They talk Mike into getting one two, and he contacts Nanite Shelli. She gabs and talks and is just so nice and gives Mike a real real tall pompadour, I mean real tall. Crow hires Ortega to cater the commercial break. It's a great spread, especially the rellenos with smoky gouda and fresh crab, and the blue corn baskets with flaked trout in chipotle vinaigrette, although Mike simply must object to Ortega's filth and saliva and what not. Sadly, Ortega ashes in the quail eggs and his shame overwhelms him.
Pearl drops off the kids at their parents'.
In the vast history of MST movies made by oily guys who elect to direct the camera largely on themselves, this one stands out, although to be fair Ray Dennis Steckler is really no oilier than a number of sallow oleaginous fellows we could name. Actually, we couldn't name them, but we could definitely think of them and retch. On the way on to work this morning I perceived a vision of three crosses surrounding the sun. It was a moment of blinding purity and a sign to change my ways, I'm sure, so I'm going to take the high road and play down the overt criticism. The cinematographer was one Vilmos Zsigmond, see, and with a name like that what else could he grow up to be, I ask you.