Some time later, we find Jay and two of his equally ancient buddies grouped in the otherwise deserted audience of the festival's main stage, watching with increasing amounts of appalled disbelief as some douchebag supreme runs through his final tech rehearsal before that evening's performance. "You can't see me," screams the toolish hipster-punk testicle supplying the show's soundtrack, "you can't feel me! But I will make it real!" Shut up, asshole. While the music was playing, Douchebag Supreme had been lowered to the stage from the fly space, arms outstretched, Christ-like, with small tongues of flame dancing upon his upturned palms. One of Jay's friends leans forward, gaping in dismay. "Is he wearing eyeliner?" "Can't tell," the other friend snarks back from the depths of his seat, "I'm blinded by all the sterling silver." You see, and as if you haven't already guessed, Douchebag Supreme is a mindfreak of the Criss Angel variety, and so not only is he laboring beneath heavy amounts of guyliner and bling, he's also topless save for a black leather vest, the better for us all to goggle at his pasty, hairy chest. "The light has to find me!" Douchebag Supreme howls at his already-harassed underlings, baying for his spotlight. "Get it?" he screams rather divaliciously before repeating, "IT HAS TO FIND ME!" Charlie and Vernon -- Jay's two equally ancient buddies -- squint at the sequined putz on the stage and sneer, in unison, "What a douchebag!" And I'd start a drinking game right this instant centered upon that last word of theirs and how many times it's repeated this evening, but were I to do so, you'd all be dead of alcohol poisoning by the title card, so you should probably simply understand that we now have our episode title, and let's leave it at that. "Speak for yourself!" shrieks Raoul, stretching an elegantly manicured paw for his second flagon of healing booze this evening, and please try not to get too sloppy too soon, my faithful lizardly companion. We're only two and a half minutes in, and the noise you make after you pass out tends to overwhelm anything coming from the television set. "Well!" Raoul harrumphs. "Of all the nerve! I have never been so insulted in all my life! Why, I've half a mind...!" Stop right there, doll, because you've already dug yourself in far too deeply to continue. "Hmph!"
While Raoul's recovering from what I'm sure will be a temporary snit, let's continue, shall we? When Incredibly Irritated Jay orders his friends to stuff a sock in it already 'cause they're giving him a headache, Vernon -- played by veteran character actor Richard Libertini -- simply snorts, "Come on...he's shaking his ass like an Eighth Avenue hooker." "Used to be about skill," Charlie commiserates, and they've snagged the equally veteran John Rubinstein to play this character, though I should note that when this first aired, I could not for the life of me figure out what he'd done to his damn forehead -- it looks like he ran face-first into a cinderblock wall, and now there's this ugly, purplish bruise over his right eye. Of course, it's actually a Gorbachevian birthmark, as we learn at the very end of the evening, but for a while there, I kept expecting him to keel over dead from a subdural hematoma, and wondered what The Kripkeeper put these dear old gentlemen through just to get this episode in the can. In any event, Jay gripes, "Listen to the two of you -- it's pathetic! Bitter old men talking about the glory days, but you know what? This douchebag isn't the joke. We are." Charlie, concerned about his friend's tone, tries to lighten the mood with a playful challenge, but Jay doesn't rise to the bait, choosing instead to drop his head sadly for a moment before refocusing his attention on Douchebag Supreme, who's just now continued his tech rehearsal with some lame-ass trick involving interlocking rings. "That used to be us," Jay moans, feeling especially sorry for himself. "Maybe he is a douchebag, but he's playing the main stage and we can't even afford an assistant!" "What the hell are we doing?" he spits, and even though it's a rhetorical question, Charlie leans forward over Jay's right shoulder to insist they're doing all right. Jay denies this, countering that the three are instead "sad, old, and dying" before announcing his intention to perform "The Table Of Death" that evening in whatever crappy sixth-tier venue they've managed to secure for themselves. "You almost killed yourself the last time you tried it," Charlie protests as Vernon nods in agreement, "and that was thirty years ago!" "Who cares if it kills me?" Jay angrily retorts. "At least I'll go out with a headline!" "Well, he's not very cheery at all!" shrieks Raoul, and honey, that's the point. "Oh! My apologies, I'm sure! Please continue!" Oy.