Liz was trapped in Hell, that's all there was to it. An elevator had fallen on top of her at the office. Or Jenna ate her still-beating heart in some quest for eternal youth. Or her plane had dropped from the sky like a rock, straight into the icy embrace of the Atlantic. Whatever had happened, she was dead and this was Hell.

"Why? Why does everythone think I'm a lesbian?" The three women answer at once. "Your shoes." "Your glasses." "Your outfit."

“I thought you went to Tufts,” Liz says, confused. “I thought you were a swan boat operator.”

Jack smiles. "What isn't covered by being Catholic is taken care of by alcohol."

Then as he goes through the metal detector he puts up his hands in a frozen-in-carbonite gesture, which the guard doesn't like at all.

Jack closes the door. "He's airing my personal business using the words of Ralph Wiggum."

"And she's bootylicious," Pete says evenly. "So. That's pretty amazing."

And next time she goes up to his office, he's going to laugh and say, "Oh, Lemon, why in dear heavens would we be awkward around each other? It was just a kiss, you silly lass!" She doesn't know why he's kind of eighty-years-old and vaguely British in her

Liz sighs. "I told you to stop saying erotic."

She sang "My Pink Palace," her last dance music hit, and declared that she still kind of wanted to boff Jack. "I won't try, though."