Which is pretty much all of you, apparently. Robson peels the pantyhose off his head, and oh-so-subtly suggests that they try "B.C.P." (breath control play) the next time. Cutler isn't interested at first, but when Robson's description of the practice includes the phrase "it feels like God himself is swallowing," he quickly changes his mind. Oh, Wolfie, Wolfie, Wolfie. Don't you watch Six Feet Under? I mean, they certainly watch you. Where's that HBO synergy when you actually need it?
Sister Pete's office. Robson kicks ass in this scene, especially when you realize that he's not just pouring his heart out convincingly, but also setting up the perfect murder. "I told you that shit about my dad," he confesses. "Well, in many ways I've become him. I mean, I've done shit to guys that I'm not proud of. But in other ways, I'm still that little boy getting fucked in the shed." Aww. Sort of. Robson goes on to say that he's worried about Cutler, because "sometimes his mood gets so dark, I think he might do himself." Sister Pete, who once again probably should know better, buys this story hook, line, and sinker, and promises to set up a meeting with Cutler as soon as possible.
Wolfgang obviously has other ideas, however, because the next scene features Sister Pete hunting him down in the mailroom to chastise him for missing their appointment. "Shrinks are for fags," replies Cutler, much to the amusement of Schillinger, who stands nearby. Hi, Vern! We miss you! Come and see us sometime, okay? Only, not like that, you know? Cutler makes the mistake of threatening Sister Pete, which raises the ire of the guard who's with her. Oh, sure. She'll bring a guard to the brightly-lit mailroom, but not the pitch-black gymnasium. Whatever.
The next morning, Robson wakes up to find Wolfgang's half-naked corpse hanging from the edge of the bed in a pantyhose noose. Ew. On the other hand, James's deadpan delivery of "Good morning, Wolfie," is utterly perfect. He casually calls the guard down to his cell, and an already good scene gets even better when the guard remarks, "Well, ain't that a kick. One of you actually went and lynched yourselves." Hee!
Nappa. When everything has been said and done, and all the words written, and all the phone calls made, we'll sit together and "watch Mother Earth's last days on reality TV." And then Hill will wander by, and remind us that God, "instead of wanting to talk, is now tired of listening." God ain't the only one, my friends. God ain't the only one.