Szechwan delight over at Chez Evans, where the perfectly functional Evans parents, Bangs and That Other Guy, serve themselves out of Chinese food containers while Isabel regards them repeatedly and adoringly. Bangs vamps till sleepy about their new "digital cable," which she just knows will "have a better picture, get more channels, and it will actually cost less." And it rules, but it doesn't cost less. That shit racks up the costs. Because why have one channel that plays exclusively black-and-white spaghetti Westerns when you can have eleven? Oh, and it doesn't work when it rains. Other than that, viva la Direct TV, Bangs Evans. Mr. Evans looks around for the Chinese mustard, repeatedly asking, "Where is the Chinese mustard? Has anyone seen the Chinese mustard?" Dude, just call it mustard. They'll know what you mean. No one's going to pull a big ol' package of Grey Poupon out of the bag; you're eating Chinese food. They're not going to try and snow you with the Dijonnaise or that mayo-and-ketchup thing they put on French fries in Holland. Just calm down. It's mustard. Not radium. Okay? Bangs vamps further about how "awful" some of the channels are. Wow. How many UPN affiliates did they give her, anyway? "Do you realize there are people teaching cooking classes naked? There are people talking politics naked." Which package did you choose, Bangs? Isabel breaks into the banter with a somber and leveled, "Mom? Dad?" that inspires her parents to look at her in rapt attention and the vibes guy on the soundtrack to noodle something in a minor key. She pauses for a minute, her eyes dewy, barely choking out, "I think the Chinese mustard is in the fridge, so I'll get it for you." Oh. So Chinese mustard is a metaphor for…what, some other kind of mustard? Hands off the French's, sister, or your dad is gonna kick your ass. Mr. Evans smiles so broadly at this random act of kindness you can see so far down his throat as to count the individual cilia. If he hated the shrimp toast so much, why didn't they just get a damn pizza? Isabel retreats to the fridge and pulls out two plastic containers of the Chinese mustard and hides her tears behind the door. God. Allergic to MSG much?
Den Of Porno. Tess lies on the couch sweating profusely, as expectant alien traitor moms are so prone to do. Porno soaks a cloth in a plastic, water-bearing container of some kind that are sold mostly to families living on TV who are trying to have a meaningful moment with an invalid in a room that isn't the bathroom. He dabs the washcloth on her head and assures her, "If anything goes wrong and you're not able to go home, you have a home here. And your child has a home here, too." But her child will have to be quarantined to the "Plot Illogic" wing of Porno County Hospital, because we've spent the better part of the last four episodes (well, except for last week, duh) learning that this son of a preacher Max can't survive in the Earth's atmosphere and, well, that's why they have to leave. I mean, I'm not trying to make a funny with the word "stillborn" in the punch line or anything, but it seems like Tess is just going to have to file Porno's gesture under "promises, empty" and move right on with her recapping day. Can't survive on Earth. Already knew that. Thanks. And so he continues, "You're part of this family now. We'll figure out what's wrong with the baby." Maybe something about it not being able to live in the Earth's atmosphere? I'm mean, I'm no TV doctor, but…anyway, Porno grabs the plastic container to make with some more warm water, but before he leaves the room, Tess calls him back with, "Thanks. Dad." Ew. He turns back and flashes the yellows before she tells him, "I just wanted to see what that sounded like." Porno wants to know how it sounded. "A little too weird." But it sure beats the hell out of calling your father "Nasedo" for the first sixteen years of your life. My dad made me call him Nasedo until I was sixteen, too, and if I told you it didn't put a strain of the worst kind on our relationship, well, I would be telling you a lie.