"Jezebel" Evans trolls the supermarket for johns. She comes upon the strong-jawed person of one Jesse "Other" Ramirez pricing lime juice, as I so often do right before I'm about to get laid in the condiments aisle. Banter. Fancy meeting you. No, no, no, fancy meeting you, Other. Here at the Nook-E-Mart. Nookie between attractive non-Liz-and-Max types thankfully ensues, Other wondering why Isabel won't just tell her parents about them and me wondering, after the wacky directorial decisions made in the opening segment, why there aren't interspersed shots of overweight supermarket patrons incredulously staring at the couple in the corner, popping the proverbial maraschino cherry. And then maybe the words "the dancers laugh" could appear right underneath them. I don't know. I'm not a director. Right. So Jesse insists that Isabel come clean with her parents about their relationship, citing the fact that "eventually, the smell of microwave burritos is going to kill the mood." Wait. Wha? Was that a self-deprecating racial crack? Is this acceptable? Oh. Wait. Convenience store. Never you mind. So Isabel tells Other that she has to keep their relationship on the QT because "my parents can barely get used to the idea of me dating high school guys. You're a twenty-six-year-old lawyer who works for my father, who is…" He fills in the blank: "Who's Latino?" Isabel quips, "You're Latino? I thought you just had a great tan!" So I guess the jury is still out on the whole "microwave burrito" crack. See above. Isabel promises it has nothing to do with their checking two different boxes on the census form (it sure doesn't for anyone's relationship with Maria, for some unexplored reason), but that she thinks they need some more time before anybody knows. But, heavens to contrivance, there's Kyle! Well, I'll be. He utters a "whoops" and freezes. Kyle pauses for a fabulously awkward moment, pulls himself together to form the line, "My dad neglected to start the fridge, so I needed to." And God bless the kid, he's the only one who could pull this off. Because, I mean, "start the fridge"? I know Porno's been on the down-and-out, but no level of poverty leads to the imminent ownership of a refrigerator that you need to start with a ripcord like a lawnmower. So, duh. But Kyle keeps vamping, which is kind of amusing, looks around, utters, "Bye!" and just takes off. He needs a variety show. And for some reason, I want him to host it with Cher.
It's sometime between 0200 and 0700 hours. In the frickin' Army, it is. But over at Not Too Distant Future Inc., it's between two and seven in the AM, and Michael sits in his surveillance room with the rest of the peacekeeping security drones. But they have clipboards. And so they are extremely official. They stare silently at black-and-white screens until Michael hits one button -- probably the one marked "CONTRIVE," but I'm only guessing -- and the surveillance screen turns to a channel broadcasting a hockey game. What…what's that? It's "a replay of tonight's game." Uh-huh. Steve The Standing Guy suggests that Michael get back to work, but Michael has a little speech about this job "sucking," calling it "the most boring thing I've ever done in my life." I give speeches of that nature on a rather consistent basis, usually delivering verbatim words at 8:59 local on Tuesday nights. Michael continues that he is going to "improve the working conditions" of this sucking job, and he rips off his clip-on tie as an example of said improvements. The others follow, eventually including Steve The Standing Guy, who gets a big round of applause when he takes off his own clip-on. A win for fashion. A loss for Sears. Michael loudly celebrates the scoring of a goal he would already have seen. Celebrate and sympathize with them, folks. They're checking your carry-on luggage.