Credits. Still annoying. Much as I love the Dandies, they really should have just ditched the song entirely and gotten a new one.
Back inside Babylon Gardens, Amira is mourning the loss of her cashmere sweater, while her dad is raging about how he's been in this country for twenty years and is as American as anyone. Veronica says that she spotted a bumper sticker on the truck, so that's at least a start. Amira snots that unless it was a "Hi, My Name Is ___" bumper sticker, how is that going to help? Veronica says the owner of the truck has a child who's an honor student at Neptune Middle. The "suck on that, bitchface" is all in Veronica's wordless visage. She asks Papamira if he wants her to track these punks down or not. Papamira silently assents. His proud and frustrated façade reveals deep reservoirs of hating to admit his wife may have had a point.
Chez Mars. Keith is paging through the Hearst student newspaper and lamenting the giant ads for drink specials at the local bars. The fact that college kids drink having clearly thrown him for a loop, he turns to Veronica and asks if the bar that served our friend Kappa Kappa Pavement -- The Break -- is known for serving underage kids. Veronica utterly narcs out, saying it's known as "The Cake" for how easy it is to get into, but all the bars around Hearst are pretty lax about carding. She hastily, and unconvincingly, adds that she only knows this through reputation, not experience. Keith looks sober -- no pun intended -- and ponders how he's going to be able to free Neptune from the scourge of Dollar Draft Night.
At the Neptune Sheriff's Station, Sacks is passing out copies of a list Keith has compiled of bars that've been known to serve underage kids. Keith instructs the horde of cops that he wants them to perform "surprise checks" on all the bars on this list, tonight. A heretofore unseen flatfoot, who looks far too much like Craig Bierko to not be a jackass, cracks that the list looks like his credit card statement. "Gentlemen," says Keith with utmost seriousness, "Jim Wilson was nineteen; I want this taken seriously." And when he puts it that way, I guess it is a tragedy. Poor nineteen-year-olds. I guess we can't expect them to possess responsibility or self-control or the ability to walk home without dying. Only on one's twenty-first birthday do those virtues descend from on high, brought forth by God's messenger St. Paul. Or, if you'd rather, the St. Pauli Girl. As the cops disperse, Bloated Craig Bierko pulls Sacks aside and asks if Keith was like this the first time around as Sheriff. "I wouldn't test him," Sacks warns. Oh, Sacks. Such loyalty to Keith. Don Lamb must be spinning in his grave that nobody visits.