The next scene begins with a shot of a framed photo of Joan and Helen. We can hear it's raining outside. The camera drifts along to the den, where Helen is sitting on the couch reading. She puts the book aside as Joan comes wandering in with her knitting. Joan asks how her mother's finger is. Helen says it's fine and that it's just a little cut. Joan points out it's kind of oozing. She adds, "I hate to sound like you, but if you need to talk…" Helen says her knitting looks good. Joan: "Yeah, if Ray Charles did it." She laughs. Then: "Mom, you just seem a little…" Helen insists she's fine. The doorbell rings. Will's up, so he gets it. He opens the door to find Grace standing there, drenched, asking if Joan's home. Will invites her in, offering her a towel. Grace declines as Joan comes out wondering what's up. Grace: "Rove isn't here, is he?" He's not. Grace says he went hiking on Mount Nashman this morning, and hasn't come back. Thunder and lightning. Frink: "Great. He's on the Murderhorn."
Closeup of Luke's reddened eyes. He insists he doesn't feel anything: "Nothing, nada, niente, zippo, goose egg." Friedman, sitting on the floor opposite Luke, with…a large red fun fur blanket wrapped around his head like a hood? Whatever. They're in Friedman's room. He tells Luke to chill out: "Let the mellow enter your soul." Luke shakes his head: "I'm telling you, it's a waste of time. My CB-1 receptors are obviously too strong to be overwhelmed by a little THC." There's an Einstein bong on the floor in front of Luke. Actually, on this crappy TV, I can barely make it out, but sharp-eyed forum posters tell me that's what it is, and I believe them, so props, Props people. Friedman's stuffing his face with Sun Chips, and Luke grabs some and starts shovelling them in. Friedman giggles.
Luke's eyes are watering enough for a couple of tears to run down his face. Through a mouthful of chips, he says, "Dude, these are amazing." Friedman agrees: "Sun Chips. They're the best-kept secret in the chip aisle." Luke, still sharing his mouthful of half-chewed chips with us, declares, "They're like the filet mignon of the genus Chipium, dude, so…" Frink totally agrees. Luke stuffs more in his mouth and raves about the optimal sweet-spice ratio. "I could cry, dude. I -- I am crying!" They chortle about that, and Friedman gloats, "Dude: CB-1 receptor shields weakening." Luke acquiesces: "Taking a nap, maybe. You just don't know how hard your neurons have been working until you give them a little downtime." Friedman: "Soak it up, man. Soak it up." Luke worries about Friedman's parents smelling it. Friedman indicates the HEPA filter prominently situated in the foreground, saying it's for his allergies, but "There could be a biological attack and the HEPA would save the Friedmans." Well, thank God for small favours. Also: You really are baked if you believe that. Oh, wait! I almost missed it: is that proof positive that Friedman is his last name?