Next thing you know, Dwight and Michael are sitting on the floor having a picnic, and Michael is glad he signed, and now he's a homeowner. And they're having fun! "Can you imagine those poor saps stuck at the office today?" Dwight asks. Michael agrees. Those poor saps.
Aaaand...flonkerton! Kevin and Phyllis are racing, which in this case means "shuffling as hard as they can." "Dig deep!" Jim hollers. Kevin almost topples over, but he's beaten by Phyllis, who takes the gold medal. "Gold medal in flernenton!" Jim hollers. "Flonkerton," Pam corrects. "Thank you...delegate from Iceland," says Jim. God, I love them. I truly do.
Next up, Kevin wins the gold medal in stuffing M&Ms into his mouth. Jim calls the competition without letting anyone else compete. It's dangerous. And tasty!
Michael tells Dwight that he has a surprise: he's going to let Dwight live in the third bedroom and pay rent. He THs that he's "rewarding" Dwight for his efforts by allowing Dwight to live there, and Dwight will reward him in return with money. I've never thought of renting in quite that way. Maybe I should. Michael suggests to Dwight a four-year lease, terminable at Michael's whim. Dwight has a question: where will his terrarium go? Michael says it will go nowhere. Dwight wants to know where his grandparents' armoires will go. Michael becomes distraught.
Back near the flonkerton venue, Pam encourages Angela to play along with everyone, but Angela won't. "Don't you have a game?" Pam asks. "I have one," Angela says coldly. "I call it Pam-pong. I count how many times Jim gets up from his desk and goes to reception to talk to you." That is a horrible, horrible moment -- a ruthless pantsing of Jim and Pam both; a violation of the most basic of social rules, which is the agreement that we all scrupulously do not notice the presence of feelings that other people are entirely appropriately choosing not to act on. Pam is mortified. "We're friends," Pam says. "Apparently," Angela observes mean-girlishly. Meanwhile, an oblivious Jim is conducting a game of horse with trashcan basketball, in which he announces that Stanley (aw, Stanley!) has H-O-R, and Phyllis has H-O. "Are you callin' me a ho?" Phyllis asks. Jim grins magnificently. "Oh my God," he says through a flood of joy. "Phyllis, coming alive! I like it."
Dwight still has questions for Michael. Can they carpool? Can they switch cars? Who's the primary on the fire insurance? With that, Michael has had too much, and he makes all manner of disgusted and frustrated noises before telling Dwight that there will be no arrangement. The whole thing is off. "Thank God," Dwight THs. "It was nice of him to offer, but I live in a nine-bedroom farmhouse. I have my own crossbow range." He does allow that the two bathrooms would have been great: "We just have the one. And it's under the porch."