Joan's walking along the street when she hears Little Girl God calling her from behind a fence, where she's bouncing up and down on a trampoline. When Joan sees her, she shakes her head slightly and mutters, "Oh, God." Little Girl God: "That's right! It's me." Frink looks at his watch: "I think it's been at least five minutes since they used that joke." Joan heads for the yard and opens the huge gate. Little Girl God shows off a little by doing the splits while jumping. She's wearing a short little skirt, and, I believe, some bicycle-shorts-type thing under it. Joan asks her to cut to the chase: "What's going on? Because I don't want to go back to crazy camp." Still bouncing, Little Girl God replies, "A lot of things are going on: gravity, inertia, entropy, electrodynamics, strong force, weak force…" Joan: "Oh, so we're being funny now, are we?" Little Girl God thought she'd be happy to see her friends. Joan: "Yes. Alive. That's how I like to see my friends." Little Girl God finally stops jumping and sits on the edge of the trampoline: "They were trying to illustrate a point. Matter is neither created nor destroyed." Joan says she gets that. Little Girl God: "I know you understand it, but you have to believe it, because it's going to be on the other test, which is unlike any test you've ever had." Joan asks for help studying, or an advance copy. Little Girl God: "Just start with the question." Joan: "What question?" Little Girl God: "The one you asked the first time you saw me. Think about it." She does a back flip and starts jumping again. Joan thinks: "'Why me?'" Jumping with her back to Joan, Little Girl God confirms, "That's the one."
Commercials. Please, Teri Hatcher, I will buy you a sandwich. I will buy you as many sandwiches as you want if you will promise to eat them. Frink and I spend the rest of the time reprising our perennial argument about whether we believe God creates avatars specifically for the purpose of communicating with Joan (me) or whether God inhabits existing people who later have no recollection of having been a PodGod (Frink).
Joan shuffles into the kitchen in her pyjamas. Kevin's doing some work at the table. She muses, "I'm thinking grease and salt. How about you?" Kevin: "Uh, I went with sugar and chemicals. I'm good." He puts something small and pink in his mouth; I think it's a cookie. As Joan opens up a big bag of chips, she asks why he's not with Lily: "[Did] she dump you?" Kevin pounds his fist lightly on his notepad and says, "You know, sometimes I do the dumping. I'm not always the dumpee." Joan: "Hm. Did you dump Lily?" Kevin: "Nobody got dumped! We both had to work." Sitting at the table, she replies, "Oh. So it's really just me that's all alone and pathetic." Kevin: "Pretty much." Joan: "What do you remember about me as a kid?" He remembers she once stuffed beans up her nose. Lord. My brother once shoved a Flintstone vitamin up his nose -- green, naturally. That was extra-charming once it started to dissolve and run down his face. I think my parents had to take him to the doctor to get it out. Joan: "Kev, seriously." He just chortles at the memory. She persists: "Was there anything special about me?" Kevin: "There was YaYa." Interesting. Frink and I thought of Yahweh right away, but also of Amber Tamblyn's upcoming part in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, an offshoot of The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood empire. And we also thought of Yahya, which is the Arabic name for the prophet John the Baptist, although the pronunciation isn't identical; you need to aspirate the H in Yahya. Anyway, good name. Joan doesn't know what he's talking about. Kevin explains that she had an imaginary friend named YaYa: "You were always talking to him. Mom had to pretend to make sandwiches for him. No one was allowed to sit in his chair. We had to make room for him in the car. You were totally obsessed with it, and you got really mad if anyone said he wasn't real." He says "really mad" like he's talking to a toddler. Joan, trying to keep her expression neutral, asks, "What did he look like?" Kevin: "You said he always was different. And sometimes he was a girl." Joan takes that in as Kevin continues, "Then, one day, when you were four…four or five, you announced he was gone. You said, uh, 'I can't see YaYa anymore.' You weren't sad, just matter-of-fact. Kind of like a sociopath." Kevin smirks, but Joan just looks troubled and avoids his gaze. He offers to tell her about the time she puked spaghetti all over the babysitter. Joan declines and says goodnight. As she walks out, Kevin calls, "It was in her hair!"
Uh-oh. Looks like Helen's having another dream. She's sitting alone in a pew at Father Ken's church, wearing a sleeveless, fairly décolleté gown of pale pink, and giggling. Of course it's a dark and stormy night. There are two clowns standing behind a table bearing a large silver cross and two white candles in the foreground, juggling balloons. As Helen continues giggling inanely, the clowns suddenly lets the balloons drop, and they burst at their feet in explosions of paint: violet and red. Helen suddenly sobers up, and then Clown #1 suddenly flings a balloon full of bubblegum pink paint over his shoulder at the huge cross on the wall behind him. Helen frets, "What are you doing?" Evil cackling on the soundtrack. Clown #1 hurls a green paintball at a religious statue in a colonnade down the side of the church. They both start hurling paint balloons all over the place, vandalizing statues, crosses, sacred texts, everything. I am freaking out, because just about any desecration of holy places or objects upsets me, and it's somehow way worse because of the clowns. Also, given the recent death of Pope John Paul II and the election of Pope Benedict XVI, I think Catholic feeling is running extremely high, and I'm imagining the shock running through the viewing audience. Helen cries, "Stop! You're making a mess!" Then they start knocking things over, in slo-mo and with wacky camera work. Helen is upset, but doesn't move from her pew; she just calls out, "That's not funny!" Then we see Goth God standing off to one side of the church, watching her with his arms crossed and a deadly serious expression. She turns and notices him: "Wow. Should God look weirder than they do?" So she can discern spirits -- at least in her dreams. He just shrugs. Helen: "Hey, do something." Goth God says, "It's not up to me." Helen looks around, and suddenly hears a phone ringing. There's a pay phone where Goth God had been. She walks toward it slowly and picks it up. She hears Will's voice saying, "Okay, got it. I'll be right there."