Anyways, Thomas claims that tests of this sort are not always accurate: "My uncle, you know, we thought he had testicular cancer," he desperately says. "Yeah, he did," Claire cries. "He's dead!" Ha! Behind Thomas, by the way, we see a truly terrible painting standing on an easel, expertly worked up by the prop department to demonstrate in one three-second shot that Thomas is a terrible, terrible artist. It looks like a finger painting by a quite unskilled six-year-old. So let's call him Thomas Kinkade, shall we? Claire faces facts and says she's six weeks late. She starts to make the bed as Thomas Kinkade stammers and stutters a bit more. But then he seems to take a stab in the dark and pitches to Claire the idea that they could make parenthood work. "My mom would disown me," Claire says, to which Thomas Kinkade points out she basically has already. And how would they support the baby, Claire asks -- on her "$5-an-hour job at Fish 'n' Fry?" Mmm, fish and chips. We had some great ones at the Fryer's Delight in London. I could eat some right now. "You're not the only one with a job, you know?" Thomas Kinkade simpers. "I mean, I've got my painting." Er, yeah, Thomas Kinkade -- and I've got my writing, but you won't be seeing my attractive lawyer wife becoming an attractive homemaker wife anytime soon. "That's sweet, but this isn't what we want," Claire says. Thomas Kinkade hilariously counters, "It could be, like, the best thing ever." They love each other, et cetera.