Mike Binder: Heh. "One long hot fuck with God." You mind if I use that? I'm thinking of doing an episode where the reanimated corpse of Mother Theresa goes down on me in a Calcutta whorehouse.
Alan Ball: Ew. You disgust me.
Mike Binder: Aww, come on! We're Sundays On HBO buddies! Where's the love? Speaking of which, have you ever banged that Meadow Soprano chick?
Alan Ball: Um, no.
Mike Binder: Damn, she's hot. I'd love to make HER bellybutton sing, if you know what I mean. Or hey, what about your girl Brenda? I hear she's like some kind of total slut or something. You think I could get her number?
Aaron: Whoa! Hold on! If Fuckbinder here gets Brenda's number, then I want Lauren's.
Alan Ball: Yeah. Nobody's getting anybody's number. Except for my assistant, that is, who really needs to get me the number for security right away.
Ow! Hey, that's hot! Damn! Yep, that's right. It's finally my moment in the sun, so to speak. Nate and J.P. slide my cardboard-coated corpse into the crematory oven, and with a quick press of the button by Nate, I begin to return to the ashes from whence I came. Meanwhile, J.P. tells the story of the exploding pacemaker from the day before. Apparently, it was in some young, buff-looking guy, so nobody expected him to have any exploding machinery in his chest. "Ah, vanity," sighs J.P. "These guys are out there taking pills, getting implants…men are the new women." Heh. I wonder what he'd say about Michael Jackson's sixth nose job? J.P. peeks into a little window in the side of the machine, and bitches that he has to reposition my body to make sure that my chest is "right under the main burner. That's where most of your mass and fluids are. All that stuff that really fuels the burn." This is all shot from inside the oven, and we can clearly see the nauseated look on Nate's face as he watches. "We used to leave it chunky," continues J.P., "so that people would know it was real cremains, and not just wood chips like that place in Georgia." Ahh, at last we get the Georgia reference. That was definitely this season's equivalent of the "putting the fun back into funerals" Sword of Damocles. You just knew it was coming eventually, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. J.P. also relates the story of how a distraught father found a charred tooth in the cremains of his baby, and then further opines that when a baby dies, "it's a lot of dead hope." Ahh, at last it's all about Nate. You just knew that was coming, too. On the other hand, what kind of a father goes poking through his baby's ashes? That's just sick.