Episode Report Card Djb: D | 4 USERS: A+ YOU GRADE IT Yawn. Look, Another Penis.
By Djb | Season 4 | Episode 6 | Aired on 08.15.2000
Remember how I wasn't going to tell you how the word "jailbird" came into existence? Yeah, well, here's where I'm not.
The short-attention-spanned among us are reminded for the amount-of-numbers-that-appear-after-the-decimal-point-in-pi time that Rebadow killed Hernandez. Thanks again for the flashback. Maybe they should start showing every scene twice in a row, lest we forget the salient details of large chunks of plot development that have JUST TRANSPIRED. That, or maybe chop the flashbacks and, for the love of all things holy, throw in some commercials. I mean, I love the show and all, but c'mon. It's endless. Rebadow tracks down Morales in Em City and tells Morales that he has gone back on his promise to let Rebadow kill someone. Morales says he's trying to keep violence down, what with the whole Querns-thinks-heroin-is-fine-if-we-just-stop-all-the-yelling platform currently in effect in Em City. Rebadow says that he doesn't need Morales's permission, just his protection. All right, Morales assures him. Who are you going to kill? At which point Rebadow turns a sinister profile and utters by far the greatest, most "bwah ha ha ha" funny line this episode could possibly have to offer: "Who, indeed?" He skulks off. Morales looks after him with a shocked glare, thinks to sincerely wonder aloud, "All right, who spiked the Geritol," and moves right along.
In a scene that spends its five-day weapons waiting period shouting "Dream Sequence!" from the top of the bell tower, Rebadow is in the cafeteria with a machine gun the size of a small nation, which he uncorks on the whole of the Oz populace. I scratch down Natural Born Killers and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty on my rental list, ponder for a moment if the latter was ever actually made into a movie, and ponder further why I would rent the former when I hated it with the fiery passion of a thousand suns the first time I saw it, and scratch them both off. When next I look up, Rebadow is making nicey-nice with Busmalis, who is overjoyed that his old friend has decided to kill -- er, I mean "talk civilly with" -- him once again. Rebadow offers Busmalis his pie. Busmalis gives Rebadow's laugh-out-loud quip a run for its drug money with his own spirited response: "Yes. YES!!!" Rebadow's eye twitches ever so slightly, and I wonder what on Earth I was thinking during those politically correct college days when I had myself convinced that, indeed, all old people are not completely insane. Because clearly they are. Just like it says on the TV.
Night in the geriatric pod. Rebadow does methodical sit ups while Busmalis lies on the top bunk, relieved that Rebadow is talking to him. Busmalis comments, "I'm the happiest of men." Rebadow launches into a speech about The Art of War and the primal urge to kill. But Busmalis turns a sleeping ear to the proceedings, which of course is a clear signal for his best friend of thirty-five years to murder him in cold blood with all great alacrity. Rebadow unearths a knife from underneath the mirror. He lunges. Busmalis, his arm cut rather badly, wakes up. Pandemonium. The guards seize Rebadow and drag him to the hole. Thankfully, an opportunity for an up-close encounter with Rebadow's privatest of privates slips mercifully by. He lies down on the floor of the hole and resumes his perpetual sit-ups. That's right. Keep the camera on the face. And don't move it. I freakin' dare you.