The blip at the bottom of the screen says "Surf City, Maryland," and we pan up on an adorable aqua-and-white teeny house-shaped mailbox. A schlubby, nebbishy, suit-and-tied, balding guy peeks inside, gets no mail, pats it, and happily goes up the walk and enters the real aqua-and-white house. Once inside, he flicks on the tube (shout-out?) surfs around, and walks wearily into the kitchen. The music is mischievous. Then, another man, wearing a hat, enters the front door and changes the channel to an infomercial.
In the kitchen, Nebbishy chugs milk from the carton, wrinkles his nose, and sniffs the stuff suspiciously. Then he replaces the carton and, grabbing a beer, walks out. Hot on his heels is the Other Guy, who chugs some milk, wrinkles his nose, sniffs and replaces the carton, and opens a beer. Neither knows the other is there, see? It's funny!
Nebbishy sits on the john, reading a copy of Couture Girl. Hee. My b.f. totally laughed at this, proving that there is resonance in toilet humor. Nebbishy swigs his beer. When he exits, Other Guy walks in and sprays some Lysol.
Nebbishy plops down in front of the tube and turns it off. He bends over, and Other Guy walks out of the john, swigs his beer, and disappears down the hall. Nebbishy pops up, having removed his shoes, swigs his beer, and follows in the same direction as Other Guy. Other Guy then rounds the corner, sifting through mail, sits down, and notices the turned-off tube and the other bottle of beer. Mark Snow plays the perfect guitar chord that really means, "What the fuck?"
More mischievous music plays as we see boxer shorts come off and Nebbishy getting into bed and kissing a sleeping woman, who smiles sleepily. Of course, in walks Other Guy who climbs into bed. The woman murmurs, "Ooh, honey," and Nebbishy says, "What are you doing with your hand?" Discovery of What Is Happening occurs now. Scream, scream, leap out of bed, who-are-you's are exchanged, and then we get a close-up of Nebbishy who says nebbishly, "Who are you people and what are you doing in my bed?" We have premise.
Oh, say can you see? The credits.
It's nighttime in Washington, D.C. Jimmy and Byers enter a candlelit diner and see Nebbishy sitting at a table. Byers sternly reminds Jimmy that he's "only here to observe" and that since he took the call, "if [they] publish the story, [his] name goes on -- but that's a big if." Jimmy thinks the phrase "big if" is really funny for some reason. 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.
Lone Gunpad. Frohike is skeptical, especially when he hears this is Jimmy's story. He doesn't want to call Mulder "just yet." I guess Chris Carter doesn't keep these guys in the loop -- Mulder is supposedly dead. I know he isn't though. There are more movies to be made. Langly comes back and says the goo is "udder cream," and that they should "introduce his lubricated butt to the door." Hee! Byers is all believing Adam now, though, because Adam didn't even know about the implant. What is it? Nothing left to do but haul out the homemade MRI machine. As Frohike straps Adam in, Adam says Frohike looks familiar. Noted. On the MRI screen, we see there are wires rigged up to Adam's cerebral cortex. What the?