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 next 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 next 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.