George Michael's backpack straps stretched under the weight of over two dozen college brochures. He staggered towards the kitchen table just before the bag broke, spilling its insides across the floor.

"Hey, buddy," Michael said. "What you got there?"

"Uh, it's nothing Dad."

Michael bent over and picked up a random brochure. "College prep time already? I...wow...I'm really proud of you, George Michael. Taking the initiative like this. You know, studying all the angles."

This was a huge mistake on Michael's part.

Earlier in the day...

"George Michael," Maeby asked, cornering her cousin in one of the high school corridors. "Do you know a lot about college?"

"I could learn!"

Maeby had been put in the production seat of the new Steven Carrell movie, in which the 40 Year Old Virgin teaches a community college class for others in his very common situation.

"Great! Thanks! I'll make sure you get a writing credit. Brad owes me a really big favor." Maeby beamed and crushed George Michael in a tight hug before leaving.

It took George Michael a few minutes to find his voice again. "Okay, whatever you said..." But by that time, Maeby was already in a conference call with the rest of Imagine Entertainment. George Michael spent the rest of his lunch hour raiding the college counselor's office and picking the brochure racks clean in a desperate attempt to impress his cousin.

"So have you got a particular school in mind?" Michael asked.

"I...well...there's...just so many, Dad. I'm kind of overwhelmed."

Michael's sudden interest in his son's affairs could be traced to his own discussions about college with George Sr.

"Why the fk do you want to go to college for, Michael? Education's for chumps and lowlifes, and besides there's always money in the banana stand. You want to broaden your mind, ask Gob to get you some of the wacky tobaccy and do it the old-fashioned way."

"Don't be afraid to look at private schools, either, George Michael. I'm pretty sure you can ride into one on a scholarship," Michael said.

"Okay, Dad."

"If I may make a suggestion?" Tobias was clad in faux-Western garb. Rows of sparkling red rhinestones spread up his sleeves and across his chest and around the headband of his ten-gallon hat.

Michael gaped. "At the inherent risk of you actually telling me, Tobias, I have to ask. What are you wearing?"

"Ah," said Tobias. "I see you've cleverly spied right through my costume, Michael. Kudos to you."

"All the shimmering gave it away," Michael said.

"I'm in the running for a role to the sequel to Brokeback Mountain," Tobias said.

Michael's eyebrows raised. "Okay, first of all..." He scrutinized Tobias' clothes. "Never mind. I don't even know where to start with trying to explain. You said you had a suggestion for my son?"

"Naturally. I was, after all, a fully licensed analrapist before I decided to leave it all for the exciting, break-neck world of entertainment. A college education strengthens the soul and the mind." He stepped through the mess of brochures, his spurs getting caught on the pages of paper. As Tobias struggled to remove the offending brochure, he let out a small squeak of surprise. "How fortuitous!" He held the brochure up for the others to see. "My old alma mater."

"That's a medical school, Tobias. We're strictly looking at undergrad stuff still," Michael said. "Aren't we, buddy?"

"I guess so. I mean...you don't want me to go to medical school?"

"No, George Michael. I just meant that you can be whatever you want to be. Right? No pressure."

"Sure," George Michael answered awkwardly. "Um, maybe I should ask Buster for some advice too. He's still in college, right?"

Buster's current semester consisted of only one class, Introduction to Comparative Religions, which he had already taken once before.

And failed.

But without a way for him to take notes, he procured the services of a writing partner: a thirty-five year old volunteer named Lucy. Lucy had a nice smile, blonde hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a strange attraction to certain physically challenged members of the general population.

And while Buster appreciated her enthusiastic response...

"Aaaaaahhhhh!" Buster clamored out of Lucy's reach, his hook-hand getting caught in the couch cushions.

...he did not agree with Lucy's assumptions that business should always be mixed with pleasure.

"Oh," Michael replied, trying not to look crestfallen. "Well, like I said. It's solely up to you."

"Okay, Dad."

"But it wouldn't be good to turn into a career college student like Buster."

"Uh..."

"Just remember, son." Michael said, ruffling George Michael's hair. "The choice is yours."

George Michael now worried that his father wanted him to become a doctor, so he sought the advice of the smartest person he knew.

"Uncle Tobias?"

"Yes, George Michael?" Tobias answered brightly.

"Do you have any idea where Gob is?"

Gob's inability to break away from his unchosen profession as a waiter, coupled with the illicit thrill of earning an actual wage meant that he was stuck in a catering job.

"College?" Gob scoffed, bussing a table clear of dishes. "What d'you want to go to college for? That place is just for lowlifes and chumps."

"I think my dad wants me to go." George Michael absently started to help Gob out with the dishes.

"Like I said," Gob replied. "Lowlifes and chumps. Your dad spent four years in a craphole like that. What did he get out of it?"

"Um, didn't he meet Mom there?"

"Yeah, well. Apart from discovering the love of your life and learning all there is to know about running a business, college is for lowlifes and chumps."

"Oh."

This answer confused George Michael even more. He thanked his uncle, received a very generous and unexpected tip from a patron, and left the hotel ballroom in a bigger conundrum than when he arrived.

Meanwhile, George Sr., still under house arrest and sans an outside surrogate, lay in his bed eating cereal bars and mulling his next plan of escape.

"Dad," Michael entered the bedroom, brandishing an armful of files. "I need to talk to you. These overseas sales figures don't add up at all. Was there yet another backhanded deal you neglected to tell me about?"

"Ever hear of knocking, Michael? It's what normal people do when they enter someone else's residence. You should try that sometime."

"I think you forfeited your right to privacy when you were indicted for fraud."

"Alleged fraud," George Sr. corrected.

"...and treason."

"Why are you here, Michael?"

Michael explained that a large amount of cash was seemingly missing from the overseas expenditure funds.

"Oh, that's just his cut."

"Who's cut?"

"The, uh..." George Sr. rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, mumbling his answer. "The Soup Nazi."

"You...you paid off Saddam Hussein?"

"What was I supposed to do, Michael? His mansion in Tikkrit was built on very shaky foundations. It was the only way we could get it up on schedule. He would've soiled our deal with the Saudis. I had no choice."

"I don't...wait, we had a deal with the Saudis?"

The Bluth Company was hired by a cadre of Saudi oil magnates to build the pinnacle of racetracks in the middle of the Arabic desert. The problem with this idea was: it was in the middle of the Arabic desert.

George Sr. took another bite out of his oatmeal bar. "Yeah, but it all fell through."

"And the money?"

"Once the Iraqi judicial system is done with him, we're next in line for a shakedown."

"Perfect," sighed Michael.

Meanwhile, George Michael's quest for college advice was put to an abrupt halt by another conversation with Maeby.

"Hi," George Michael said, greeting his cousin with a weak wave. "Um, about that college thing...?"

"Hmmm? What? We got a consultant. Some big higher-up guy. Writes SAT books or something like that. Thanks anyway."

"Oh..."

"If you're worried about the credit, I could still get your name in, okay?"

"Great! Wait, what?"

But Maeby had already gone.

Half an hour later, Michael arrived home after another spirited argument with his father, while George Michael readied himself for a spirited argument with his father.

"Hey, champ."

"Hi, Dad. Uh, I got something I need to say."

"George Michael. I'm sorry I tried to pressure you into deciding on a college. Take all the time you want."

"But Dad..."

Michael's conversation with his own father reminded him of how not to treat a son, and he was determined to do the right thing.

"You've got a good year or so before you need to write up apps, right? No need to rush into things."

"I don't really want to--"

"--decide right away. Yeah, I know, son. Don't worry too much about it. Wanna go outside and play catch or something?"

"Dad, we haven't played catch since I was in the fourth grade."

And George Michael wasn't very good at it.

"Doesn't matter. I want to hang out with you." Michael smiled, the first really genuine smile he felt all day.

"Sure, Dad," George Michael answered. He'll have to remember to bring this up later. There would always be time for later.

--END--