But that's all right, since it's conveniently time for today's lottery numbers, revealed by the evidently brilliant, blonde star of Miss Sally's Schoolyard (this show must be HUGE). Ryan O'Reily wants to know what kind of numbnuts plays the lottery. Well, Busmalis, for one. And Beecher. And I'll bet Rebadow joins the fray any second now. And that, my friends, makes six numb nuts. When Ryan voices the opinion that one has a better chance of getting struck by lightning than of winning the lottery, Busmalis corrects him by citing the exact statistical odds of lightning versus lottery. Dork. Ryan's long gone by the time Busmalis finishes his sentence. As the blonde exhorts the viewers to play the lottery, Rebadow suddenly looks skyward as a shrill quasi-musical sound erupts on the soundtrack.
Brass hobbles around the cafeteria some more; Rebadow jumps up as he passes, asks him to buy a lottery ticket, and promises to cut him in on the two-million-dollar jackpot. Brass seems skeptical and, laughing, wonders what makes Rebadow think he'll win. "God told me," says Rebadow, "these are the winning numbers," and hands Brass a dollar and a sheet of paper. I'm thinking that it was probably Cloutier -- he needed a break from harassing Hoyt (scared away, perhaps, by Jaz's ample schlong), and decided to do an old man a favor. Or just fuck with his head.
McManus is shooting hoops in the gym when Brass limps in, wearing a really unattractive jacket, and asks about Rebadow. McManus wants to know if he's bothering Brass, but Brass says no; he just thought Rebadow might be psychotic, since he told Brass at dinner that God speaks to him. There's some seriously bad acting going on right now -- the guy playing Dave Brass seems like he's trying really hard, but he's coming off as a constipated gentleman with a spittle issue. No, says McManus -- while Rebadow has indeed enjoyed a long, ongoing dialogue with God, he's pretty stable. And then Brass starts talking about basketball, as this is the first time he's touched a ball since the incident. About some yo-yo named Pete Maravich (I'm guessing this might ring bells for people who care for sports, but I'm not one of them ["that's 'Pistol Pete' -- he's old-school. My parents talk about him all the time; apparently he played like a Globetrotter, but in the NBA" -- Sars]) who carried a basketball with him at all times, even on dates. I bet he got laid a lot -- "Kiss me, now kiss my ball." He even slept with his ball, which to me sounds way more psycho than conversing with God. "Like a marriage," says Brass, as I retch. Brass obviously does not share my skepticism, as he did the same thing until he got to college. Loser. I bet he gets laid not at all. Then Brass raises his arm to throw a basket, but stops suddenly, unable to complete the motion. He tosses the ball to McManus, who starts whining to Brass about hanging out and shooting. Yeah, asshole -- I'm sure Brass wants to hang out with the guy who's largely responsible for his limp. Brass starts to leave, but McManus keeps at him, finally pushing him into a temper. He talks about how Maravich died on the court -- "'til death do us part," and how he'll never be able to do that. "So stop fucking asking me to shoot a round with you." You tell him, Dave. And then he limps out.