Finally outside of the firehouse in a futile attempt at forsaking their usual indoor activity of "not entertaining me in the slightest" for the first time since their respective planes touched down on the Logan runway some weeks before, Jason and Elka turn up in the increasingly infamous laundromat, apparently the only other location in town not requiring the use of NASA-approved spacesuits custom-designed to withstand the bitter chill of either exploring as-yet undiscovered planets billions of miles from the sun, or traveling through a typical night in the frigid wasteland that is The Real World's tedious sixth season. That was the longest sentence...ever. Jason stares too long at a dryer, the repetitive spin of laundry a pretty apt approximation of our experience watching them on a week-to-week basis. The difference, of course, is that Jason is a brilliant observer of the world around him who can always parse poetic meaning from even the most seemingly banal of occurrences in our everyday lives. The difference, of course, is that Jason is an artist. And here is how he recaps the riveting series premiere of Spinning Clothes in a Dryer for mightybiglaundry.com: "Hey, Elka, is this your underwear? Is this your bra? You have a pair of green, striped underwear." Hey, Jason, you missed the "I'm With Poser" t-shirt she feels so mysteriously inclined to wear whenever the two of you hang out. Elka acts all play-angry and girlish and Sister-Mary-Katherine-never-made-fun-of-my-days-of-the-week-panties-in-the-parochial-school-laundry in repeatedly telling him to "stop staring at it!" She runs up to him and tries to physically remove him from the front of the dryer, pointlessly pluralizing, "Leave my underwears alone!" And if that weren't enough non-sexual un-tension so far for one dazzling sequence in this hotbed of eroticism, Jason takes this opportunity to rudely non-sequitur, "I can't believe you're a virgin." Shut up, Jason. I can't believe you're not. He displays his excessively adept listening skills by expressing shock that there would be "an eighteen-year-old virgin" left on the planet, and she corrects him that she is in fact a nineteen-year-old virgin. She asks if he thinks it's because she "can't get any," and he lapses back into his default Seth Green in Can't Hardly Wait defensive white-boy cadence in telling her "Oh, no, baby, I know you can get some. Don't go there. We're not even going there." Hey, Jason, here's a tip: Women who possess that enviable sense of moral fortitude and realize that there is an inherent part of their womanhood that they feel the need to preserve and not just give up to the first man who compliments her lingerie, love -- just LOVE -- to be called "baby."