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!"