Fifty-one years later, George -- who is no longer little, but who is still so stupid sometimes -- comes down the stairs in his bathrobe and pajamas and tries to enter the chapel. And here we learn why the funeral directors stand in the back during the service: to foil would-be gatecrashers like their addled stepfather. George wants to join the mourners in their time of loss. Nate says that the funeral's a private one, and George says he'll sit in the back. But Nate blocks him, saying he'll be welcome at the next funeral that afternoon. Heads turn in the congregation as Nate gently leads George back up the stairs. David signals the clergyman to continue, probably thinking that George will probably figure out some way to disrupt his own funeral when the time comes.
Impotence, depression, and creative blockage: Billy's anti-drug. He clearly hasn't resumed his dosage, and his medlessness is already taking hold. He's lounging around on the bed with Claire, even more unshaven and Einstein-haired than usual, and accessorizing his new look with a wifebeater and a pair of black boxer briefs. For some odd reason, not only can Claire not tell that he's going crazy again just by looking at him, but she's eating up his energetically-delivered tales of party-squatting on a cruiser off Mykonos. They kiss, because she can't resist a man who's mentally unstable. He tells her, "I'm a new man with you. You've changed everything." Claire's too flattered to wonder if the real agent of change in his life is she or the lack of anti-psychotics in his system. He says, "Let's stay in bed all day, talking and fucking." Great, because what this show needs is more fucking talking. They snuggle for a minute, and then Billy's off again, suggesting that they spend a few years in Europe. "They despise Americans, I don't need that," Claire laughs. But Billy says it would be good for her art. "You would really ripen over there," he promises, and suggests moving to Spain. "Where in Spain?" Claire asks, as if she could find Madrid on a map. Of Madrid. He starts saying the names of Spanish towns all goofy-sexy like he's in A Fish Called Wanda or something. What's even goofier is the fact that it's working.
David and Keith are at their kitchen table with a stack of adoption-related paperwork that they're going through in David's uptight, highly organized, detail-oriented way. There's another term for that, but I don't want to seem homophobic. David exposits that their appointment with the adoption agency is the next day: "If we're not on top of our paperwork, Shirley will kick our gay daddy asses into the street." To his credit, he's just as organized with the surrogate paperwork, and he reminds Keith that that appointment is the day after tomorrow. Good, we can fit them both in the same episode. They ask each other if they're sure that their respective records are covered: David asks about Keith's anger-management paperwork: "You pounded some guy into a bloody pulp," says the man who once had someone's ear in his stool. "They have to have a paper that says you won't do that again." Keith assures David that it's done, and then asks about the record of David's assault on the Pasqueasel. David says it's ridiculous to call it an assault, and I'm thinking that this is kind of a violent pair of men. David asks if Keith got the Pasqueasel's affidavit that he dropped the charges. "Oh, shit," Keith says. David orders Keith to call the Pasqueasel so that he can scan it and make copies. "You are such a mom," Keith says, already dialing his cell phone. David smiles. "You are," Keith repeats. It's so cute how well they get along at the beginning of episodes, isn't it?