In case you get hungry, there’s an open beer in the fridge.
Bart purchases a spy camera through a catalogue, and Homer goes to a stag party at a local restaurant. The rest of the family goes to the restaurant coincidentally, and Bart snaps a picture of Homer dancing with a belly dancer, Princess Kashmir. Soon, all of Springfield sees the picture, and Marge orders him out of the house. Homer takes Bart to a burlesque show to explain how he shouldn’t take advantage of women.
Bart purchases a miniature spy camera from a mail-order catalog which arrives six months later. Bart uses it to take candid photos around the house, including ones of Homer and Marge during their respective private times.
Later, Homer announces that he is going to a bachelor party for Eugene Fisk, his supervisor at the power plant （formerly, his assistant）。 Marge chooses to take the kids to the Rusty Barnacle, a seafood restaurant where Fisk’s bachelor party is taking place （in a separate room known as Davy Jones’ Locker）。 Fisk and his father clearly are uncomfortable and want to leave after a sexy belly dancer named Princess Kashmir arrives. When Kashmir is unable to arouse the Fisks, Homer is invited onstage to dance with her. Homer has a great time dancing with Kashmir. Bart later investigates the noisy party after stumbling upon it （he left the table because he began to feel sick after witnessing his order of squid with extra tentacles and was heading back after using the “buoys” room）， observes Homer is onstage putting money in Kashmir’s G-string and snaps a photo with his spy camera.
The next day, Bart joins the camera club at school. In the dark room, once the photo is developed President Martin Prince compliments Bart for the picture of Homer dancing with Princess Kashmir and asks to have a copy. Bart refuses, but gives one to Milhouse on the condition that he never lets it be copied and spread around. Unfortunately, many students who see the picture beg Milhouse for a copy and before long everyone in Springfield has one. Marge sees a copy of the picture at her aerobics class and furiously rips it from the wall.
Later, Homer is on his way home from work, oblivious to what others are referring to when they make sly remarks about his sexual prowess, but when Homer opens the front door, Marge immediately shoves the picture in his face and demands an explanation. Bart admits he took the picture. Marge sends Bart to his room and, after scolding Homer, shoves a hastily half-packed suitcase his way and drives him out of the house.
Homer eventually spends the night at Barney’s filthy apartment. The next day—after enduring questioning from Mr. Burns about the picture—Homer goes home to apologize, but Marge doesn’t want an apology; she wants Homer to take Bart to meet Princess Kashmir and show that women are not sexual objects.
Left with no other alternative, Homer and Bart scour the strip clubs of Springfield to find Princess Kashmir. Eventually, they track her down at the Sapphire Lounge. Homer introduces himself and Bart to Kashmir, who is preoccupied with getting onstage for her performance. She eventually tells Homer about herself. Just as Homer is about to leave, he accidentally finds himself on stage for the night’s feature attraction: dancing with scantily-clad women from all nations. Homer, however, after seeing Bart, manages to make a passionate plea to the audience to treat women with respect. This plea moves the audience. Marge, who is in the audience, accepts Homer’s comments and the two make up.
Note: Princess Kashmir is moved by Homer’s speech to all the men in the audience about not treating women as objects, yet she still remains an exotic dancer to this day.
I’m your loving husband. I can read you like a book.
I hava something to say to all the sons out there. To all the boys, to all the men, to all of us.
It’s about women, and how they are not mere objects with curves that make us crazy.
No. They are our wives. They are our daughters, our sisters, our grandmas, our aunts, our nieces and nephews. Well, not our nephews.
They are our mothers.
And you know someting, folks?
As ridiculous as this sounds (I Could Love a Million Girls), I would rather feel the sweet breath of my beautiful wife on the back of my neck as I sleep than stuff dollar bills into some stranger’s G-String.
Am I wrong, or am I right?