Oh. We're still here. Liz responds to something Kyle evidently said during the commercial. Oh, the blissful, blissful commercial. Liz responds (to the Blistex commercial), "No, I don't want to tell Max. Not yet." Liz is scared to tell him, because "he risked so much when he healed me. It's what made me fall in love with him." Kyle fills in the requisite funny/and maybe I'm gay! dead space with a "Yeah, me too." Liz gets snippy -- she knows who Max would pick -- and Kyle claims he's just trying to lighten the mood. Maybe he should take the King of Comedy's route and just scream out "whooping cough" until the whole place is in stitches. Kyle offers to talk to Max in her stead, and she asks, "Can you just respect my feelings?" Kyle promises he will, tacking on, "Let the record show I think this is a bad idea." Liz gets up, claiming she has to leave. Kyle promises her that she's "not alone in this," asking her to call if she needs anything, not even hazarding the tiniest "rubella" before Liz is out the door.
Maria does the pee-pee dance outside of The House That Government Subsidy Built. Michael "Part-Time Lover" Guerin finally comes home, carrying two Grocery Bags That Government Subsidy Asked If He Wanted Paper Or Plastic, armed also with his excuse for being a bad friend: "Look, I missed that thing with you and Valenti last night because I had to pick up an extra shift." She's excited about something and not listening. Regardless, he keeps on: "Sitting in bars and listening to music doesn't put Snapple on the table." But mentioning it just then put about twelve cases on yours, you…you…you Kiwi-Strawberry-loving whore! Maria dances in ahead of him and tells him she has news. Michael remains aloof: "Later, all right? The Daily Show starts in five minutes and I've got Lean Cuisine to heat up." He starts removing The Tater Tots That Government Subsidy Preheated from the bags as Maria launches in: "A woman from a record label who saw me perform last night offered me a demo deal." A what? Whatever. A deal where they record demos. Maria continues ranting that "stuff like this happens to Alicia Keys or, like, Fiona Apple or something, but not me, not in Roswell." Hey, that's right. Not in Roswell. At least someone around here knows how the music industry works. It happens in New York. Or L.A. Or, if your last name is Carter or your first name is L'il or your whole name is "Ashley Angel," then sometimes in Orlando. Sometimes. But high-powered so-called "talent scouts" aren't marooned a hundred miles from the nearest interstate unless they fucked up that Tasmin Archer deal so badly that an open-mic night at a diner in New Mexico is the only trump card you've got for getting back on top. Michael and his palpable disinterest in the subject matter seem to know this better than anyone else. Meanwhile, back in the scene I'm paid to allegedly be recapping, Maria tells Michael that he was the first person she wanted to tell when she found out. He breaks down and admits he's happy for her, because he seriously wants to get laid. So there's smooching to be had, and The Daily Show to be missed. Meanwhile, Jon Stewart sits in the Comedy Central productions offices reading his morning clippings and asking anyone who will listen, "Wait, we were mentioned on what show, again?"