Jess’s friend CeCe may have been the one calling the shots, but Schmidt owned this episode. From the mini-kimono to the paralyzing fear of a mangy roof cat (“it was raised by birds!”) to the list of things he loves about India (especially chut-i-ney), it was his night to shine — with or without buckets of baby oil on his chest. It’s official: I have cleaned out a drawer in my heart for Schmidt. So we’ll start with him and mosey around until our feet are pointed directly at the weirdness-turned-sigh-inducing adorableness between Jess and Nick.
Friday night. Jess rescued CeCe from her cheating boyfriend (of three weeks), a European DJ with a face tattoo and a penchant for deep Vs. Since Deep V-jay was staying at CeCe’s apartment, she drunk-begged Jess to let her stay at the apartment for the weekend. Given Jess’s maternal instincts (did you see her cutely hand CeCe a bag of pretzel sticks outside of the club like an after-school snack?), of course she caved.
The ladies arrived home to find the guys “doing them.” By which I mean Schmidt was going commando in an ass-high kimono (“It’s on and poppin’!”). Winston ripped off his pants and was wrapping napkins around his body in retaliation. Schmidt: “You are laughing in the face of thousands of years of Japanese history. It’s an affront, Winston. An affront! This [kimono] is hand-crafted… in China.” For his part, Nick hoped for nothing more than some QT with his videogames and a little alone time to “do weird stuff on [his] computer.” Once Winston and Schmidt sandwiched CeCe for a lights-on, Jersey Shore-style dance party, and Schmidt shook his rump like a seasoned club ho (awesome!), Nick realized his plans were shot.
Schmidt successfully herded CeCe into his bedroom (Winston: “Are you sheepdogging her?”), only to miss his window when he spent the next 15 minutes jumping off the walls and rolling on the floor in a Parkour-inflected victory dance that somehow morphed into an Apolo Anton Ohno-style speed skate into his room. By then, CeCe had passed out, and it was the couch for Schmidt.
NEXT: Nothing makes for romance like baby oil and… gravity boots?