Then the song that haunts my dreams comes on.
J.B. walks into Scraggle Rock’s music shoppe and tells him he needs some disco music, "On vinyl for that" -- J.B. pretends he’s scratching a record -- "sound." "For that" -- Scraggle imitates J.B. -- "sound?" J.B. explains that he was cleaning some old bag’s hair follicles who was upset because her DJ pulled out of her daughter’s sweet-sixteen birthday party. "So, you’re going to be a party DJ?" Scraggle asks. "How hard can it be? I’m getting $600 for the gig, and once I rent the equipment, I’m getting $450. $450 for one night!" J.B. explains. Scraggle shows off his music know-how and gives him "cool disco, not disco disco." J.B. is silent for a moment, and you can just see the wheels turning in his head. Slowly. He asks Scraggle to put the music together and J.B. will pay him $100. Scraggle’s got a better idea: "You said you were clearing $450." J.B. says, "How about $175?" Scraggle persists, "How about we split it fifty-fifty and I help you with the whole gig? I just had everything stolen from my place and my landlord’s raising my rent [way to work the guilt factor, Scraggs] and then you wouldn’t be lugging all that heavy equipment by yourself." J.B. still tries to strike a better deal: "Sixty-forty." Scraggle holds firm: "Fifty-fifty, equal partners." J.B. assents, "Deal," and they shake on it.
Can it be? Really? Am I dreaming, or is that Cecilia walking down the street in the next shot? It is Cecilia! She marches up to an apartment and buzzes. A male voice answers, "Hello?" "Oh, hey. It’s Cecilia Wiznarski. We met at that singles party, you Heimliched me and kind of saved my --" The orthodontist who saved Cecilia’s life comes darting out the front door. "Whoa, speedy," Cecilia comments. Orthodontist explains that he was just headed out and that his apartment is right there and then says he’s shocked, because Cecilia never called him back. Cecilia says she knows and that he was nice and everything, "But, you know, I just thought: you, me, what’s wrong with that picture? So, sorry." Ortho Man says it’s okay and that the important thing is that she changed her mind. Cecilia tells him that’s really not the case: "I need a favor, and I feel wicked asking you this, but you’re a dentist, right?" "I’m an orthodontist," Ortho Man corrects her. "Right. I chipped my tooth. It’s small. It’s right here --" Cecilia points in her mouth -- "and it keeps catching on my tongue and it’s kind of gross, so --" "I could file it for you," Ortho Man suggests. "That would be awesome. Cash is kind of non-existent right now," Cecilia explains. "It’s okay. I was just headed to the office. So, how did you chip it anyway?" Ortho Man asks. "Opening a freakin’ beer bottle!" Cecilia tells him, shaking her head incredulously.
"It’s like I’m baby-sitting Linda Blair in The Exorcist. And her stepmom? Whoa, what a basket case!" Sarah is telling Romy the Duck-Billed Platypus about her new job. Sarah picks up a sandwich and sniffs it. "Eew, what is this?" she asks Platypus, who is sporting ridiculous pig tails. "It’s a Fam-wich made with Fam," Platypus tells her. "Why are we eating something called Fam?" Sarah asks. Instead of answering her, Platypus oozes with more Fam Facts: "Now with thirty percent less fat!" "Than what?" Sarah asks. "What is Fam, exactly?" She picks up a Spam can that has been turned into a Fam can and reads, "Oh, ‘faux ham in a can.’ Okay, this cannot be good for you." Platypus tells her it’s good for her and announces that she got the commercial. For once, Sarah is happy for her roommate without making a snide or selfish comment: "Romy! Omigod, that’s fantastic!" "FAM-tastic. I’m a young career woman on the go who makes Fam salad for lunch, only I have to eat it in every take so I gotta conquer my gag reflex," Platypus explains. Wait, hold it. Who do these writers think they are fooling? I know for a fact that no one has to actually eat the product in commercials. That’s ridiculous. Sarah sighs gustily and picks through the mail: "Oh, perfect. You get a commercial and I get a free bikini wax for my twenty-first birthday . That defines my life." Platypus has taken a bite of her Fam-wich and garbles through the Fam to ask, "Twenty-first birthday?" "Day after tomorrow," Sarah tells her. "And thus we find ourselves with a need to celebrate. My national, you being legal, having a new job. Party!" Platypus says. Sarah agrees with all of that except the job part, which reminds her that she has to pick up Flynn from school. "Did you say ‘twenty-one’ or ‘forty-one,’" Platypus cracks. Sarah is not amused and tells Platypus that if she can eat the whole sandwich, she deserves an Oscar. Platypus takes a deep breath and wraps her beak around the sandwich.