If the camera crew had any issues with filming Creed in the shower, they didn't let it stop them. (They would later defend it as an excellent opportunity to try out their new water-proof camera, but that's neither here nor there.)
"The Sixties were a different time," Creed explained as he applied generous amounts of Herbal Essence to his short, thin hair. "All that music and sex and weed..."
The camera then lingered on his wistful expression long enough to fully establish that he had completely forgotten what he was saying.
Then it just kept lingering.
Finally, Creed once again for the first time realized that he was being filmed, and started on another train of thought that only by chance happened to vaguely similar to what he had been saying previously.
"Back when I was in the Grass Roots... those were the best times of my life," he reflected, trying to shape his hair into a mohawk and failing due to lack of material. "The people, the drugs..." he paused thoughtfully. "Then everybody started dying for some reason."
For a moment he stared baffled at the faucet as though it somehow held all the answers.
"Janis... Jimi... Ringo... I always figured I'd be next," he shrugged. "Never thought I'd live this long."
Creed then stepped out of the shower (regardless of the fact that it was still running) and began to vigorously dry himself off with the bath-mat.
"I've got a life here in Stanton, but..." he reflected. "Some times you just want the freedom to let the boys dangle in the wind."
"Hello, this is Ryan with Dunder-Mifflin Quality Assurance, this is just your regular follow-up call."
There was a pause while the party on the other line made their reply.
"Um... yes, we do that, ma'am," Ryan insisted weakly.
There was another pause.
"Since always," he mumbled, feeling like nothing more than a little lost penguin. "No, I don't know why you haven't been called before, but..."
At this point, the customer was so loud Pam could clearly make out each syllable from across the room.
"No, I'm not trying to steal your credit card numbers, ma'am. I'm sorry if that's happened to you before, but..."
Ryan, brightly: You know... I've already learned as more about the way businesses work from Creed than Michael ever taught me.
Meanwhile, in the doorway to the kitchenette, two young lovers were the middle of an intense debate.
"There's no way he'll fall for that, Jim," Karen argued.
"And I'm telling you he will," Jim calmly replied.
Karen chanced a casual look Dwight's way... then shook her head. "There's just no way anyone could be that out of touch with reality."
Jim cocked his head to the side and took a moment to really look at her. "You really haven't gotten used to this office yet, have you?"
Then, before she could even offer a reply, Jim bolted off in the direction of his desk, intent on proving to his lover and the world just how out of touch one person could be.
"Hey, Dwight," Jim began, practically bouncing on his heels. "Have you heard about Creed?"
Dwight didn't even look up from his screen. "Of course I did, he's sick. We already discussed this."
"But have you heard how sick Creed is?" Jim asked, leaning in.
Dwight lowered his hostility level slightly and upped his curiosity to compensate. "What are you talking about?"
Jim pretended to check for secret listeners, then began to speak very softly. "Creed has some kind of new super-virus." He paused dramatically while to recall what little medical science he could remember from b-grade Horror movies. "It looks like some for of... necrotizing phazonitis." Jim paused darkly. "The worst part is... he's highly contagious."
When Dwight began to look even sicker than usual, Jim knew his plan was working.
"They had to seal him up in a plastic bubble," Jim explained, "like John Travolta in that movie."
"'Saturday Night Fever?'" Dwight asked.
Jim paused. "Yep," he decided, "that's the one."
There was a horrible pause that Jim couldn't help but treasure.
"Of course," he added after he felt the appropriate amount of stewing had taken place, "that wouldn't do anything for the people who were already infected."
Dwight froze, then looked rapidly around the room. Suddenly Creed-germs seemed to be everywhere; he could feel them crawling just beneath his skin. And while his faith in his Schrute-genes was total, he wasn't sure that they'd ever faithed anything on the level of this terrible new C-Virus.
Recognizing that this was time to bring it on home, Karen stepped in. "Oh my god, Dwight," she began, trying her best to sound panicked, "yesterday Creed was using that... pencil!"
She and Jim each took a broad step away from the desks.
"Run, Karen!" Jim commanded. "We can still save ourselves!"
Karen: My last boyfriend had a foot fetish.
She stares at the camera meaningfully.
Karen: At least with Jim's addiction I can still wear comfortable shoes.
"This is my girlfriend Katie Kelly," Creed explained, gesturing to a girl several decades too young for him who had fallen asleep in an Algebra book.
"Sometimes I like to watch her sleep," Creed confided. Then, after a gentle moment, added "and sometimes I just take pictures."
Creed then took the time to really look at the slumbering girl. As he gazed down at her, his eyes warmed over with the kind of deep, all-embracing love that's can't help but seem unbelievably creepy.
"Some day, I'm going to marry that girl," Creed reflected aloud.
The was a pause of reflection.
"You know," he added, "when the Law says she'd ready."
Darryl: "How do I feel about Jim's little pranks?"
Darryl: Well, let me ask you something: how do I feel about anything that makes more work for me?
"Mike," Darryl simultaneously pleaded and threatened, "you've got to do something about your boy."
"Who, Ryan?" Michael asked, no more confused than usual. "I think he's doing a great job..."
"Not the kid," Darryl corrected angrily, "Schrute."
Michael sighed. "Oh, God, what's he done this time?"
Dwight had wedged himself into one of the aisles between the shelves of the warehouse. Armed with a roll of Saran Wrap he had liberated from the kitchenette, Dwight has begun to build himself the most pathetic cocoon ever hatched out by any living organism.
"Come on, Dwight," Lonny cried, "we gotta get back to work."
"This is for your own safety," Dwight insisted stoically. "My fall-out shelter is on the other side of town and this is the most isolated area I could reach without risking spreading the contagion."
In that moment, Schrute finally came to overwhelm Michael as the company's greatest single annoyance in Lonny's mind. "What?"
Dwight looked at Lonny as though he were seeing him for the first time. True, he was an idiot, but who (other than Dwight himself and Michael) wasn't around here? And even an idiot can play a crucial role in history,Tom Hanks proved that in "Apollo 13." But, at the end of the day, Lonny was all he had.
"If I start to show any symptoms," Dwight whispered seriously. "Any... zombie-like symptoms... you're going to have to kill me."
Lonny, dead serious: You got that on tape, right? Tell me you got him saying that on tape?