Firehouse. The boys are preparing for a night on the town when Syrus's friend, who the hip white writing and corresponding arrow informs us is "Syrus's friend, Ed," arrives. I whisper a thank you to whichever fate inspired me to rent Sixteen Candles last weekend and reintroduce the essential physical description "oily bohunk" into my daily vernacular long enough to employ it in this most appropriate context. Cut to Sean, Jason, Syrus, and Oily Bohunk hitting the town and turning up inside of a snazzy dark bar that none of them -- NONE OF THEM -- could have gotten into without a camera crew and the express written permission of MTV. Okay, maybe Syrus could have. And probably Jason. And the Oily Bohunk guy. But no one else, really. That's right, Sean. I'm talkin' to you, Patagonia boy.

Inside and sitting, Sean endears himself to Syrus as much as possible for someone who has repeatedly shared his family's rustic beliefs that the three-fifths compromise is still a widely-held political policy in certain parts of the country, defaming instead another entire cross-section of the world's populace in declaring, "I gotta straighten some things out in the house. Just about women." Syrus and Sean engage in the secret, anti-feminist handshake of the highest Stonecutters order and Syrus agrees, "All these women act so innocent. You know damn well, they're all witches. They all have witch sides." Um, witches? Are you kidding? Nice try, Syrus, but even thinking yourself unceasingly clever by employing your Police-Academy-edited-for-prime-time vocabulary doesn't remove the sexist overtones of the word you really want to use. Man, that Montana sure can be a witch, eh? That Kameelah can be on the witchy side herself, too. Witches, witches everywhere. At which point in the diatribe, Syrus turns to the waitress and orders himself a tall, cool frosty weer. I hear his favorite brand is "Wudweiser." That is, of course, unless he'd like to go for something a bit stronger, in which case I'm sure Syrus can order the table a nicely aged bottle of straight up, down home Jim Beam Kentucky Wourbon. That is, unless any of those witches show up and spoil the woys' wig wash. Geddit? I hope so.