Shut up. I have the flu.

Ack! Feet! Whose idea was this, for crying out loud? We open on an establishing shot of the soon-to-be-recycled-in-the-tinder-for-The Yule Log set of the Crashdown, and cut to an under-the-table shot of a dirty, unclad, free-roaming foot working its way up the inseam of the person across from it. Clearly, Roswell has been cancelled two full weeks ahead of schedule and been unceremoniously replaced with the far more relevant reality series When Humans Eat Out. Surely, there's a sign on the wall in that restaurant indicating that this deviant, piggy-showing behavior will yield the final result of "no service." Let's just pray they've got the "shirt" part taken care of. We cut north to find that the piggies in question belong to Liz "Bot In Hell" Parker, and the pants and assumed arousal belong to Max "Old Only In Alien Years…And In Human Years As Well" Evans. Liz saucily informs Max, "Did you know there's a full college scholarship being offered to potential podiatry practitioners?" Kyle "Little Man Tate" Valenti shares the table with Max and Liz, looking nearly as disinterested in this podiatry-oriented exchange as the viewers whose remotes broke during Buffy and are now glued to the couch with a quizzical "Are you sure this wasn't cancelled?" look painted across their faces. Y'know. That kind of disinterested. But back to podiatry -- Liz flirts with all the elegance of a cloistered monk, monotoning, "I'd have to keep my business off of the equator, though." Max looks down at the table and asks back, "Couldn't you come a little farther…north?" Ooooh. It's like they're talking about sex, but what they're really talking about is sex. God, I love subtext. Liz's foot slides up Max's jeans (though with his rapidly advancing age, I'm sure he'd tell the story that Liz's foot slid up his "trousers" or perhaps "dungarees") and Max is forced to think about baseball or the queen or Liz to stop himself from experiencing some premature, uh, podiatry and excusing himself from the table. Because all that would do is ruin a perfectly good pair of "slacks."

Michael "Pillsbury Dough Alien" Guerin enters through the front door of the Crashdown just then, carrying with him many large cardboard boxes. He locks eyes with an angered Maria "Schlock Star" DeLuca, and the two indulge in a brief, witty repartee that includes each of them saying the word "what" seventeen times until Michael deal breaks with a "whatever" and carries his ambiguous boxes through to the kitchen. They weren't filled with backstory, that's for sure, because last week's episode spills out all over Liz's table as she informs Max, "Still no apologies from Michael." Kyle deigns to mention "that king thing tattoo on Michael's chest," and Liz cuts him off with the preemptive "That's gone. Max is king now." So haughty she is all, "I'm not giving up my foot virginity to just any member of the royal court of the five triangulated planets." And haven't we all felt that way at one time or another, really? But never you mind, because Kyle has other plans for Michael's temporary tattoo of universal domination: "Maybe Michael could get 'I'm eternally sorry' tattooed there instead and flash it every half-hour regardless." No one is amused. Liz fake laughs, because the script dictates "Liz laughs genuinely." Maria, for one, knows why she ain't laughing: "He threatened my life and then shoved me out of a moving vehicle and just left me in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night."