"You know, usually in this situation... What's your name?" He puts a hand on Silas's knee and explains that normally he would shoot them and dumb them in the creek. "You and your Dad," he says, motioning toward Doug. Silas is quick to explain that his Dad is dead, and Doug tangles himself up in explanations that he's a friend, a family friend, nothing sexual going on no matter how often he mentions sexual things w/r/t Silas, that his Dad is also dead. Nothing about his poor gay cocksucking son. Hottie realizes that Doug is basically retarded, and tells his people to untie them. They aren't a threat. He orders Silas to thank him, and he does; he explains he's keeping their stuff, their weed, and asks them to leave before he is forced to shoot them in their heads after all. Silas makes haste, while Doug wanders around purely at random.
Jill Price-Gray is now drunk and noshing on Famous Amos and complaining wildly about how she works very incredibly hard; there are about ten bottles of wine on the taint and she asks Andy to open another one, but he's confused by her rabbit. I have seen the consternation on the faces of people with the rabbit in their hands before, flummoxed by its symmetry and the elusive ease of its use: you pull the top lever up -- the "rabbit" shape comes from the top lever, I have no idea what these are really called -- and clamp the pincers around the neck of the bottle, don't be afraid to hold it tightly, and then you force the ears of the rabbit back toward its back, forcing the corkscrew into the cork, and then the really insane part happens, it gets easier and more amazing than you could have imagined, because you pull the one chrome ear back forward again, pulling the cork somehow straight up, out of the bottle, then you put the bottle down or begin serving, and then more amazingly you repeat the whole process again, forward and back on the ear lever, which causes the cork to come spinning back off the corkscrew. You must not use the rabbit on a rubber cork. It doesn't work like that.
Jill thinks of herself as a "little elf" that feeds the family and takes the twins to Irish Step-Dancing Class and works ceaselessly in the background, opening the bottles and doing all the dirty work that nobody else can see or even wants to know about. She feels like a passenger and a stage manager and the underclass in her own life; this is a terrible fate she is describing, spread out across random edits as they sit on the couch and she spits out random parts of the ceaseless monologue, the brightest and funniest bits: "They take and they take... and they bike" -- and mourns the loss of her entire life, job and friends, all gone, and for what? So that she and Andy can be magically underappreciated elves?