Scoop keeps scooping: "So that kid is an emancipated minor?" Yes, Jesse responds: "Our firm handled the case." Scoop then asks if he can smoke the ganja right there on the green, and Jesse tells him that this is his "father-in-law's private club," delivering a raging invective against all rich people and their prim exteriors with the instruction, "Go in the bushes like everyone else." And so he does, arriving just in time to see Michael shooting his way out of the bushes by molecularly manipulating the trees to allow him to play through. Scoop sees him and looks down at his lit joint. Dude. What a degenerate. No wonder he's getting fired.
Cut to Pico and Fairfax, where Jesse pegs Scoop as the stoner asshole he so surely is. Jesse cracks up, telling Scoop, "No one -- I mean no one -- is going to print that." Scoop knows his tabloid fodder, responding, "Maybe not The New York Times, dude, but definitely the The Post." No, not even the The Post. Besides, they're way too busy these days trying to find bin Laden in a bowl of soup; they've been leaving the "Potato Shaped Like Jesus" and "Elvis Dances Jig at Own Funeral" and "Roswell Show Still Not Fucking Cancelled" far-out stuff to the supermarket shelves. Scoop knows it sounds outrageous, but he saw what he saw. Isabel comes in the kitchen to find the two in merriment, and wants in on the joke. But here's a better one for you, wifey you ARE the joke! Bwah ha ha ha ha! Scoop explains, "You know your friend Michael? He waved his hand and it was like he had superpowers or something." Jesse puts two beer bottles on his head like antennae and giggles like a schoolgirl and wishes he could be wearing the dress as well, while Scoop continues on that "one thing is for sure: Michael Guerin is definitely not of this world." Okay. He's not that bad of a reporter after all. Can't wait to read that Saint Paul story.