Luke and Glynis are walking through the hall, holding hands. Luke suggests, "Let's skip the park today. You know, I was thinking maybe we could go to Sal's Arcade, play a little House of the Dead." Glynis: "But the park will be so beautiful. The angiosperms will be alive with burgeoning anthers." Uh…huh. Luke: "I know, I know. It's just that I'm kinda in the mood to play House of the Dead. I mean, I don't know why you don't just give it a chance. You know, the graphics are only 64-bit…" Glynis drops his hand: "Okay. Fine." Luke, seeing he's ticked her off, says, "I'm sorry. It's just Friedman and I used to always go to the arcade." Glynis: "Do I keep you from spending time with him?" Well, duh. Of course you do. The question is, does he mind? Luke falls all over himself denying this, adding, "You know what? I'm being a prodigious dunce right now. We'll get a chance to see the sepals flare on the hydrangeas…" Glynis: "But if you want to play House of the Dead…" Luke: "No. Onto the park." Dude, if you're not using that backbone, Donna Moss desperately needs a transplant. They walk off hand in hand, Luke stuffing his self-loathing into the slot previously occupied by his spine, and Glynis feeling vaguely uncomfortable about having "won." Ah, "love."

Joan, looking rather grubby, has apparently located the poems and is advocating on behalf of one in particular to Brian. She explains she's read them all. He comments on the one she's showing him: "It stinks." Joan starts to argue for it, but Brian says he was being literal. Joan: "Right. Well, you leave tuna out in the sun for an hour and it turns into a weapon of mass destruction." Brian goes off to make a copy of the smelly page as he says, "This poem is excellent. Most excellent. Who wrote it?" Joan: "I don't know. So I guess it's by 'Anonymous.' Who, of course, wrote some of the best stuff ever." Yep, it's like that old feminist slogan: "'Anonymous' was a woman." If you don't understand this, you need to read Joanna Russ's How To Suppress Women's Writing. Brian, whose own ass is always his first concern: "Can't publish it. If it's plagiarized, we could get sued and I wind up going to junior college. Not gonna happen." Dude, wake up: just because someone signed their name to it doesn't guarantee it's not plagiarized. ["And can't you just Google the whole thing and see, Brian? HATE!" -- Sars] He says he'll pick another poem. Joan: "You can't!" He doesn't miss a chance to be an asshole: he points to himself, and then to Joan: "Editor-in-Chief. Girl from the garbage. I think we know who's gonna make the call on this one." Joan protests, "But the others stink! Worse than tuna. This one, this is the one! It's got real value, like finding love in the beans!" Brian tells her to forget it; it's going to the printer tomorrow. Joan: "Then I still have time. I'll find out who wrote it before then!" She zips off.