Back at the lab, Dr. M. is peeling off a bandage to reveal A.G.'s perfectly good, smooth skin, revealed in the now ubiquitous tank top. "Damn I'm good," he murmurs. "Tell me how you really feel about yourself, Doc," cracks A.G. Forgive me for not actually slapping my knee. Then A.G. goes off about he's got some sense of dread and is worried about disappointing someone. Dr. M. reminds him that A.G. is in fact his bitch now, and the only person A.G. should be worried about is Dr. M. Insert whipping noise here. Then Dr. M. tells A.G. to hurry up so that they can make it to the weather lab 1 AM, and A.G. is like, why, what happens at one o'clock?
Inside the weather lab, A.G. is finishing a series of one thousand reps on a rowing machine. The little room is bathed in orange light because it's 137° in there! I think my apartment gets that hot in the summertime. A.G. finishes rowing to nowhere and starts -- guess what? Complaining. He's hot. "I feel like a leg of lamb. No wait, I always feel like a leg of lamb." Don't you mean a piece of meat? Outside the heated room, Dr. M. is miming a conversation, ignoring A.G.'s whining. Then, at 1 AM on the dot, the doorbell starts buzzing angrily. Dr. M. straightens his tie and cruises over to the door. On the other side stand the gaggle of white-coated geeks.
Dr. M. welcomes them in, staying on the heels of Dr. Pretty Lady with a Baby. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, and he follows her around the room until she asks, "Why are you following me?" with that wide-eyed stare women use when they're humoring a desperate man. Dr. M. bumbles some attempts at conversation until she's like, can you go back over there now? Dr. M., clearly not a winner in the ways of love, is like watch me go! and goes back to the console, rejected. A.G. starts banging on the heated walls, forcing Dr. M. to hiss "What are you doing!" A.G. yells "I'm trying not to turn into a puddle of perspiration here! What are YOU doing, Romeo?!" And then he makes some crack about how Dr. Pretty Lady is an icicle. Because all women who don't immediately lay down at the feet of the men who speak to them are frigid -- sure. A.G. continues lambasting Dr. M, saying he has no game. "YOU suck like a Hoover! You have the conversational skills of a monk!" Dr. M. hisses, "What makes you an expert in the art of all things conversational?!" All the white-coats stare. Seems that insurance salesmen know something about talking to people; A.G. insists he "can sell holes to a donut." What talent! A.G. really, really wants to get out of the hot room, and as he complains, Dr. M. stares at Dr. Pretty Lady until some plonky, romantic piano music starts up and Dr. M. heads over to try again with her. A.G. squawks in the earpiece "Trying again with Frosty?" Some Steve Wonder vocals come in. Dr. M babbles on for a bit until, all Cyrano De Bergerac-y, A.G. starts feeding tender pick-up lines into Dr. M's earpiece. A.G. says 'em, Dr. M. repeats them verbatim. This works! And Dr. Pretty Lady gives up her name: Dr. Lauren Rivers. "Now sell her some insurance," A.G. chirps. Dr. M. looks ecstatic.