And finally, Claire goes upstairs to check her AOL email. Proving that Alan Ball has apparently never once used the internet, she doesn't have even a single piece of spam in her inbox. Yeah, right. I've gotten twenty-three stock tips, seventeen credit card offers, and at least three separate invitations to participate in various forms of bestiality just in the last six hours alone. The one piece of email she does have, however, is from Billy. It's copies of the pictures she took, and she gets a strange smile on her face as she looks them over. I'll ignore the fact that they were clearly taken from a different angle than the one she was standing at, and just say that some of them were pretty good. And as Claire herself realizes this, we fade to white.
So that's it, kids. The final fuck score was thirty-seven, which may very well be a record for a one-hour show not written by Trey Parker and Matt Stone. If that's what you guessed back on page one, you're a winner. If it's not, you're a fucking moron. Either way, I'll see you back here next week, where I'll regale you with references to movies, any number of possible RDC challenges, and my thoughts on the Stanley Cup playoffs. You won't want to miss that.
Aaron: Hmm. Let's see. Thirty-seven fucks, extended male nudity, and a secret pregnancy. Yep. That sounds like an Alan Ball episode to me.
Alan Ball: Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice, young man?
Aaron: Who, me? Never.
Alan Ball: Good. Because you're no better, you know.
Aaron: What do you mean?
Alan Ball: Well, let's see. I think I counted about 450 uses of the word "incidentally," ninety-four pathetic mentions of how much you love Lauren, and at least a half dozen shout-out claims that have nothing whatsoever to do with you. Yep. Sounds like an Aaron recap to me.
Aaron: Get out. Now.
Alan Ball: Heh.
Aaron: What the fuck are you laughing at?
Alan Ball: Ah'll be back.