J.D.: [v.o.] Lately, Elliot and her booty call, Keith, loved playing games. Tonight, it was "The Orchard Owner and the Mexican Apple Thief."
Elliot: Confess, Manuel! Confess that you stole these apples.
Keith: I was at the dance with the other pickers.
Elliot: Liar! [Elliot slaps him]
J.D.: [v.o.] Frankly, the whole thing disgusted me.
Elliot: You saw him do it, didn't you, Paco?
J.D.: [v.o.] Mostly because they never let me speak.
J.D.: [exaggerated Mexican accent] He hid them in his pantalones. He loves these apples. He makes apples pie and apples juice with them.
Elliot: Paco, you can't talk because you lost your tongue in that cider press accident, remember? Now, back to the pickers' bunkhouse!
J.D.: I hate the pickers' bunkhouse.
J.D.: [v.o.] And I hate Keith. Which begs the question: Why do I insist on being a part of their foreplay?