Outside the restaurant, Nate instructs the valet guy to "keep [the van] out of the sun." Inside, he describes the "deeeaaaattthhhh" rattle to Brenda, and goes on to say that he doesn't understand what Dad was thinking with the will: "And poor Dave. I'd be pissed too. Although he does seem to be taking it to this extra, Old Testament level." Shout-out? Brenda asks Nate to talk about himself and pretend that it's their first date. He replies, "You mean the recap of major life events told in a humorous and self-deprecating way that almost always gets me laid?" Okay, now that has to be a shout-out. Except that these recaps have still never gotten me laid. Somehow telling chicks that you spend your weekends huddled over the computer, obsessively dissecting crappy TV shows, isn't quite the aphrodisiac I'd expected it to be. ["Dude, you must be telling it wrong." -- Wing Chun] If this job ever does get me sex, though, you'll all be the first to know. Probably because I'll be describing Six Feet Under as the greatest TV show since The Greatest American Hero. There's some more metaphysical muttering, and Brenda feels that Nate is "interesting" because she doesn't "meet that many men with dead guys with hard-ons in their car." That surprises me somewhat as well, because after all, this is L.A.
Back in the van, Nate notices a nasty smell, and we quickly cut back to the House of Stiffs, where David is grousing that Mrs. Beatty's credit card was rejected. Turns out the Beattys were in debt up to their ears, and that they have a "$3,200 Titan casket being delivered tomorrow." Dude, if I'd known the mark-ups were like that, I'd have become a funeral director. Plus those guys seem to get laid all the time. Mom asks why David never told her about the buyout offer, and it seems as though she might actually be considering it. The discussion moves to the will; David feels that Dad must have really hated him to leave half the business to Nate. Pan over to DeadDad in the doorway, who says, "It's Fisher & Sons. That's got to continue. And you're never going to have any kids. Oh, and we also couldn't think of a good way to keep Nate from going back to Seattle." David sighs, and the spectre of The Late Nate is once again replaced with The Live Nate, who has just returned. "I think Mr. Suarez kind of shit himself," he says. "Is that normal?" The brothers fight about Nate's apparent lack of respect for human life, and also whether or not corpses can take a dump when they're dead. If you look closely, you can see Alan Ball over the corner being all, "Ooh, look at me! I'm mocking death! Aren't I clever? Isn't that original? It's scary, and inevitable, and no one likes to talk about it, so I'm making fun of it! Hey, there's the Grim Reaper! Ha ha, made you look. Anyway, you guys can park the truck full of Emmys over there." Back at the table, Mom exclaims that she doesn't like all this bickering. David spits, "Yeah, well, I don't like you sleeping with hairdressers." Mom hauls off and smacks him across the face. ["When I watched it, I thought of the action in exactly those words. She really fucking belts him one. I even gasped." -- Wing Chun] And while we've all learned a valuable lesson about violence this week from Bunim & Murray's tasteful treatment of the whole Stephen/Irene Seattle Situation, I still think David totally deserved that. Nate follows David downstairs, and we once again get a rehash of the whole "I stayed, you left" argument.