Jess makes a bet with Nick that she can date a guy in spite of his... shortcomings; pranksters Cece and Winston inadvertently fast-track Schmidt's modeling career.
There are just some weeks where everything leads back to a micro-penis, and this was one of them for New Girl. Jess gets close to hitting it off with a new guy (The Hunger Games: Catching Fire‘s super-hottie Alan Ritchson) until his horrible personality gets in the way. But, because he has already admitted he has a tiny package and because Jess is trying to prove to Nick that she isn’t shallow, she makes a bet that puts her on the hook for a month-long relationship with this fool.
For those who didn’t catch Tuesday’s episode (“Micro”), here’s how everything—especially Jess’s bulging eyes—went down…
The path to the micro-penis:
Jess is irritated with the guys for talking about women’s breasts (and her wonky, “not architecturally sound” right knee) in the most objectifying terms.
–Coach likes “’70s boobies, bra-burnin’ feminist boobies. Boobies bouncin’ ’round like they got no sense.”
–Nick is more of “a 1950s guy. Post-Korean War, pre-Vietnam War [kind of tatas].”
–Schmidt insists they can’t be too small because “you gotta be able to palm a basketball if you want to be able to slammer-jammer dunk it.”
–Winston prefers “’em going in two different directions like Cookie Monster’s eyes.” (Related: Winston has a Sesame Street problem that also seems to involve sexual attraction to Big Bird. Can you blame him?)
Jess storms over to the nearest booth, not realizing she’s sitting down next to a stud with a killer smile and an affinity for knit caps that makes him resemble David Beckham circa 2011. The guy introduces himself as Matt and confidently asks Jess on a date. She immediately accepts. Then he drops the news about his “unusually small” member. Her response? “Lucky for you my eyes are bigger than my stomach.” Awkward pause… “I don’t know what that means.” And thus begins…
All the ways in which the micro-penis is described:
–Schmidt: “It’s like a single tent in a vast, dark forest.”
–Coach: “It’s like the letter ‘I’ floating around in a bowl full of alphabet soup.”
–Winston: “Oh, that’s awesome—an anteater being born!”
–Schmidt: “That ghoulish raisin.”
–Jess: “A little squeaker” (as opposed to “a blue-ribbon hog that’s ready for market”).
–Schmidt: “He’s wearing skinny jeans. They fit him like sweatpants!”
–Jess: “It looks like a little, tiny pigeon’s egg.”
–Jess: “That little rug rat.”
All the havoc the micro-penis wreaks:
–The guys experience massive psychological trauma. Cece even claims they are bringing the vibe down at the bar and tells them with a stern smile to “pretend that you’re having fun or pay for me to go to college.”
–Schmidt pursues modeling. When Winston and Cece lock eyes at the absurdity of Schmidt and Coach’s escalating mutual praise about how good-looking they both are in contrast to Matt and his pitiful micro-penis, Winston sets the wheels in motion for “a classic Cece/Winston mess-around” (because that‘s a thing now, no matter what Cece says). He tells them, “A drunk baby with a phone in his mouth couldn’t take a bad picture of you” and goads them into dual photo shoots at the loft. Cece plays along, suggesting she show their portfolios to her agent, then thickening the plot by saying he’ll probably only take one of them and that he really prefers piggyback shots. As Schmidt and Coach vie to convey their model appeal (Coach is more runway, Schmidt is more catalog), Winston snaps away, saying, “It’s like shooting candy into a baby.” Things soon get personal, with Schmidt zinging Coach’s “geisha waist” (Jess’s phrase) and Coach taking pot shots at Schmidt’s tiny nipples and even bringing Nick’s “Depression-era garbage man” look into the mix. When Schmidt admits the competition matters to him because of his shame over being a former fatty, Coach eventually forfeits and assures Schmidt, “If there’s anything that can finally help you get over your body image issues, it’s modeling.” Shortly thereafter, Coach realizes it was a prank all along and corners Cece and Winston into forking over $1,887 to rent a Koreatown billboard showcasing Schmidt’s face, plus a $500 payment from “Cece’s agency.”
–Jess immediately realizes “Warrior Poet” Matt is an incredible d-bag. (Schmidt probably would have been begging to be his mentee if he weren’t so emotionally scarred by Matt’s physical shortcoming.) A few highlights: Matt is a street artist who looks at a wall and sees “a ninja handing out cheeseburgers [or] a chill alien”; he has seven tattoos, most ridiculous of which is one that reads “90% ANGEL / 10% DEVIL” in a font Matt claims he created; he tips the waiter with a drawing of a hip-hop mouse; he says street art is “the closest thing to an education homeless people [will] ever get”… need I go on? Jess doesn’t think so. When Matt realizes Jess is trying to weasel out of a second date, he says he became a douche after being tormented in school and accuses Jess of being shallow. Jess ultimately questions this claim—and, indeed, that Matt has a micro-penis at all. The latter, however, is easily proven by a quick flap open of Matt’s robe. Yep! Micro-penis.
–Because Jess loses the bet, Nick earns a short-lived VIP subscription to the porn site Ass Chat, including the “Kitty Room Live Experience.” Related: Nick doesn’t have to make a $500 donation to the National Organization for Women’s Love Your Body campaign, and Jess briefly misconstrues her reaction to Matt’s asshat personality as her being a “a superficial size a queen,” which is a phrase I would like any one of Jess, Winston, Schmidt, or even Coach to say at least once a week.
–Matt’s unsold street art is damaged to the tune of $12,000 (his own estimate) after Matt’s “getting kinda fat” girlfriend walks into Matt’s apartment and sees Jess with her pants around her ankles. There’s a simple, yet oh-so-New Girl explanation: Jess was showing him her janky knee to prove that we should all celebrate our flaws because, metaphorically, “we’re all covered in micro-penises.”
–The phrase “we’re all covered in micro-penises” is uttered. (It’s no “sex fist.”)
Schmidt-iest lines of the night:
“Like climate change, we pretend [real women] don’t exist.”
“If I could give that poor man some of my penis, I would, but obviously you don’t pull a bumper off of a Ferrari.” (Cece: “Well it did go fast, I’ll give it that.”)
“I just look at that picture [of a micro-penis] and wonder, Is there a God? And if there is, did he run out of clay?”
Art-directing Coach’s “modeling” shoot: “Now give me some stuff like it’s the first day of school and you’ve got your backpack on and you packed your own lunch—but what you don’t know is, when you were making it, you got some mustard on your forehead. Now you’re playing Pictionary. [You’re like] ‘Now I got my little card, what am I gonna draw? What am I gonna draw?’ You get sardines. They don’t smell good! ‘How do I draw a smell? How? Do I? Draw? A smell?’ That‘s modeling.”
Schmidt’s pose repertoire (as many as 60 looks!):
–Sexy Baby (“There are people lining up on the streets to have sex with my baby.”)
–Hot Guy With a Kidnapped Son
–Classical Guitarist Who Loses a Shoe
–Cuddles With Tigers (shirtless!)
–How Did I Get Up Here? (a cat-like prowl presumably inspired by Furguson)
–Kiss the Cook (Coach admits, “Those lips are poppin’,” and Schmidt affirms, “There’s an accessibility with this one.”)
Two things are certain coming out of this episode: I could watch Schmidt model (or just teach Coach how to model) all day, and I hope that the Classic Cece/Winston Mess-Around becomes a series standby. An average episode overall, with a strong one-off performance by Alan Ritchson. As creator/showrunner Liz Meriwether promised, the show is hoping to get out of its monogamy rut by burning through a series of wacky entanglements and serving up “the most sex where you can’t actually see anything on a television show possible.” Next week: Swoon-worthy Pretty Little Liars/Once Upon a Time Julian Morris for the ladies and Lisa Bonet for the guys. If this level of eye candy (and B-plot shenanigans) maintains, I’m game—at least until I’ve stopped having nightmares about micro-penises.
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