Debra apologizes to Hal for their sexcapade (which she calls surprising and fun), but she is clearly not ready to end her foray into swinging singlehood. Hal's wide smile falters slightly, then morphs into a sadly resigned one. "My life's different now," she apologizes. Hal nods that his is, too, and that he would never ask her to abandon what she's discovered in the world. "I just thought we could have a new life together," he mourns gently. Debra suggests that they cling to the happy years and healthy child they've shared, and be satisfied with that -- for now. Steven slouches over to check on them, and both parents swap rueful looks.

Pleasant applause greets Shaggy's appearance on stage. Go Billy! He dons his guitar, switches on a synthesizer, and starts rocking out to the thin beat. His background music screams his name, and we hear train whistles, a modem-connection noise, and the command, "Get in line!" Shaggy strums his guitar and sings in a monotone, "Factory. Patriarchy. Economy. Autonomy. That's ME!" He's a techno-political nightmare. Actually, this song might've worked in Billy Elliot.

Heath cracks up at Shaggy's...er, "music." Ron frantically whispers that Amanda asked him to "take her, uh, her...virginity." His delivery is painfully perfect. He actually uses hand gestures on the word "take," as though the process involves physically removing a cherry from one of her body cavities. Heath frowns. "I don't know, man, I guess it's okay," he says after a pause. Ron is stunned. "She's old enough to make her own decisions," figures Heath. "If I was [sic] to step in now, she'd only go and do it with some guy I don't like nearly as much as you." He ruffles Ron's hair. Man, even if it is a "European thing," as Heath suggests, I don't know many eighteen- or nineteen-year-old guys who'd be so comfortable letting their friends nail their sisters. Most guys don't seem to want to know any details at all about their sisters having sex. Kinda creepy, there, Heath.

On stage, Shaggy lip-synchs to a computerized voice that says, "I am the music man, funk is my energy, music is the product of my factory." He does the robot and raises his guitar in triumph. The modem screech plays again, and he slowly turns down the volume on it, shouting to cover the silence. Then he's done. There is a smattering of very, very light applause, barely courteous.