In my book, nothing beats Nads hair removal gel, especially when they say to call if there's anything wrong with your Nads. So, Byers and Jimmy walk up and inquire, "Adam Burgess?" So Nebbishy is Adam now. Adam is happy to see them, and says his "whole life is gone." His house isn't his house anymore, his wife isn't there, the neighbors don't recognize him, and when he found a copy of The Lone Gunman in the dumpster he slept in, he knew they would believe his story and understand that he's "from a parallel reality and that aliens brought [him] here." Bum bum buuuum. Jimmy leans forward excitedly; Byers looks skeptical. As proof, Adam produces a small, Jell-o snack-sized tub of a blue gel, which he thinks is "alien goo and found in every crevasse of [his] body." Jimmy looks closely and Adam mouths the word, "everywhere." Byers stops sniffing the goo, and after putting it down, carefully wipes his hands. Heh. Adam says he thinks he was kept submerged in the goo to "keep [him] alive in space." Byers gets right up from the table and says they can't be of any help, see ya! Wouldn't want to be ya! Dude, I so remember this when I worked at the City Desk at the Inquirer. We got so many calls, each day, from people that had been abducted by aliens and molested, or experimented on by the government, and the only thing I could do was to listen, and then when they had run out of steam, tell them that we can't help them. One guy said he had been shot at (with an air rifle) by some stupid frat boys as he drove by their house in his car, and he wanted us to write a story about this "attempted murder" by frat boys on a rampage. I never mocked these people, because usually they were really upset, and (I hope) had called the newspaper as a last resort. Of course, these people may have been as nutty as, or nuttier than, fruitcakes, and maybe even up all night before calling in the morning, but at the Inquirer, it wasn't my job to make fun of people. Here at Mighty Big TV, of course, it is. And now I can say, Byers? Run. Like the proverbial wind. Leave Jimmy; he'll listen to this guy and make wondrous expressions all night. You, Byers, are a journalist. Not a therapist. It's a newspaper, you cover stories, not help people. Right? Right? No, because I can see we're only fifteen minutes in. Sigh. He and Jimmy go to leave, and Jimmy stops and asks, "What about the goo?" Byers says he doesn't think "real alien goo smells like lavender hand lotion." Hee. Then Jimmy spots what looks like an electrical component implanted in the back of Adam's neck, calls Byers's attention to it, the violins sound like a scary swarm of bees (Go Mark Snow!), and it finally gets interesting.