Episode Report Card Jacob Clifton: C- | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT Right Now I'm A Race Car
By Jacob Clifton | Season 1 | Episode 4 | Aired on 04.08.1999
Back to a couple of addicts in the here and now. (And no, I'm not diagnosing all of them like some kind of twelve-stepper on the loose: the throne she sits on is just as real and just as fake as the one Rygel's got zipping around; it's just in her head.) Zhaan sits with Kyr, tries to touch him; he shrugs her off. She asks if he's in pain, and then offers that the 'loids are probably pretty addictive. Come to think of it, "twelve-stepper on the loose" pretty much describes Zhaan to a T. The good and bad of that. "But once your body purifies..." She places her hands on his arm. "The hunger for the drug should pass." He shouts that he's not looking for some "damned sermon," even though she didn't actually give him one yet, and that he "didn't ask" for her help, so she should shove the speeches. It's like he knew what she was going to say before she said it. (Ditto me, because you gotta know I'm all over this shit.) Good on you, Kyr. The ugliest lie anybody ever believed was that you helped yourself by helping other people; all that does is make you more secure in your bullshit because they're worse off. That's vampiric. You help yourself by helping your fucking self and leaving the pedestal out of it, and anybody who tells you different is selling you (and more importantly, herself) something. Out of the mouths of steroid-addicted, murderous, lizardy, monstrous beasts of war. As they say. But he softens. "...About the gauntlet. It's not as if I ever had any choice." And having given it a rest for a good six seconds, she's off: "There are always choices." SLAP! You know what happens when you slap your TV upside the head? Nothing. Onscreen at least, although you might notice some tenderness in your palm afterwards. Never trust an anarchist, a psych major, or an atheist. At least, not if they won't shut up about it. Red flag. (But I am not advocating slapping them, because they are hair-pullers to a man, and you don't need that screwing up your day. Time and patience.) "Look, I told you, I don't need a sermon!" He stares at the wall, knowing there's Ayn Rand on the horizon and he's in no mood, and she gives, hilariously. Gorgeously. "...All right. No sermons. What do you need?" He admits, with some reserve but pretty adorable nonetheless, that he is "actually a bit hungry."
Aeryn lies below the sitting D'Argo in the clearing, and Aeryn bitches about not doing anything. His posture -- and he'd never admit it -- is very protective. Her posture -- and she'd never admit it -- is very recuperative. They are waiting for John. I cannot imagine a worse circumstance than waiting for John to get some shit done. I would finish the fingernails and start on the toes within the hour. Even if he were just going out for coffee. D'Argo "admits" that it took him "a few hours" to recover, but manages to turn this into a slam on Sebaceans, to which bait only an eight-year-old boy like Aeryn would rise, given that he outweighs her by like sixty billion tentacled pounds. She tries to stand up and he laughs all "don't be so childish," even though I'm convinced that was like 30% of what he was trying to do there. He relents. "Perhaps it took quite a few hours for me to recover." They talk about how -- as Aeryn props herself on her elbows -- probably John is in a heap of stupid trouble or dead or made a Tavloid whore or whatever hilarious war crime they're both cool with because they are assholes. "Somewhere out there, there's a whole world full of Crichtons," says Aeryn. "How useless that must be." Um, or how fucking fast you'd cash in your IRA to get your ass there so fast. Do we have an Ambassador to this mythical planet yet? Because I am not averse to throwing as many bows as necessary. It's like diplomacy is my calling or whatever. D'Argo marvels that simply making fun of John provides them with so much common ground, and Aeryn manages to fuck even that up: "Who would've thought there'd be a race more clumsy and pathetic than the Luxans?!" Ha ha, bitch. D'Argo yanks his arm out from under her and she yelps, and D'Argo apologizes. "You know how clumsy we Luxans can be." Your humble recapper immediately sends him five dollars in the space mail, SWAMFK.
Previous 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23Next