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Kyle pukes on his own shoes immediately after Stan finally manages to drag him to the passenger side of his rusty pickup. It’s nothing more than scrap metal on wheels, but Stan is offended when Kyle wipes his mouth and then wipes his hand off on the side of his window. So he makes Kyle ride in the bed with the broken pieces of rust and his dead grandpa’s greasy tools and thinks that this method teach him a lesson.
It isn’t fair, that’s true, because Kyle is a grade-A germaphobe and so terrified of getting tetanus that he refuses to touch the side of Stan’s passenger door regularly. But this time, he’s messy drunk, really fucked-up, white-girl-wasted like a freshman at a frat party, so Stan thinks it’s a little more fair considering how incredibly stupid it’s made him. Stan doesn’t want to clean out his car if Kyle pukes again, which he’s sure he will because Kyle has a self-proclaimed “Jewish stomach.”
He’s yacking off the side before Stan even manages to wrench his stuck stick-shift into place. The radio station is stuck on 97.9, Big “Beast” Cartman’s Mashup-electro, because the dial is stuck. His life is the worst, it really is. When he covers the speaker to try and muffle it, Cartman’s whining sounds just like it had when Stan found him and Kyle sucking each other’s faces off.
Of all people?
Kyle bangs on the back window and screams something about Stan being a cock-blocking stuck up drunk-jealous asshat. He still hasn’t gotten to replace that cracked muffler, so he revs the engine to drown him out and then Kyle loses his balance and falls off of the tailgate that he had been trying to hop anyway.
“It’s like a half-ass hippie and a hippie-ass whore fucked at a ripoff Woodstock,” moans Kyle, describing Stan, while he’s rolling Kyle over in the ditch to make sure he’s still alive.
“Your mom’s name was S-WOW-Tittybang,” Stan says.
Kyle coughs up blood.
Stan takes him to the emergency room and throws up in the cramped bathroom attached to the lobby. It’s possible that he’s killed his best friend acting like a jealous girlfriend. No, somehow, this isn’t the worst thing about the night. When he’s washing his face in the bathroom he pitches a tent washing the blood that Kyle coughed on his cheek. How fucked up is that?
Kyle ends up being okay, vaguely. Stan hears the news through Sheila (he conjures up S-WOW-Tittybang while she’s telling him this) and she proceeds to tell him that Kyle does not want to speak to him ever again.
Stan thinks about this on his drive back home, knowing it’s always like this, that Kyle will find a way to crawl into bed with Stan to spoon and get hard and do absolutely nothing about it in about two days time, that he is in fact a drunk-jealous cockblocker, but it isn’t fair that Kyle wants to kiss Cartman and not himself. Cartman’s pre-recorded mashup-electro is blaring again on the radio and he punches the dial hard enough to smash the ancient knob straight into the dash. Permanently.
And somehow, by the work of the same sinister presence that once forced him to watch Kyle suck Cartman’s balls at age nine, the fucking electro is still playing. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.