Liz goes to the doctor and has to put on a backless robe because she thinks she might have, like, a cold. For heart surgery, you need the robe. I was under the impression that for a garden-variety full facial disappearance, you got to at least keep the pants on. That's what happened to my cousin when his face disappeared, anyway. The doctor pulls back a curtain and allows us behind the looking glass, informing Liz, "Your white blood cell count is normal, which eliminates any bacterial infection." He asks if she's dizzy. No. Coughing? No. DISAPPEARING OF FACE? Well, that he doesn't ask. Damn HMOs. He then asks something else, but through the sometimes-disappearing eyes of Liz, the doctor's speech becomes all choppy and cut off, but only for a minute until the world returns to focus, in time for the doctor to ask, "Are you sexually active, Liz?" She responds with a vehement "No!" Then a faltering "no." Then a more secure "no." And yet, mysteriously, they all sound exactly the same. He doesn't believe her: "When you are young, Liz, sometimes you overlook the consequences of knowing someone intimately. And there's a possibility that you might catch something, even from someone you love." Hi. I'm Troy McClure.
Over at an ambiguously automotive locale, Liz sits brooding as Kyle kicks things off segue-style: "Strange symptoms. Shoot." Liz shoots: "Well, fatigue. And a total inability to concentrate." Oh, come on. Epstein-Barr is so five minutes ago. But wait! There's more. "I've been having some hallucinations." She tells the tale of being at school and having her face disappear, and Kyle starts cracking up, all, "You actually went to school? What about that reunion movie? Doesn't Howard Hesseman really need the money?" But Liz assures him that she's totally serious, and he logically asks why the hell she's telling him all this. So she compares her situation to Kyle's, as they are the only two people who have been "brought back from the dead" (not at all what happened) "by an alien." Kyle hides in Buddha, unearthing some kind of picture book and telling her, "This book has gotten me through some very tough times. Here, young grasshopper, take." She regards the book for a minute, gets all, "I got a C in Knowing How To Put Stuff Down," and slams the book awkwardly on top of some car part. When she raises a hand near an ambiguous part, it smokes and glows green. She notes, "Kyle, I think I'm changing." Just like in the title. And the song. But with notably fewer "ch's" in the title than one might reasonably expect.