Luke, Joan, and Grace are walking through the hall at school. Grace is haranguing Luke about his decision to get his driver's license. Great. Just what I need. It takes me nearly forty years to get around to getting my damn driver's license -- my road test is on February 7 -- and as if I don't already feel like I'm selling out to the Man and swimming in rivers of Iraqi blood, I have to have Grace's input on the matter: "Dude, you're contributing to global warming -- and you're handing over vital information to the CIA. When they take that picture? That's really a retinal scan." Oy. Mind you, Frink's wanted to convert our Golf to biodiesel for ages, and now that I have a rusty fifteen-year-old heap of my own, I guess we can sacrifice the trunk space and rack up some environmental brownie points. Joan walks between them, apathetically flapping her mittens in her face. Luke: "I'm getting my license, Grace. I'm not starting a covert war." Joan: "Is this, like, pillow talk for you two?" Grace: "Fighting for the environment is not a war." I think it might have to be. At least it would be something worth fighting for. Luke sighs: "I just wanna drive a big machine." Grace wonders if that's all men are really about. Joan: "Apparently."
They're about to run into a gaggle of bitchy girls, one of whom is Hilary Duff, but first, we have to get a snippet of their conversation in order to establish that they are essentially superficial, insecure, and competitive. Just in case you didn't discern it from their blonde, flat-ironed, pastel-wearing prettiness. The Duff suggests that they attend a one-day Ugg boot sale at the mall: "We should clear them out." One of the other girls snots, "Uggs are so five minutes ago. I'd rather wear Nine West or die." Uh whatever. I mean, I like Nine West and all, but I can't imagine it's the trendiest label of the moment. I wear it. How cool can it be? If you want to know what's going on shoe-wise, you need to read Manolo's Shoe Blog. No argument on the five-minutes-ago-ness of Uggs, though -- one of the most aptly named products in recent memory. They giggle, and The Duff tries to cover her tracks: "Like I was serious!" They're blocking the path of the subdefectives. Joan asks if they can get through. The Duff sneers, "Look! It's a pack of angry weirdoes." They walk off as Grace remarks, "Maybe ending the assault weapons ban wasn't such a bad thing." Hey, at least The Duff isn't playing herself. But would she be any better at it? I wonder. And at least the makeup artist wrested the black eyeliner away from her.