Chris Albrecht: So, yeah. Ew. If I'd have seen this scene, I never would have let him on the air.
Aaron: Welcome to my world, my friend.
Chris Albrecht: And she does that "happy ending" bit every week?
Aaron: Yep. It's a running gag. As in "gag me and make me want to vomit," that is.
Chris Albrecht: Wow. I had no idea. I guess I should watch my own network more often, huh?
Aaron: Eh. I don't really blame you. I've been watching every week, and it keeps making my balls hurt.
Chris Albrecht: Stop looking at me like that.
Aaron: We're on the phone.
Chris Albrecht: Whatever. Just stop. It's not gonna happen.
Aaron: Why not? It's a perfectly natural biological response to long periods of isolation.
In the next room, we see Mickey (in a kimono. Ew.) along with about a dozen of the women who work the massage parlor. He returns Donna's call from a pay phone on the wall, and, of course, all the ladies are giggling and making noise in the background. Then again, if you were faced with the image of Mike Binder in a kimono, you'd be giggling too. Mickey goes through an excruciatingly unfunny bit where he lies to everyone about who called him, and then comes back to apologize for it. Whatever. Not caring. Buh-bye.
Back at the Binder Boudoir, Mickey comes home to find Donna waiting for him. In typical male ego-gratification fashion, Donna apologizes to him for making him wear the pager, because it impinges upon his God-given right to be cheating, sanctimonious prick. Mickey, perhaps fearing assassination at the hands of rabid (or even moderate) feminists (put the gun down, Sars), reverses himself and agrees to wear the pager from now on. Fade to black.
And so it ends. But since you all know I'm fond of finding circularity in my recaps, I'll just now refer you back to my original opening paragraph. Remember? When I was searching for a metaphor that would best describe this show? Well, I've just found it. This week's episode (not to mention MBTV's coverage of the show) culminates in a three-minute credits montage of Mike Binder taking a crap. And as he sits there on the porcelain throne, gleefully reenacting all the ways in which he has taken a dump directly on HBO, MBTV, Sunday nights, and my hopes for the future of television, all I can say is "Get out. Now." And don't EVER come back. And if at this point I have any credibility left with the people at HBO (sorry about that sheep crack, by the way), I beg of you to do the right thing and cancel this show. It's beneath you. It's beneath the fucking UPN, for God's sake. It's an embarrassment to the people who have produced some of the finest shows TV has to offer. Not only that, the ratings suck, you've already had to move it so it doesn't kill Curb Your Enthusiasm, and if I were an Emmy voter, I'd pick West Wing over the Sopranos just so I wouldn't have to validate a network that would air something like this. And don't think I'm the only one who thinks that way, either. I mean, there's a reason Buffy never gets nominated, and it ain't the lack of porn. So, Chris, if you're out there, pull the plug. You owe me.