whimpers. "Because I've never felt this." "Me too . . . and me neither," Jill says robotically. She continues: "You're right. If what I feel is sometimes different -- or more -- than what you feel, then that should be okay." Jill tries to interrupt but Jack shuts him down, barking, "No! And I don't want you to say anything, ever, that you're not ready to say." Jill fondles the ball and smirks tentatively until Jack wrests it from his hands, quipping, "Now let the mastah have his space!" I seem to have ruptured something recoiling in disgust, but there's no one to hear my screams. Never mind -- the show must go on, and I must write about it until I draw my last gangrenous breath. Elated by Jack's admission that she's a he, Jill lunges at her from behind and affixes himself to her neck, causing her to cackle raucously, turning her mouth into a makeshift airplane hangar. She extricates a stray dreadlock from his mouth before hurling the ball overhand -- and predictably, this time it's a strike. She emits a shrill howl of triumph and leaps into Jill's arms, a trick of Amanda Peet's that's got old the second time she did it to Anchormatt. Jill spins her around with celebratory glee as dogs mobilize from all corners of the earth to respond to her ear-piercing squeals.