So here it is: "God Visits," the unaired episode of Undeclared -- the one that FOX executives didn't want you to see. Apparently, they're scared God will get pissed off and punish them by forcing them to watch their own network for eternity. So what FOX has taught me is, it's wrong to write a good-natured send-up of college kids exploring new beliefs, but it's perfectly okay to imply that God walks the Earth as Burt Reynolds, flaunting his shitty hair plugs while singing cha-cha music and playing Dominoes. Got it.
"God Visits" was filmed as the season's tenth episode, pre-dating the appearance of Larice and the reunion of Steven and Lizzie. My friend Continuity would comment on this, but he's still in the hospital recovering from the brutal, ritualistic nut-crackings administered by FOX this season. He's weak. In lieu of flowers, though, send chocolates. To me.
The episode opens on the UNEC quad. Ron and Steven walk side by side, the latter staring despondently off into space while Ron gobbles up the view of a statuesque girl's skinny ass. "I wish I could take my tuition and, like, shove it down that girl's underwear in one-dollar bills," Ron drools. Steven isn't paying attention. "Whatever," he sighs absently. Ron is frustrated that Steven can't snap out of his sad, doomed obsession with Lizzie. "I'm sick of hearing [about] it," Ron whines. "It's annoying." What a good pal he is. Steven shrugs mournfully. "Life sucks if I can't have her," he says. "Simple as that." Ron stops him. "No, no. It's as simple as that behind," he argues, pointing at the buffet of tight buns walking ahead of them. The model with the ass and the rack has paused to hug another equally well-endowed girl, and as their chests bump, Ron loses his breath. And possibly some bodily fluids. "As long as that's around, life can never be that bad," Ron announces. He then drags Steven's arm so they can walk the nymph to class -- by which he means, trot along behind her in a silent endorsement of skin-tight pants.
Rachel and Lizzie, followed by Heath and Shaggy, bounce into their suite and encounter a solemn girl with glasses and black braids. She's carrying a stack of textbooks out of the suite's right-side bedroom. "Hey, Sheila, what's going on?" Rachel asks politely. Sheila explains that she's tired of being a figment of the show's imagination, so she's moving out of the suite. Rachel and Lizzie make all the we're-so-sorry noises you'd expect from two girls who are faking it better than Meg Ryan in a diner. "That's so sad," Lizzie says. "I've never even seen her," Shaggy whispers to Heath, who cocks an eyebrow lasciviously. "I have," he grins. Shaggy's expression says, "Don't you have herpes yet?"
As soon as Sheila, her plant, her stack of textbooks, and her moment in the sun have passed through the suite door, Rachel and Lizzie squeal and run to check out their brand-new room. "We could totally deck this place out," Rachel gasps. Shaggy envisions whipping it into an orgy of red paint and floor pillows. "We could call it the Poochy Palace," Heath offers. Shaggy leaps into action. "The Poochy PARTY Palace!" he shouts triumphantly. Wha? I don't understand. But Rachel is delighted, so maybe the word "Poochy" is some sort of skank magnet. Shaggy wants them to have a party there as soon as possible. Lizzie laments the fact that she's got a double Bio lab and a ton of work to do. Heath smugly grins that he's got rehearsal. "I'm the star of my class," he nods knowingly. Shaggy is totally fine with them not helping, because it means he can be alone with Rachel and inhale the intoxicating fumes of her push-up bra all by himself. "We can do it," he intones, shimmying closer to Rachel. "The Marsh-man, the Rach-inator." She giggles as they survey the room. "We could make some magic in here," he whisper-growls. We fade into the credits wondering if his magic wand is even functional.
A cordless phone rings in the Frosh Pit. Ron and Steven stare at it, because they know it isn't theirs, and if it isn't theirs, it's Lizzie's, and if it's Lizzie's, then the caller is Eric, and the guys can imagine no fresher hell than talking to a guy who's an expert at silk-screening and lamination. Finally, Ron gives up and answers it. "Hi Eric," he says. "Who the hell is this?" snaps Eric. "Why are you answering Lizzie's phone?" Ron tries to be polite, replying that Lizzie simply left it there, and finishing with, "It's Ron! Heyyy..." But Eric interrupts him. "What the hell was Lizzie doing in your room?" he snarls. Ron suddenly snaps. "We were making sloppy love, Eric," he booms. "It was heavenly." Steven shakes his head in amusement, but also pity, because he knows the pain Ron's about to endure. "WHAT?" screeches Eric. "Give the phone to Lizzie!" On cue, Lizzie innocently trots out of her room. "Did I hear my phone ring?" she asks. Steven tells her it's Eric, who is still raging at Ron. "You shut up!" shouts Ron. "You shut up," Eric retorts. "YOU SHUT UP!" Ron yells one last time before handing the phone to Lizzie. "Hey baby," she says, confused. "Well, I guess you weren't in the library studying, were you, baby?" Eric sneers. She admits she wasn't, and confesses that they're decorating what she calls "a home office." Yeah, the Office of Beer. As she leaves, we hear her wonder why Eric feels the need to check on her constantly.
Ron drops into a chair, drained. "I HATE that guy," he avers wearily. Steven knows. His loins burn with that hatred. But they also exude mercy -- they are compassionate loins -- so he lies, "Whatever, [Eric] is a nice guy." Ron decides, though, that he's so displeased with Eric, he wants to intervene and help Steven win Lizzie back. His friend's great heartache wasn't enough to motivate him; no, it took a tongue-thrashing from a crazed Kopy Town manager. Ron has vengeance in his heart, and this time, it's personal. "I'm gonna get that done for you," he promises. "I'm going to put this together." Steven begs him not to intervene, but Ron's on a mission to bring Steven joy. "Go wash your boxers and whatever they hold, 'cause when I'm done working Lizzie, you're going to need those bad boys clean!" Ron announces. His stirring battle cry still hanging in the air, Ron trots away while Steven just wonders how he gets himself into these fixes every week, and when the weekly madness will end. Unfortunately for us, it's over already.
A clean-cut young man in a white oxford shirt, brown pants, and a brown vest strolls down the quad. We've seen him before. He was Badonk-a-donk, who conducted a highly scientific poll of Larice's throat and learned that two out of two tonsils prefer being lightly suckled. But today, he's somebody more...chaste. This episode was filmed first, so he's actually not yet the Badonk-a-donk we've come to love. He's Badonk -- not yet fully matured, not yet worthy of the "donk" or that precious "a" that makes the whole thing work. Badonk spies Steven eating alone and looking glum, and approaches him with a beaming smile. "You okay?" he asks. Steven sadly nods that he'll survive, but he doesn't look overly certain that he won't take a failed suicide leap off the washing machine. Badonk invites himself to sit with Steven and leans forward eagerly. "It's a woman, isn't it?" he coos. Steven purses his lips and reluctantly admits that, yes, he's got an ache even Tums with Calcium won't cure. "Ain't it always," sighs Badonk sympathetically. "She look good? I bet she looks good." Steven isn't particularly consoled by this, but does dub Lizzie "beautiful," which is nice of him. Badonk offers to set Steven up with somebody, and Steven is as polite as he can be considering that some stranger in a sweater vest is offering to pimp him out. "I'm telling you, he'll fulfill your every need," Badonk grins angelically. Steven snaps to attention, the mere hint of sausage awakening his inner vegetarian. Uncomfortably, he tells Badonk that he doesn't like to ride the groin bronco. He isn't gay. "That's okay, man, neither is He," Badonk explains. "See, His name is Jesus." His smile takes on ear-to-ear proportions, while mounting skepticism flashes in Steven's eyes. "Christ," Steven sighs, staring off in the other direction. "Yeah, see? You know his name!" giggles Badonk. "Say it again, wear it out!" Steven tries gamely to drop through the ground, but fails.
In class, a tall, scraggly, youngish professor scrawls the word "existentialism" across the blackboard. Heath is in one of the seats, doing what he does best -- flirting with any breasted creature within range of his trouser radar. "Existentialists believe the universe is meaningless, and that human existence has no purpose," the teacher begins. This catches Heath's attention. "And, [they believe] that everything we believe to be true -- our religions, our laws, our relationships -- are only illusions we invent to distract us from our purposeless and empty lives," the teacher continues. The montage becomes music-driven, building strength and turning into a series of quick cuts of Heath looking uncomfortable and the teacher driving home his point like a barrage of golf balls driven into our collective crotches. "And let's face it -- if there's no meaning, why even bother trying? Might as well just give up," the teacher adds. Dear Judd: Don't let FOX make you quit, okay? Don't give up. I've got your back. I think we can take them. I'll get the little guy on the left. Billy Blanks taught me a mean right hook. Okay? Charge! Love, Heathen. Heath taps his pencil and gets increasingly queasy. "Of course it's depressing!" shouts the teacher in a fit of bland angst. "The universe is a miserable and horrible place!" As we are reminded that our lives are meaningless and we are but worthless piles of flesh and bone, Heath shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. He doesn't like being told that his fleshy bone is but useless matter in a pointless world. "We are all going to be alone," the teacher finishes dramatically. Then he perks up and looks at his watch. "Okay, sorry, I've cut into your lunch a bit," he grins. "I'll make it up to you time." He studies the glum faces of people whose rugs he has not only yanked out from under them, but sold to overseas merchants who shredded them and fed the scraps to local camels. "Cheer up," he says casually. "It's Taco Tuesday!" Heath is distraught. Mexican food twists his intestines like wet washcloths.
Badonk is still working The Magic of Christ on Steven, which is a lot like The Magic of David Copperfield, but without the billowing blouses and tight pants. "I know you're lonely, but it's not about a girl," Badonk insists. "It's God you're missing." Steven doesn't seem wholly convinced, but lacks the testicles to get up and walk away. "The Word is strong right now," nods Badonk importantly. "Know who's a strong believer of The Word? Charlie Sheen." This impresses Steven, who obviously has just realized that one can believe in The Word while also spanking whores and snorting cocaine off their nipples. Badonk adds that Chris Tucker is also a huge fan. He digs G-to-the-O-D. "Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?" Badonk minces in a mediocre imitation of Chris Tucker. Steven, though, enjoys it, and seems attracted to the idea of discovering The Word. God looks up from his fantasy football draft and is all, "Dude, you think I care what you do? It's the NBA finals and every single damn player is thanking me for giving them big feet and free Nikes. I rule." As Steven giggles at the Chris Tucker bit, Badonk edges closer to his recruit. "That's an impression I do," Badonk explains. "But, do you really understand the words coming out of my mouth?" Steven awkwardly assures him that yes, he does understand, but he's just not into religion. "Uh huh," Badonk nods. "And how are you feeling today?" Something clicks in Steven. That something is God. Or Charlie Sheen.
Later, Steven and Heath stroll pensively together across the quad, the former clinging to a newly acquired copy of The Bible and the latter clinging to an existentialism text. Steven's face is tilted toward the sky and the sweet heavenly angels therein, while Heath stares at the ground at the filth with which he now equates himself. Shaggy skips over, oblivious to the winds of change blowing his friends' skirts up around their waists. "Saturday night, we're totally throwing it down at the Poochy Party Palace," he pants. Heath cringes. "Did you ever think that maybe the entire way you looked at the world was wrong?" he wonders, wounded. Shaggy chews on this. "Oh, yeah, man, I used to be a Goth guy," he answers, still out of breath. "Met this chick with black fingernails, and totally, like, pale, so hot...turned out to be an Albino. Anyway, you guys want to get a keg?" Heath bursts into tears. "I don't know anything anymore," he whimpers. Oh, man, but beer shouldn't make you cry. That's just wrong. Beer is love. I just helped put down a half-case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and I can't for the life of me prove that the liquor store clerk didn't piss in every single can of that terrifying liquid venom, but you don't see me crying. Steven says nothing. He hasn't had time to ask Jesus what he'd do. Shaggy waves them off. "It's okay, I'll figure it out," he decides, sprinting off down the quad.
Larice is sitting at her desk, trying to get homework done while her roommate Suzuki plays the violin. She's excellent, and it's a lovely song, but its sharp high notes clearly rankle Larice. She rubs her forehead and prays for a broken string or five. Suzuki finishes and looks perplexed. "How was that?" she asks. "It was perfect," Larice says in monotone. "Every note was flawless." Suzuki scowls. "It was flat," she snaps. "I can do better." Every single vein in Larice's body pops out of her skin. "You have played the same song five times in a row, and the song is forty-seven minutes long," she says through gritted teeth. She wants Suzuki to stop, but Suzuki shrugs that this is her homework, and starts playing again. Larice shoots her a stink-eye straight from the Bog of Eternal Stench.
Bollywood music plays inside the Poochy Party Palace. The room has red walls, a red paper lantern, some floor pillows, lava lamps, and bean-bag chairs. It's a meditation room done up K-Mart style. "This place is the best," Shaggy says adoringly. Rachel leans back in her chair. "I could live in here," she says in ecstasy. "It's so soothing, like all pressure melts away when I'm in here." Shaggy decides that he agrees with her, because that's usually an on-ramp to the sweaty, groping Highway to Booty. "Uh, me too," he says, sitting down to Rachel and eyeing her hungrily. "It's like nobody wants anything from me," Rachel continues. Shaggy's pants wilt. His eyes dart around uncomfortably. "Exactly," he says without conviction. "I don't want anything." But he's still gazing at her like she's a corn dog. She heaves her pushed-up boobs. Shaggy excitedly talks about how great their party is going to be, but a knock at the door interrupts their rapture.
It's Larice, arriving to inquire about the spare bedroom. Rachel, her eyes wide, is struck dumb. Shaggy hurriedly closes the door so Larice can't see the den of red sin they've created, while Rachel lies that the room's been filled. "It's off the market," Shaggy fibs. Larice looks despondent.
The liars barge back into the privacy of the party palace. "This is not good," Rachel panics. "She put in an application!" Can you do that? My dorm only let people move into other rooms if the people already in that room were okay with it. Lizzie should just move into the room, giving herself and Rachel a single each, and protect the suite from invaders. Shaggy reminds Rachel that they're throwing a bangin' party that weekend, despite the very obvious and disturbing presence of orange curtains in the room. Rachel -- touched briefly by guilt -- contemplates giving the room to Larice, but Shaggy protests. "She has a room," he argues. "She's not homeless, she's selfish. She just wants a better room." That's the pot calling the kettle a fat stainless-steel turd. Shaggy promises he can make Larice's application disappear because he's got a connection at the housing office. Gingerly, he reaches out and rubs Rachel's shoulders ineptly to console her.
Ron canoodles with a cute stuffed panda, goofing off with it in an adorably Ronnish way. He's sitting on Lizzie's bed while she studies, and she glances up from her studies long enough to be charmed by Ron's antics. Ron then looks up at her photo wall. "Aw, that's so cute, Eric and the dog," he oozes. "He seems like the greatest guy." Lizzie smiles that he absolutely is. Ron wonders if Lizzie will marry Eric, and blathers about how very cool that is. Lizzie's grin falters a bit at his assumption of marriage. "He must make some sweet money running that copy shop," Ron offers, his eyes wide and innocent. Lizzie admits that Eric doesn't own the shop -- he only manages it. "He doesn't make that much, and he lives with his ex-stepdad," she explains. "Oh," Ron says, allowing his face to fall a fraction. Lizzie tentatively confesses that, despite Eric's unimpeachable greatness, she did have "this weird thing" with Steven. Ron drops his jaw, raises his eyebrows right into his hairline, and fake-duhs his way into my heart. Although technically he was already in there. "Steven?" he gapes comically. "Steven Steven?" Lizzie nods proudly and giggles. "What happened? Did you guys, like, make out or something?" Lizzie nibbles her lip coyly and brims with mischief. "More than that!" she says, leaning toward him conspiratorially. "MORE?!" Ron twitters too loudly in a marvelous display of feigned shock. "Holy moly! More?" Lizzie is all aglow. Ron edges toward her. "I don't want to cross any lines here with you, Lizzie," Ron begins sincerely. "But I've personally always thought that you and Steven would seriously make, like, the cutest couple." Lizzie's deeply moved. And deeply stupid.
Just as Ron makes headway with Lizzie, Steven opens his Bible and begins to read. The sweet light of Heaven prepares to rain glory and wisdom upon him. We fade to black wondering why Coldplay was the background band of choice for this transformation.
The good thing about this episode not airing is that we were spared commercials for the offensive programming FOX didn't cancel.
Steven's metamorphosis is complete: he is now wearing a sweater vest. Apparently, that's the sign of true, pure piety. He's reading the Bible, until he looks up at Heath with a serene smile on his face. "Have you ever read The Bible?" he asks. "It's awesome." Heath is cocooned in his bed, wrapped in a scratchy brown blanket, his hair mussed and greasy. "Very moral," continues Steven. "Kind of like eight Star Wars episodes in a row." Um. Clearly he hasn't yet seen the train wreck that is Natalie Portman in the two new episodes. Even the cast of 7th Heaven can feign interest in the scripts better than she did. Heath argues that The Bible is a crock of shit: "[It's] just a bunch of stories made up by rich people to stop poor people hitting them on the head with a stick and taking their money." Steven finds that horrible. "I agree. It's a catastrophe," Heath wails. "How can you say that?" Steven asks calmly. "Who do you think created everything? Is it a coincidence that music sounds pretty, that water turns into rain?" He's positively glowing with the radiant light of the sweet baby Jesus. "That our butts are down here, and not on top of our head?" Steven continues. "God's work is everywhere." Heath wants him to shut up. "God doesn't exist, okay?" he shouts. "Nothing matters. You may as well just do whatever you want, whenever you want." Steven would prefer to love his neighbor. Literally, yes, but here he's actually just quoting from scripture. Heath nods. "You are right, you are right," Heath says. Steven is delighted. "And I will start by nailing that little sophomore hottie at the party tonight," Heath concludes. Steven shoots him a hilariously condescending expression, lit by his new profundity. "Now, I don't think that's what it means, do you?" he asks, gently scolding without losing his weird smile. "Tomato, to-mah-to," Heath sneers.
Apparently, Shaggy's connections in the housing office are none other than P.B. and the Samoan. I had expected it to be Perry, since he turns up everywhere and does everything and nothing, but oh well. I'm just as happy with these loons. Rachel begs P.B. and the Samoan to make Larice's application vanish, but the Samoan is afraid of getting fired. Shaggy -- blatantly wearing a pink-and-electric-blue-plaid shirt yet making no apologies for it -- leans forward and begs them to reconsider. As a bribe, he offers them his most prized possession -- a compilation tape of 250 nude scenes he's taped from cable stations since he was eight. It's his lifelong project, and he's sacrificing it for the Poochy Party Palace. How tender. P.B. excitedly asks who's in it. "Holly Hunter," grins Shaggy. The Samoan looks repulsed. Rachel panics, sensing their plan is about to implode on Holly's scrawny back. Shaggy tries again, this time offering Katie Holmes, Ashley Judd, and Richard Gere, "if that's your thing." P.B. and the Samoan exchange decidedly not-repulsed glances, because anyone who got Ronned by a gerbil is okay with them. "Jamie Lee Curtis, Trading Places," Shaggy continues. "Must've been cold that day, know what I'm saying?" They all laugh brightly. The Samoan wants Alyssa Milano, and Shaggy gleefully says he got all her best stuff from Poison Ivy 2 without any of the painful plot. Rachel's all, "Whoaaaaa!" to convey how impressed she is, and to amp up the supposed value of the video.
Cut to P.B. and the Samoan shredding Larice's application while watching Shaggy's tape. "Holy mother of God," gapes the Samoan, drooling.
Lizzie finds Steven, and isn't repelled by his maroon vest. "Heyyyy," she drawls flirtatiously. "I haven't seen you in forever! How are you?" Steven beams that he's absolutely fantastic. He's resplendent and transcendent. He's scrumtrilescent. Lizzie coquettishly asks him out to dinner so that they can catch up on each other's lives, and genitals. "I would, but I've got to get to the VA hospice to read to some veterans," he says. She's stunned. "That's so nice of you!" she exclaims. Steven smiles and pats her on the shoulder. "You know, it was nice of them to fight in a war for us," he tells her pleasantly. As he leaves, Lizzie lets her mild frustration show a bit, never having had anyone turn down a silver platter of her breasts before.
Gospel music plays over the montage, which cuts between Steven's religious orgasm and Heath's increasing disconnection from the world. Steven sniffs the flowers and holds out his arms, free to embrace the world now that he's read Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and all the other fascinations The Good Book offers. Heath, meanwhile, pisses in the bathroom sink, and I guess we're meant to think his drunk ass never did that until this existential crisis. Uh huh. Steven smiles blissfully up at the sky as he lies on the grass; Heath strolls the hall in his boxers, blanket, and oily hair, and grabs a girl's ass. She shoves him away. He grins evilly. Steven studies the marvels of the mighty butterfly; Heath eats a ladybug, just because he can. Steven somersaults on the grass and reaches again for the sky, and Heath -- still in his boxer-blanket outfit -- walks in the middle of Ron and Shaggy's Frisbee game, steals the disc, and refuses to return it. Shaggy and Ron chase Heath, who starts smacking them with the Frisbee. Finally, Heath later pulls the fire alarm, which sends a panicked Lucien skipping out of his room and down the hall. "Fire, fire, fire, people!" he shouts, clapping his hands, the very picture of fey ineptitude.
Everyone lines up outside the dorm while the fire department investigates. Lucien is telling a fireman that he smelled smoke and fumes. Deadly fumes. Whatever, Lucien. Go make a bong out of Hillary's underwear drawer. Shaggy hears violin music and turns to see Suzuki and Larice at the end of the line. Larice is close to tearing off her own ears. "Crap, there's [Larice]," he whispers frantically. Larice waves at them miserably. Rachel half-heartedly returns the gesture. "Everybody's talking about the Poochy Party. What if she hears?" he worries. Rachel wonders if they should invite her, clearly feeling guilty about barring her from the room. Shaggy insists that it's a lousy idea, because it would bust up the Palace. "Plus, I hear her [sic] and Suzuki are getting along really well," he chirps. Larice reaches a trembling and menacing hand out toward Suzuki, then clenches her fist and whips her arm back to her side with considerable effort. She's insanely mad. And hilarious. I'm going to miss her.
As "Hot Stuff" plays, Lizzie models clothes for Ron. "That's cute," he shrugs. She's basically wearing a shlumpy long-sleeved shirt over a t-shirt, which is one thing I love about Lizzie -- she's cute, but she's not shoving her boobs in my face. "Does [Steven] even think I'm pretty?" she frets. "He doesn't even notice me anymore." Ron encourages her to work her mojo, but Lizzie has apparently forgotten that she owns a water bra. "Send him 'yes,'" Ron suggests. "A lot of yes," she grins. "So much yes," Ron giggles. He's sitting near Lizzie's Eric lampshade, which is looking mighty frightening this evening. Lizzie changes her outfit by blousing the t-shirt and leaving the shirt hanging open. She poses and asks for Ron's opinion. He studies her. "Is that as big as your boobs get?" he asks. She gasps, then stares at them. "Oooh, I have a shirt for that!" she squeals. "I knew you would," Ron sighs in delight.
Loud music. Flashlights. P.B. The Samoan. It's all the ingredients of a really killer Dungeons and Dragons party. But there's other dancing people there to clue us into the fact that it's the Poochy party. In case we still hadn't made the connection, Shaggy shouts, "Poochy Palace!" Everyone cheers.
Steven's in his room reading The Bible. Elevator music plays in the background, because the sweet little baby Jesus loves synthesized easy-listening favorites. Lizzie enters in a moderately low-cut red shirt. "Here you are!" she gushes. "Party's over there, goofball!" She shuts the door and plops down to him. "What'cha reading?" she simpers. "The greatest story ever told," he glows. "Cool," she nods. "Anyway, you look really good." Steven thanks her profusely. "No. Really good," she coos, flashing major fuck-me eyes at him. Steven smiles thoughtfully, convinced it's the warm cocoon of Christ that's buffed him up.
Shaggy and Rachel dance. "This is the best!" he shouts. "I know!" she yells. "We make such a great team!" Shaggy's hips throb. "Right!" he pants. "There's nothing we can't do...together." He moves toward her just as a giant, violent mosh pit starts. Rachel flips out about the metal music blaring through her speakers. Heath is in the center of the pit, moshing in his crusty blanket and knocking people over with his burning rage. Whatever. I don't buy that Heath ever thought life meant anything but a string of vaginas, and sometimes cookie dough.
Outside, in the girls' living room, Ron is watching Cable Girls Gone Wild with P.B. and the Samoan. "Damn," they breathe. "Suddenly I'm, like, a Melanie Griffith fan," Ron says, amazed at himself because that sentence has never actually been uttered before in civilized circles.
Lizzie continues sliding toward Steven on the couch, and hornily pouts that she's not sure when the party will end, and she has a test tomorrow, so she's not sure how much sleep she can get in her own room. Steven offers her the couch. "I'll lay down the sheets," he says serenely. "It's surprisingly comfortable." Lizzie is stunned by his oily confidence. "Wait, what am I saying?" Steven laughs, smacking himself on the forehead in a fit of V-8 regret. "You can sleep in my bed!" Lizzie's like, "No shit, Sherlock Bones." Steven adds, "I'll sleep on the couch." Lizzie frowns a bit, then perks up. "How about this: why don't we both stay in your bed?" she urges suggestively. "We can keep each other up all night...." Steven points out that she already said she has a test the morning. "I lied," she pants, leaning in to kiss him. Steven purses his lips and looks down. "Let's not do this," he tells her -- still serene, but now with a touch of pity. "See, the first time, we did it because we were lonely, scared, desperate, weak. That's why we gave into sin and lust." Lizzie cocks her head and stares at him, genuinely appalled. "There's an attraction between us -- that cannot be denied," he smirks self-importantly. "But if it ever happens again, it should be for the right reasons. And tonight, here, it feels so very, very wrong." Lizzie nods, freaked. "Yeah," she says. "Very wrong." Bible 1, Lizzie 0. This all cracks me up, because when I was fourteen and forced to go to classes each Sunday to earn my confirmation, my teacher always tried to be hip and reach out to the crazy youth of today. So he told us that Jesus was a major party animal -- hey, he hung out with hookers, didn't he? -- and was always the first dude on the dance floor, the first one to tip back his wine glass, and, yes, the first one in bed with all the ladies. And since Sunday School teachers never, ever lie -- even if what they're saying makes Jesus look like a giant hypocrite -- I have to believe that Jesus would've been completely okay with Steven getting jiggy. Although, continuing that logic, I would therefore also have to believe that the Detroit Pistons were sent by God to dominate global basketball courts, and that the path to salvation is through Nintendo.
Heath continues moshing with abandon. "I think the red is starting to freak everybody out!" wails Rachel. Shaggy insists it's a soothing color. He's trying to calm her down so that he can have his shaggy way with her. "This is not soothing!" she screams. Something breaks. Shaggy can no longer deny it: the party sucks. Heath moshes over there and yells, "That's what I told you, man! Life sucks." He dives back toward the crowd to cause more wreckage while Shaggy and Rachel struggle outside for air.
Lizzie scampers up to Ron. "He's a jerk. I hate him!" she screeches. "I'm trying to, like, French him, and he's going off on The Bible." Ron tries to write it off as a phase so that she won't give up on Steven yet, but Lizzie's determined to hate him. "Do it with him!" Ron pleads. "Forget it!" she hisses. "I'm going to call Eric!" Oh, nice. She wasn't going to dump him until she was sure about Steven. Way to cover your bases, on so many levels. Skank.
Rachel storms out onto the lawn. Shaggy follows, wearing one of those tall hats with the pouch inside that keeps weed safe from grabby hands and hair oils. "There's a mosh pit in there," she rants. "Somebody just ripped my poster of the French people kissing." Serves her right -- what a stupid poster. She's going insane, but Shaggy tries to cajole her into going back upstairs by pretending they're playing Dido and slow-dancing in the Poochy Palace. But Rachel has already caught sight of Larice taking lonely refuge on a bench, and she feels sorry for the girl. Shaggy attempts again to lure Rachel upstairs, but no dice -- Rachel calls out to Larice in a fit of pity. She blurts that they shredded her application because they wanted a party room, but that she's reconsidered, and Larice can have the damn thing. Nice of her to consult Lizzie on that one. Shaggy is clearly pissed, masking that thinly with fake excitement. Larice jumps up in glee and starts wiggling her butt, then doing her own version of a Saturday Night Fever routine, clapping and pointing and shaking everything she has that moves. It's quite marvelous. The child has funk. Rachel and Shaggy gawk at her in disbelief, Rachel already starting to regret her snap decision to invite Larice into their lives. "Where's the party?" Larice giggles, suddenly carefree. "Why, the party's in your new room!" Shaggy cackles. Larice boogies her way over to them and says, "You know when you live with [Larice], it's a party every night!" Shaggy escorts her upstairs, relishing Rachel's obvious horror. She stays behind and wonders why she's so easy. We wonder why she's easy with everyone but Shaggy.
The morning, Steven strolls the quad, again enshrouded in Godly love and splendor. But he stops short when he sees Badonk becoming a man, putting his tongue in a girl's mouth while putting the "donk" in his nickname. "What are you doing?" Steven sputters. "Hey baby! What's up?" Badonk-a-donk says happily. "I don't...I thought you said it's not about girls, it's about God," Steven panics. Badonk-a-donk takes one look at Steven and one look at the willowy breasted creature in front of him, and chooses to donk her instead of preach the Word. "Um, time out," he offers. "Is she fine? Is she fine?...You gonna blame me for this?" Steven, nauseated, realizes he just wasted a chance to get his noodle cooked, and runs off to try and boil the water once more. "She was sent by God," Badonk-a-donk yells helpfully, as if to rationalize his actions. The pretty girl just stands there smiling about how pretty she is.
Steven bumps into Lizzie in the hall, but she slams the door in his face. "Open up! I'm so sorry!" he shouts, banging on the door. "Go away!" she yells. "It feels right now, so right!" he tries again. "I believe in sin! Sin is good!" But the door to Lizzie's love cave is firmly shut.
Heath wanders aimlessly down the hall. Suddenly, the strains of Suzuki's violin waft into his ears, and he drifts into her doorframe. As she plays, and her fingers work the neck of the violin, and her bow flicks frenetically up and down, and up and down, Heath is reminded once more of the point of life: hot animal sex. Tears spring to his eyes. "That was heavenly," he whispers when she finishes. Suzuki levels him with her gaze. "It sucked," she snots. We fade to black as Heath smiles weepily at her.
Perry shows up during the credits sequence. He's taunting Heath, still in the grips of his angst. "What's the matter, dollface? Down in the dumps? Sucks to be you," he jeers. Then I think we go to a different cut. "What's with you, Lloyds of London? You take one mind-blowing philosophy class and all of a sudden you're Jean-Paul Sartre?" Perry taunts again. "Now you've got that existentialist hook, too. Great, because all you need is a little more mystique. Now you've got a chance with all the freaky chicks I was gonna get!" He's really worked up, but Heath isn't listening. "I've taken so much acne medication, my lips are splitting in half!" Perry yells. Then I think we're in a different take again, although they're all edited together so you wouldn't notice unless you're paying attention to the scenery behind them, which is the same despite the fact that they've presumably been walking away from it the whole time. "This might cheer you up: You're hotter than most chicks," Perry says. "What are you doing in college, anyway? People like you don't need to know how to read." Then he says, out of the blue, "Nice nose." Heath shoves him off the sidewalk.