A bell rings, somewhere. At My So-Called High, in fact, where Brian is relating a nefarious plan to Rickie: "I just have to turn this permission slip in for the chess tournament, and then a get a whole half day off next week." Rickie nods, with pity. Then a really small woman comes in and grabs Brian: "Hey, Curly, you're on my bus, right?" She's carrying a backpack, and Brian asks if someone left it on the bus. "No, I'm just carrying it for my health," says the bus driver, officially becoming, via her line delivery, the worst actress ever to on this show. "Isn't that Angela's backpack?" says Rickie. Indeed, it is, and Brian promises to return it.
But not before, apparently, opening it, finding the sex tape, and watching it, which we now see Brian and Rickie doing in, I guess, the A/V room at school. "My parents have a vibrator," says Brian. "It sounds like a lawnmower." It occurs to me that somewhere, someone might be saying, "My parents have a lawnmower. It sounds like a vibrator." That thought makes me laugh. So does Rickie, when his comment about the tape is, "I wish I could get away with bicycle shorts." Imaginary BVO: "I guess that Angela, like, thinks about sex, or whatever. No, wait, she probably just has this for a school projects. Or something. She's too, like, normal to think about sex. I'm such a pervert. I wish I were dead." Brian and Rickie both tip their heads to the side, presumably attempting to follow the acrobatics of Gunther and Liz, or Shelley and Mitch, as they all um each other, driving the car of sex along the flu-shot highway or intimacy, balanced precariously on the bicycle seat of love, all the while glancing into the rearview mirror of your inner child.
The Only Bathroom, where Rickie has apparently told Angela what happened, while somehow avoiding incurring her undying wrath. She just says, mortified, "I can't believe you let Brian Krakow look through my bag." Rickie explains, "He was putting it in his locker, and the sex tape fell out." Angela says it's actually Sharon's, and Rickie is not convinced. "Rickie, I had someone. To be with, you know?" Rickie says he can't even imagine it. "My entire relationship with Jordan Catalano, every minute of it just completely sucked. And now it's over. I should have just had sex with him. Why not, it's so simple." Rickie is not convinced: "But maybe it shouldn't be. So simple. I mean, not that I know what I'm talking about, or anything, 'cause I've never, you know, experienced this, or what have you. But even if I did find, like, the perfect person, I just think it should be like a miracle. Like, seeing a comet. Or just feeling like you're seeing one. Seeing the other person's perfectness. Or something. And if you do it before you're even ready, how are you gonna see all that? Not that I would, like, know or anything." Rickie is a poet. That was worthy of the Pre-Raphaelites, the Romantics even. He's a young Keats. Not that Keats even got old. A toilet flushes. Cynthia Hargrove comes out of a stall, nose stud gleaming. "What you said," she says to Rickie, "was, like, so beautiful. Because that's exactly what it's like." Then she turns her vacant stare on Angela. "I know that we don't, like, know each other, or anything, but could I just ask you something?" Angela says sure. "Did you ever work at Big Guy Burger?" Guh? What a letdown. I'm always hoping for a meaningful moment there between Jordan's ex-skank and Angela, but it never comes.