Gerald pulls up just a few minutes after one in the afternoon. He sees Kyle and Stan raking in circles. He shuts the SUV off and exits it. He sees kids putting hay around trees and others digging holes.

"Ah, so peaceful and serene out here."

"Hey, dad!" Kyle calls out, momentarily halting his raking.

Eric huffs and puffs as he waddle-runs over; Butters hangs back some.

"Mr. Marsh," Eric says as soon as he reaches him

"Hello, Eric."

"Commissioner."

"So, this is the Ranch Seasoning place I've heard about."

"Yes, sir, Ranch Seasoning is the premiere training ground for Myentologists."

"It's looking good. I heard good things about it."

"Thank you, Mr. Marsh. Ranch Seasoning is made possible with donations from charitable parents like you."

"Kyle, son, what are you learning now?"

"Gravel raking."

"What Child Kyle means is that he is learning P.E.S.T. work; a scheme where you manage person, energy, space, and time. Raking circles is loose sandy gravel may look on its face to be a huge waste of time that could be better spent reading books from the greatest thinkers of all time, from Socrates to Jon Lott, but in reality the children are becoming better P.E.S.T.'s who can then help other non-Myentologists."

"Good. So, how about a tour?" Gerald asks Eric.

"Ah, a tour?"

"Yeah, to check out the place my son is bettering himself in."

"Yeah," Eric says a little nervously, "of course," he motions for Butters to go on ahead. "Right this way, Mr. Brolovski."

Kenny and Clyde continue digging holes.

Clyde speaks, "I have a theory: the only reason they keep making and selling shovels – even though digging machines are cheaper than ever before and readily attainable – is that the Powers that Be want us to keep looking at the ground so we don't spot the flying lizard people's alien vessels passing in the sky."

Kenny looks at him funny.

"Too much? The shovels or the lizard people?"

.

Eric, Gerald, and Butters approach a shed.

"This is the study shed," Eric motions. Butters then blows the whistle once.

Eric opens the door and lets Gerald in first. He sees a couple of kids sweeping the floor.

Eric comments, "Here wannabe Myentologists learn about Myentology."

"So, how far along are they on learning about it?"

"Oh, I'm still prepping them to grasp the concepts, by having then read 'The Bridges of Madison County'. They do it in these good hard posture-correcting desks." He knocks on the top of one.

"I don't see any air conditioning."

"Mr. Broflovski, they didn't have air conditioning in 1895 and yet the children were pretty smart back then; have you read the eighth-grade final exam from Salina, Kansas? We're both pretty smart and neither of us could pass that."

"I see your point. Gosh, these desks must be antiques. Look – there's some old writing on it. Bill was here."

"It's character."

Gerald reads more on the desk, "O Lord smite the turncoats."

"Lots of character."

"It's a good use of money. Donations can be put toward more important areas," says Gerald.

"Come, I'll show you the housing barn."

As they walk out, Butters blows the whistle twice.

"Say, what's the whistling for?" Gerald asks Butters.

"Oh, me? Why, ah, I'm just practicing my whistling."

"Okay."

.

As they near the Dumpings, Butters blows the whistle once. Again Eric opens the door to let Gerald in first. Gerald looks around; there are no kids in there.

"Are these mattresses clean? They look like used ones."

"They are used. And yes, they are clean. I let Stan's uncle Jimbo use the shacks and land for hunting for a couple weeks and in return he used his steam cleaner to clean the mattresses."

"Do they get enough sleep?"

"They're allotted a generous nine hours every night," Eric replies.

"Wow. Between my marriage, kids and work, I'm lucky to get nine hours."

"Yep – I'm a giver."

"Why are some of these boards clean and other dirty?" Gerald asks, looking around.

"Oh, Butters and I have been scrubbing them with Oxi Clean, but the constant forward progress of my research into bettering Myentology often leave time to do such leaning sparse. My motto is: Up, up and to infinity and away."

"Cleanliness in next to Godliness," Gerald comments.

"Maybe next we'll go see the kitchen barn."

Butters notes Eric's comment as they leave the shed. Butters blows the whistle twice; Gerald looks at him.

"Practice makes perfect," Butters says, then he runs on ahead.

After about thirty second of being out of the Dumpings, wooden planks suddenly fall of parts of the walls and kids pant and moan from propping up planks in place of holes where rotted wood had been but new planks not yet put into place.

.

As they approach the barn, Eric nods lightly to himself when he sees the door open.

Eric and Gerald enter and find kids rubbing hard with used cloths Barkeeper's Friend – steel formula – on the troughs.

"This is the dining area where children eat Michelle Obahma-approved meals."

"On the floor? From a trough?"

"Mr. Broflovski, a million Chinese kids eat sitting on the floor every day, and they're smart enough to ace that 1895 test in their sleep; what works for them, works for us."

"Hum" Gerald rubs his chin, "You know, I never thought of it that way."

"And the troughs are nothing more than another cost-cutting measure. Think of it like those urinal fountains at football stadiums; you don't want to see two dozen other dudes peeing from their dicks at the same time, but it saves the stadium owners money."

"If it saves money, I guess that's okay. I still smell cleaner but I don't see any kids working. Eric – are you trying to hide something?"

"No, of course not."

"'cause child labor laws are different for faith-based organizations."

"They are?" Eric asks, surprised.

"Yes. It's not like regular laws where you have to be at least 16 and can only work part time. Your organization can use younger people; you just need to make sure they can do what you assign them without danger of injury."

"Organization?"

"You are a registered 501(c) faith-based non-profit organization, aren't you?"

"Ah, sure," Eric says, not even knowing what it is.

"'cause you won't have to pay any property taxes or Federal taxes. It's a 501(c) exemption."

"Oh. I guess I was confused."

"I can help you set that up Monday when my office opens."

"Thank you, Mr. Broflovski."

"You know, Eric, I really believe in what you're doing here."

"You do?"

"Oh, yes, especially all the parents who get their kids out of the house for the Summer."

"Thank you," Eric then chuckles, "I thought you might come here to find something to use me over."

"Nah, I get enough lawsuits handed to me; I don't need to go looking for them. Though I'd take the case of any kid here who come to me with something actionable."

They both laugh together.

"No, seriously – I would bury you."

"Understood. Hold on a second…" Eric goes outside and looks at Butters; he then tugs down twice on an imaginary train whistle chain. Butters then blows the whistle twice. All the kids go back to what they were going.

Gerald looks around and suddenly sees kids that seconds ago weren't there.

"Okay, so continue about your work with the cautious safety-minded ethic as you were," Eric says to the kids.

"I got bleach in my eye," a random kids says.

"Did he just say he got bleach in his eye?" Gerald asks Eric.

"No, he said he got birch in his eye; it's the type of tree these new wooden planks are made from. Must be some loose saw dust on them.

"Hum."

.

Later that day. All the kids sit in the final study block of the day, waiting for it to begin. Eric finally shows up. He lays a cheap briefcase on his desk and opens it; he takes out a stack of papers and counts out sheets for each row of kids.

"Take one and pass it back," he then goes back to his desk and sits down in his comfy office chair that has box-cutter slashes on it from being discarded from an office supply store. "Now, tomorrow we'll start learning Myentology and scale back on 'The Bridges of Madison County'. In order to make sure you're successfully absorbing the material, each day you'll have to fill out and graph a The Parroting Schooling report. These will help you better understand where you need improvement. And if you could then just turn your T.P.S. reports into Butters, that would be great. Yes, Child Kyle?" seeing Kyle raise a hand.

"So, this is just a sample? We don't have to fill it out today, right Commissioner?"

"Correct. Now, open your copies of The Bridges of Madison County' and repeat after me: The leopard swept over her, again and again and yet again, like some long prairie wind, and rolling beneath him, she rode on that wind like some temple virgin toward the sweet, compliant fires marking the soft curve of oblivion."

Breanna raises a hand.

"Yes, Child Breanna?"

"Ah, Commissioner, I don't think that's how proper sentence structure works."

"Have you written a best-selling book translated into a major motion picture starring Clint Eastwood?"

"N, Commissioner."

"All right then, temple virgin wannabe, keep reading."

.

Tuesday morning – eight days into Ranch Seasoning training. The boys wake up to the sound of Reveille being played on a cheap-sounding trumpet. When they go outside they see more children with a couple cars pulling up and dropping off kids.

Butters finishes playing Reveille – poorly – and yells, "C on deck!"

Eric exits his shack, "Butters, don't' make me call Malcolm McNab – he'll kick your ass."

"This sucks," says Craig.

Eric says to him, "Shut up, Craig. You're all here because either you saw my Youtube Fartenetics testimonial videos, or your parents want you Cretans to be better people. I can be a good guy or I can be a real mean son of a bitch. It's up to you. Here at Ranch Seasoning, my word is law," he then sits at the sign up desk, "Now, form a line to sign up for the Puddle Org under Myentology," he sets the pen down next to a stack of contracts, "Ah, Wendy, welcome to Ranch Seasoning. What made you decide to join?"

"My unofficial boyfriend is here and I'm bored."

"Wat ever works for you. I just need you to sign this agreement binding your Cretan to use for a bazillion years."

What's a Cretan?" Wendy asks.

.

The kids exit the meal barn from having breakfast.

"Hey, Stan," says Wendy.

"Hey, Wendy."

"Where are the bathrooms?" she asks.

"Bathrooms? Oh, you mean the holes," he then points to a large cluster of bushes.

Wendy look over at them.

"You'll need to sign out toilet paper from C.O.P. Butters," Stan says to her.

.

After a couple of minutes or so, Wendy nears the bushes, holding the toilet paper.

"Don't steal the roll…" she mutters in an annoyed voice.

She stops. In front of her are three metal five-gallon buckets buried in the ground with about two inches sticking out. She pulls a lid off one and finds it half-way filled with water; an aroma of Mr. Clean emanates from it. She sees a wooden sign with white stenciled lettering on it; she reads it aloud, "Be Kind, Please Rewind the Lid."

.

Kenny and Clyde scatter fertilizer on the ground in a flower bed area.

"I got a theory…"

"You don't say."

"I think compost companies call shit fertilizer instead of shit because they know they can package and sell shit that everybody makes for free."

"And…" Kenny plays along, "they're in cahoots with flush-toilet companies who are in bed with waterworks in every county in the country to charge you to flush your valuable self-generated fertilizer away."

"Whoa!" Clyde stops working, "My mind … is blown."

.

Butters walks around handing out Oval-thals; he walks up to Stand and Kyle as they carry rocks from the river.

"Hey, guys, how it's going?"

"Slow," says Stan.

"We think in a few days we'll have met the amount specified by Commissioner," says Kyle.

"Good, then you'll be done," says Butters.

"Finally," Satan comments.

"With step one of the rock project," Butters adds.

"Oh good … there's more," Stan says with some sarcasm.

"Then you'll get to step two: cleaning them. But that probably won't take as long."

"Well, there's that," says Kyle.

"And in between, you'll be stacking them up like a wall and cementing them together."

"Joy," says Stan.

"Think of it as work experience. Maybe one day as a result of this you'll have a wall-building business," says Kyle to Stan.

Eric walks over.

"C.O.P. Butters, I'm temporarily re-assigning you."

"But, ah, who will Boner everyone?"

"They'll just have to Boner themselves. One demerit. Come with me."

Eric leads Butters to a small wooden shack. In front of it are building supplies and a couple of small ladders.

"Okay, put a tool belt on and climb up."

"What are we doing, Commissioner?"

"Re-roofing and fixing this shed."

"E.T.C., isn't this an extra-wide outhouse?"

"Not anymore. Now it's the Cartman Organization Center, or C.O.C.. This is where the copyrights and other important information Kyle's dad helped me fill out yesterday, will be held. That way, if he has to come here to see or work on any of it, he doesn't go into my shed. We both know how imperative it is nobody but you and I go into there…"

.

Gerald pulls away a pair of binoculars and sets them on the passenger seat of his SUV that he has parked off some ways from Ranch Seasoning, behind some light forest.

"…it is nobody but you and I go into there. Well, Eric Cartman, I wonder indeed what is in there. Indeed I wonder…"

We hear lower-octave cello bass and brass for a menacing musical highlight, which is suddenly interrupted by his cellphone ringing. He fishes it out of his pocket and looks at the number before answering.

"Hello, honey, what's up?"

"Gerald, honey, can you pick me up another extra-large box of tampons? Remember: the super absorbent ones."

"Yes, honey."