And here's what Porno has to say in response: "I, uh, actually invited someone to come over for Christmas breakfast this year. A lady friend." Kyle's instantly on the defensive, all, "Fantastic. So you just, uh, decided to invite her to Christmas breakfast, our Christmas breakfast. Did you even think to ask me?" Kyle simmers and sulks and boils and bastes, so intent on maintaining the dignity of a Valenti tradition that, until the words "Christmas breakfast" were spoken nine TV seconds ago, never existed in this house or on this show. And we're totally supposed to swallow it whole, aren't we? Just like the Christmas breakfast that the "writers" just painted into our memory and hoped we'd invest in. Did we invest? No, indeed, we did not. Kyle leaves in a huff, and Porno whispers in relief, "Now, Butterball. Now you and I can finally be alone." Porno? Rubber gloves where we can see them, man. That's right. Both of them.
Ding-dong! The doorbell rings at the Beleaguered Mom residence, and Beleaguered Mom opens the door to find the composite pencil sketch your kindergarten teacher tells you to avoid standing on the other side. Max stands at the door, licking his chops and telling Beleaguered Mom, "I just keep thinking about what happened this morning." Ugh. The man is literally one dingy bicycle shop with a back room away from just being booked on the spot. Max introduces himself, and in a town this small, Beleaguered Mom never once thinks to ask, "Aren't you the Max Evans who knocked over a liquor store in Utah and spent several days in prison?" As I as a parent might have done before the inevitable next step of, "Here are some crayons, my kid's in the back." Beleaguered Mom asks what she can do for him, and Max turns it around: "I was wondering what I could do for your son." Or did he say "do to your son"? Please promise you won't tell me. Beleaguered Mom doesn't understand! She asks, "Why?" Good answer. The very one I'd be asking. Max doesn't know. "It just feels like the right thing to do." A close-up shot of Samuel drawing (almost as good of a name for this episode, if you ask me) cuts back to Beleaguered Mom attempting to discourage any contact between her son and hey-who-the-hell-is-this-guy, explaining, "Max, I know how people can get around the holidays. My son is autistic. If you want to work with children, you might want to start with someone a little less challenging." But Max has failed to explain that this entire "liking kids" ploy is entirely for his own selfish gains, and he finally gets around to making that clear, shooting back, "I don't want to work with children. I want to help your son." Thanks as always for the holier-than-everyone approach that always seems to peak for you during the holidays, Max. I think I just changed my mind again about who on earth Jesus is.