The Dungeon. Ted preps the bed for Emmett's arrival. Emmett strolls in wearing a long brown leather trench coat, a fugly patchwork scarf, and brown aviator glasses. Ted asks where he's been. Emmett replies that he was preparing a list. Ted, who apparently never learned his lesson from Robbie, snaps that Emmett can "do [his] grocery shopping list later, okay?" Em holds the piece of paper out. Ted rolls his eyes, grabs it, and reads, "Private dressing room with toilet. Round spinning bed. Ten percent of gross profits. What the fuck is this?" Emmett says they're called "artist's demands." Ted reads on and sees that Emmett also wants a certain kind of lube. What's wrong with the lube? Emmett snorts, "That grease is so cheap, you could fry chicken in it." Ted thinks this is a joke. Ted's wrong. Emmett tells him to look at the last thing on the list, because it's his favorite. Emmett wants his name over the bed. See? Always going too far. He then goes on to wonder if it should just be his first name, like Cher, done up in lights, so that his "fans can see when you pull back for a long shot." Ted walks back to the computer and snorts, "Well, excuse me, Cher, but there's only one long shot your fans are interested in, so come on. Less yak and more jack." Emmett's serious about the list, however. Ted's pretty sure he's not: "If it weren't for me, you'd still be moonlighting as a naked maid, buffing in the buff, trying to pick up a few extra bucks!" Did Emmett ever get that butt lift? Surely he's made enough money for it by now. Emmett gives as good as he gets: "And if it weren't for me, you'd still be a pencil pusher, pulling your pud!" Ted is furious that Emmett thinks Ted owes his success to Emmett. Which he does, of course. Hello? Ted snarls that he can replace Emmett at any time! Nasty! Emmett doubts that. Ted rips up the list in his best friend's face and adds, "Dime a dozen." Flouncing out the door, Emmett tosses Ted the jizzball and adds, "And when you do? Give him this. He's going to need it!" O! Is this the end of our beloved T-Emmett? Yawn.