We start immediately with Cesar treating Shane in the back of Esteban's car while the driver takes them away from the scene. Nancy's pretty much completely useless, which is paradoxically really comforting to see after so much flaking out, even though what she's doing is flaking out, but it's like authentic flaking out as opposed to going crazy. Interestingly, the credits are displayed on a lucha mask, with a second mask beneath it. Keep digging. Shane's as dissociated as his mom has been this year -- "Look at all my blood, mom!" -- and the fact that, as he reports, he can't even feel it just means she finally can. Cesar deals with everything efficiently, and Esteban's freaking out -- "shoot at my family, you shoot at me," et cetera -- but we, and I think Nancy maybe, already knows the truth.

Shane compares it to a slap: "He slapped me, with a bullet. Mom, isn't that weird?" She agrees: it's weird, and fucked up, and scary. She starts screaming, screaming like she hasn't screamed since we met her, for the hospital, and Cesar reminds her that gunshots are automatically reported to the police. She doesn't care, she screams, distracting even Esteban from his usual cool. Cesar asks for the towncar's vodka bottle and she asks him if he's a doctor. "A nurse. In the Army." Like Hot Lips Houlihan, she grins, and Shane giggles ("Caliente Lips") before Cesar pours it on. "AHH! Fuck you! Fuck your mom! In the ass! With a screwdriver!" Even Esteban's impressed as Shane follows this by taking the bottle from Cesar's hand, and downing a healthy slug. Nancy follows soon after. I hope she pumped.

Actually, no I don't. I don't anything having to do with Nancy's lactation. I don't ever want to think about breastfeeding again, either in the general or the practical. I have had enough and refuse to associate further with Nancy's breasts in any capacity. Yes, it'll mean I don't get to watch those amazing/creepy bedtime story videos she did for Esquire, but that is a small price to pay. Not to mention disturbing in their own right.

Doug's selling You're Pretty outside the ridiculously named Girth Gym, or at least attempting to. He's got signs and banners and a long table, and he's squinting, which is basically a recipe for success right there. "I found a high-volume area, followed the script... What am I doing wrong?" Because what woman wouldn't want to talk to Doug Wilson, the skeeviest motherfucker in the universe, outside something called the "Girth Gym," about her skin imperfections? He practically has NO FAT CHICKS tattooed on his face as it is, just by the Retarded White Male look on his face. Not that the awesome girls at the next table selling Girl Scout cookies have any better reason for having chosen this venue, although come to think of it, a little self-hatred and reward/punish probably is good for business.