Artytexas is smoking some high-yield alfalfa when his personal communicator rings.

"Oh, muthaf," he says, using an old Plaids expression. "Can't git no peace nohow. Yeah, waddayawant?"

"Yer gloriousness, we got another try ready fer ya if ya haul yer big butt down here. We're pretty sure we got it right this time."

In the medical room, Artytexas leans up against a cabinet full of phallic-looking body probes. On a table in the center of the room is a pile of brown-green material. The odor would cause a Glax'n odor eater to gag. The pile is says, "YOU FLIPPIN' UGLY BOLT HOLES! IF I HAD LEGS AND ARMS I'D TEACH YOU SOME STUFF!!"

Artytexas shakes his cephalic appendage. "Look, weenies," he says, "you got the stink down perfect, but you oughta put The Shame's brains inside a body." And he turns and leaves, back to his alfalfa. Maybe he'll dream of that Plaids chick he saw the last time he was home, the one who did the eight-tentacle pole dance.