The Binder Bed. Mickey and Donna bask in a presumably post-coital afterglow. Dear God in heaven, Mickey's not wearing a shirt. I repeat, MIKE BINDER IS NOT WEARING A SHIRT. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss Peter Krause. Aww…remember back in the day, when I only did quality shows? Yeah. Those were some good times. Now Donna isn't sure she wants the second kid, and is in fact willing to wait if Mickey is having second thoughts about said second child. Upon Mickey describing his wife as being "sweet and pliable" after sex, Donna (and I kid you not about this) flips him over and begins checking him for back acne. You know, I don't care what Dante says. With this show, there is ALWAYS another circle of hell you can descend into. And while we're at it, who else agrees that she probably did find a few nasty-ass zits back there?
We now go live to a bar that isn't Jeers, where the boys are playing pool with yet another newly appearing friend. All you need to know about this new guy is that it's pretty obvious that he only got his MoMM gig after being turned down at those open auditions for The Sopranos last year. Between his demeanor, his dimensions, and this show's sophomoric subject matter, the nickname is obvious: Medium Pussy. Of course, I also have an ulterior motive here, which is to continue contrasting this crap with the quality entertainment HBO oh-so-desperately wants to be known for. I do so in the hopes that they'll eventually come to their senses and cancel the damn thing. In fact, I'm beginning to think the real reason they keep postponing the Emmys is the fear that Mike Binder might actually show up. Anyway, Medium Pussy delivers an extended monologue, punctuated with a great deal of poorly-executed Color of Money camerawork. His rant features, among other things, an analogy comparing children to drywall, repeated use of the phrase "poopy-pants," and several shots where the dialogue mixing is so bad that his lips aren't even moving. And then we come to the real, er, meat of the scene, wherein Medium Pussy regales us all with a tale about receiving oral sex from his wife while watching a Three Stooges video. This is somehow presented as being the ultimate male fantasy, although Binder does make at least one salient point here when he inquires, "What could the Three Stooges possibly add to a blowjob?" I guess there could be an onomatopoetic "nyuk, nyuk, nyuk" joke in there somewhere, but for your sakes, I won't try to find it. The upshot of the story is that Medium wasn't able to achieve orgasm because the video featured Shemp, not Curly. Yeah. I don't get it either. But more on that later.
Or maybe now. In celebration of her newfound freedom from Dawson's Creek, I hereby present you with a Sars-style sidebar: You see, there comes a time in every man's life when he is forced, once and for all, to take a declarative stance on his own personal Stooge preference. This is my time. To be perfectly honest, however, I don't really like any of them. Never have, never will. The Stooges rank somewhere between Gilligan's Island and Inside Schwartz on the list of shows whose appeal utterly escapes me, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. Heck, I've got a friend who claims to be Curly's third cousin, and I still don't care.