Laurie crosses her arms because US Weekly's body language experts said that pose communicates distrust, and reminds her husband, "This is our son." He tells her he'll "be there," gives her a peck on the cheek, and leaves for work. We are left with a close-up of Krista Allen's face, and I'd like to tell you about the second groundbreaking thing I've discovered about Allen's acting. Mischa has not yet mastered this art, but I have, and you can too with just a few minutes' practice per day: First, tilt your chin down a smidgen. Then, open your top eyelids as wide as you can, attempting to get your eyelashes to touch the top of your eye socket. I call this "eye acting." Allen's technique does not, however, rest at this plateau, easily ascended by any old ingénue. No, Allen goes that extra step by then contracting her bottom eyelids into a wide-eyed squint that works equally well to communicate lust as dismay, surprise as sadness or happiness. I call this "bottom eyelid acting" and Allen has taken out the trademark.

Ooooh-kay, moving along. We pan up a bed in a messy room. Adam Goldberg's head pokes out of the covers, while a rapidly jerking motion happens underneath, if you get what I mean and I know you do. Horror of horrors, his mother walks in the room, shakes her head, walks over to the bed, and tosses the comforter aside, to reveal a fully clothed Goldberg, who was in fact furiously writing under the covers on an array of legal pads and papers strewn about his bed.

Cut to a soaring courtroom done in the hardwood style of Perry Mason. Jason Payne stands in the center of a cavernous space litigating his little tiny heart out: "If you are looking for a scapegoat, here he is. Blame him for his company going under. Blame him for Shaq going to Miami if it makes you feel any better," he says with the smarmy resolution of a corrupt lawyer. "I'm betting it won't. I'm betting that you understand that sometimes bad things just happen. And it's nobody's fault." Closeup of Payne bathed in cool, corrupt light.

A pair of feet in cowboy boots tap nervously as we hear in voice-over, "She solicited drivers at a truck stop for oral sex. How is that a statement of political expression?" Pan up to Adam Goldberg in a fluorescent and cramped courtroom, litigating by the seat of his too-tight pants: "The First Amendment protects free speech, right? And that's all she was doing, she was just talking, right? If they caught her giving the guy a --" The judge scolds him, and Schultz starts rubbing his face and chuckles, "Okay, look. She is a prostitute, fine. She is a hooker, if you will, a whore. But, she's also a mother, all right?" Cut to the whore looking pretty damned bored with all these procedural procedures. Me and you both, sister. "What ever happened to compassion," Schultz continues, "what ever happened to basic human rights?" I'm thinking, whatever happened to just paying the fine and getting back on the streets? The judge is also getting a bit tired of this Bart Simpson "Do What You Feel" defense and blurts out, "What ever happened to your razor?" This is a pretty bad comeback, and so probably an accurate representation of judicial senses of humor. C.f. Judge John Roberts, Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto. Schultz is getting more and more agitated; his foot begins to tap more rapidly. The judge drones on, "If you have something to add, I suggest you --" at which point Schultz cracks up, jumps out of his seat, and yells, "Well I suggest you kiss my ass, huh?!" The camera goes hand-held -- "Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?" -- and Schultz pulls his pants down, yelling, "Pilates, baby! Smack it!" Hee. He run-shuffles out of the courtroom with pants around his ankles.