While Paul continues to drink his weight, the other star of the night gets all the attention. Nick and his partner Andy got a loft in St. Paul, in the Lowry Building. And then, he announces, Andy and Nick got married in Iowa. "Who would have thought there'd be a shining example of tolerance, like, just 200 miles away?" They laugh and they toast. Paul thinks about it for awhile, before he speaks.

"You know what I don't get about gay marriage? Two things. First of all, ass sex. Support it! Support it, don't get it. But what I really don't understand is... Why the fuck would you want to get married in the first place?" Nick barfs up some boilerplate and Paul shakes his head. The same rights and privileges, yes, but also the pain, and the heartache. As regular people.

"Say you're just living together, and things go south. You wake up one day, and you go, You know, this guy's had bad breath all the time, but today his breath is so bad, I'm gonna end the relationship. You just walk, you know, but: If you committed a lifetime to each other and somebody walks, it's like open-fucking-heart surgery without the anesthesia."

It's how it feels, and they understand this finally, and when they point out that he is drunk he gives a mighty "Ding, ding, ding, ding!" But he knows this much is true: "Marriage is a suffocating death trap, and monogamy is a fucking myth. You know what marriage needs? To be punched in the balls. That's what marriage needs. Swift kick in the nuts."

It is at this point that Paul -- who has, over the years, carved out a pretty wide berth as far as his outbursts -- really loses it, kicking the table in the balls, clinking all the glasses. Paul's boss Simon tells him that he has said quite enough, and that clearly the issues with Cathy are on his mind tonight, but whatever he wants to say then is undercut by Paul losing it even more: "Fuck you, Simon. You tell me that's enough when you find your wife fucking a black guy."

They're so shocked Simon's that's enough finger goes limp; Paul sighs like a satisfied child, and then thinks of one more outrage: "FYI, if you do ever decide to do that, Danielle? Please have the courtesy to not do it in your own fucking backyard." Presumably fired, Paul downs another drink and heads out of the restaurant, dropping his napkin anywhere. Although honestly, he added enough colorful details it's possible he hasn't lost his job after all. A sort of "shoot the moon" approach.