Oscar: "The Dundies are kind of like a kid's birthday party, and you go, and there's really nothing for you to do there. But the kid's having a really good time, so you're kind of...there. That's...that's kind of what it's like."

"You down with The Dundies? / You down with The Dundies?" The music stops, lamely, and Dwight answers Michael's accusing look even more lamely, if that's possible: "The waitress...tripped on the cord." Michael keeps it going; Michael always keeps it going; he removes his sweater to reveal a tux. "I am your host, Michael Scott. And I just want to tell you, please -- please -- do not drink and drive. Because you may hit a bump and spill the drink!" Angela rolls her eyes (please see above re: Jan and "wearily"), Kevin gets his drink from the waitress. He asks her to put it on the party's tab, and Michael overhears, and everything goes to shit.

"Nope, actually this year, ah, no group tab. We're going to be doing separate checks," stammers Michael. Everybody's horrified, but none so much as Roy. And Stanley, who practically hisses, "You said we could bring our families!" Michael asks why he didn't, then. The camera pans back to reveal Stanley sitting with an age-appropriate, and very sweet, cute white lady, and your whole stomach kind of reverses the timespace continuum on itself, because in the space between "oh no you di'nt" and "oh Christ he did" there's a whole galaxy of horrible. And for this galaxy Michael Scott will be your tourguide. "I did," says Stanley, in an even (and ever-so-slightly "I dare a motherfucker" tone), "...My wife's name is Terri." Michael, around the crepe sole of his Cole Haan-clad foot, expresses his excitement about meeting Terri, should she appear. Which provokes the inevitable -- and admit it, bitch, you wanted it as bad or worse than Stanley did -- "It's this person whose hand I'm holding, Michael." Silence, barfy white guilt...and Dwight hitting the Yello/Ferris Bueller "Oohhhh, Yeahhhh" button in the silence.