Down in the Body Shop, Nate, David, and Rico are discussing the manner of the DGDJ's death. Rico apparently talked to some guy at the morgue, and has been clued in to the fact that it wasn't suicide by the presence of the porno tape in the VCR. And also the Astroglide. "What's Astroglide?" asks Nate. "It's lube," replies his brother. "Lubrication for sex." Nate: "Thank you, David!" David: "No problemo." Heh. Snerk. Nate finally realizes that the DGDJ was doing auto-erotic asphyxiation, "just like the guy in that band," and we also learn that Rico knows way more about this subject than you'd probably expect. David looks like he wants to jump into the conversation as well, but before he can, his cell phone rings. It's Keith, and he's just calling to give David a friendly heads-up on the fact that he's broken things off with EMT Eddie. David, however, isn't quite sure what to make of that fact, and pretty much just hangs up on him.
Michael Hutchence: You should try it some time. It's quite the new sensation.
Alan Ball: Uh, I'll pass thanks. I need to conserve my lung strength for the new bong I just ordered.
Michael Hutchence: Come on! It'll free the devil inside --
Alan Ball: Do you have an excess of ear-wax or something? I said no.
Michael Hutchence: Hey, it's your loss, buddy. But you should really -- ack!
[Cough. Gasp. Sputter. Silence.]
Alan Ball: Ew. Now see, that's just mean.
Brenda's Bordello of Boredom. Hooker Scrunchieface is stretched out on the floor reading a magazine and listening to Brenda describing scenes from her novel. Scrunchie is pleased to discover that one of the characters is a "high-class hooker" that's based on her. "Excellent," she says. "As long as she doesn't get raped and murdered to pay for her sins. I'm so sick of that tired old story." Hmm. Now is that foreshadowing, misdirection, or just ironic commentary on network TV? You be the judge. Brenda sparks up a pipe of her ever-present pot, and gleefully confesses to having jerked off a client. Scrunchie is surprised, but only mildly so. Brenda recaps the entire incident, but (if I do say so my own damn self) does so without any of the alliterative wit, panache, and utter revulsion that I displayed last week. "Well, as long as it's all for your art," says Scrunchieface. Whoa. Hang on there, Scrunchie. Art? What art? The Art of Whore? Patricia Clarkson in High Art? Or maybe she just means the arterial blood that will be flowing from my wrists if Brenda doesn't shut up soon. Either way, I highly doubt she's referring to the Judith Krantz-esque, Clan of the Cave Whore scribblings that Brenda's been typing into her laptop recently.