A co-worker the other day asked how I was enjoying recapping Undeclared. "Because I can't get into it," he said, with a shrug that hinted of derision. "It's all that stuff about college guys running around trying to get laid." I bristled. I explained that the show's humor and characters are far more charming than his one-sentence analysis suggests. He decided to watch it again. And what did he see? An episode focused entirely on college guys running around trying to get laid. There's no justice.

We fade up on Lizzie asleep next to a long spaghetti noodle. Oh, wait, no -- it moved, so it's probably Steven. After having hooked up for the second time, they're trying and failing to share a tiny twin bed. Lizzie has all the covers, and Steven is huddled on the brink, shivering and ready to drop right off. I sympathize. One year, my boyfriend and I had to share his twin-bed loft, which was maybe two feet from the ceiling. When we switched to my new full-size bed two years later, it felt like Texas. Heath peeks into the room and snickers under his breath, then creeps inside and jokingly caresses Steven's eyebrows. Steven awakens slowly with a dreamy grin that turns to irritation when he sees Heath, not Lizzie, stroking his face. "Congratulations, you little hound dog," whispers Heath mischievously. Steven immediately freaks out, assuming Heath slept in there and "saw something." Heath, though, had made other accommodations, probably because he knew that staying in the room wouldn't exactly teach him techniques he didn't outgrow when he was sixteen. Heath wonders if Steven and Lizzie had sex, employing the ever-classy Fist Pump of Penetration to communicate his meaning. When Lizzie rolls over, awake, it turns into an innocent wave. He's so smooth. "Hey Stevie," she coos gently. They awkwardly pucker up, Steven kissing her cheek while Lizzie smooches the air near his face. She hurriedly gets up. "Will m'lady be needing an escort to class?" Steven dorks. "That would be great, baby!" Lizzie says, charmed. Heath vomits inwardly. The door closes, and Steven leaps to his feet. "I just got to call her 'baby,' to her face this time!" he squeals. Ha! Great line. Steven holds aloft two shoelaces in triumph. No, wait, those are his arms.

Kelly lies in Ron's bed, his head resting near her belly. "Hungry for breakfast yet?" he asks, blissful. "Yeah, I'm hungry, but not for breakfast," Kelly replies with a smile. Ron rubs her leg over the covers and stares at her navel. Seth Rogen's all, "This is the best job in the world." Ron boasts that there's plenty of Ron left to serve up -- Ron links, or perhaps "Ron-ffles," which are waffles made with fresh and tender Ron. And drizzled in a warm syrup, too, I imagine. The camera pans over to Shaggy, who is lying traumatized in his bed with the covers yanked tightly up to his chin. He stares at the ceiling in pain. "I'm right here! I exist!" he wails. "Please stop talking like that." Kelly scoffs that Shaggy needs to keep pretending he's asleep, just like he did last night. Hello? There are several perfectly good couches around, Shaggy. You could've moved. Ron sits up to ask whether Shaggy has any questions or comments about the previous night's performance, and Kelly makes a stupid and bratty joke about sloppy seconds that barely makes sense. She then leaves. Shaggy winces. "There's a stain above where I sleep and I can't tell if it came from above, or flew up from down here," he trembles. Cut to the stain -- it's a nasty brown smudge of death. Ron's still basking in the glow of having finally fulfilled his penis's life goal. "I've seen things no man should see," Shaggy moans.