Yes, my cold is still present and accounted for. No, I'm not still on medication. Yes, I've switched to vodka. No, not with tonic or soda. Yes, with orange juice, you know, for the vitamin C and all. No, this recap probably won't be as detailed as the last one. Yes, Hank4 sucks ass. No, you may not know who Hank4 is. No, I don't care. No, I hope he doesn't live through the week. Yes, I may be the one who kills him.
Ahem.
In the little prequel to the opening credits, we see poor divorce-ridden Allie's mum bitching about how Allie's not really going after the Ivy League, the beautiful-yet-misunderstood-overachieving Anna fending off her Princeton-pushing off-screen mother, the financial-aid-seeking-yet-underachieving-bad-haircut-having Pablo listening as a counselor tells him to get on the ball, and everyone's favorite doormat-with-astonishingly healthy teeth, Saran-Wrap, going on about how impending separation from Robby the Roadster is scaring the shit outta her.
Off-screen during the black-n-white expo screen, Puck Lite's sad excuse for a father is berating him about shooting paintball guns off in the backyard, and Puck Lite is arguing that they're biodegradable and therefore, you know, cool and stuff. Daddy Lite doesn't give a damn, because they're all over the bloody backyard and this makes him a mite klimpy (tm Sandman).
Fade in to Puck Lite pointing his paintgun at his parents and stating, "Say what a nice child I am. On camera. Now!" Mama Lite succinctly and sweetly says, "You're a jerk." Daddy Lite says, "What, at pain of death? Are you kidding?" And they're both sitting at the kitchen table with full beers, smoking cigarettes. And THEY'RE bitching about HIM? It's not even dark outside and these two fuck-its are hanging out in their kitchen practically BEGGING me to go all social services on their asses. Shoot them, Morgan. SHOOT THEM NOW. I'll even provide you with an airtight alibi, dude. Seriously.
"I can't lie," says Papa Puck, "in front of the camera." "Don't you wanna have some fun in your life?" "I'm looking forward to having fun after you're gone," says Father of the Year. "Asshole," says Mother of the Year. After Puck Lite's stepped out, Daddy Lite, face in palm, articulately says, "Um." Mama Lite says, "And Job thought he had it bad." What? What'd she just say? Job had to endure the wrath of a God that purportedly loved him, not an intense and scattered kid with ADD and an overactive mouth. Shut up, Mama Lite, before I come over there and kick your beer-swilling ASS. I may kill her before I kill Hank4. ["Seriously. My parents sat around drinkin' and smokin' in the kitchen all the time but at least they thought we were the greatest things since sliced bread. The hell?" -- Sars]
AAAAAAHHHHH! What is it? Stop that! Get away!
Oh, it's just the Roadster in close-up. Whew. Anyway, Roadster's saying, "High school is...stupid. That's the bottom line. A bunch of fucking bureaucratic administrators trying to cage in adolescent youths that need to be...roaming free." Oh, really? How profound of him. Little mini-montage of the kids gettin' down, gettin' funky, to some song from the Go soundtrack. Suzy comes on and says, "You're not a kid anymore when you do your own laundry and I do my own laundry." Yes. That's right, Suzy. The passage into adulthood actually involves using fabric softener and a decent "fluff" cycle. And then Saran-Wrap says, "I clean my own room and make my own bed." Um. Um. I've made my own bed since I was about twelve. Does this mean I could have been voting, driving, drinking, and having sex since that time? Damn. Why didn't someone forward a copy of that memo to me? I have been missing out!
Switch to Puck Lite and a couple of his buds sucking down helium as Puck Lite intones off-screen, "I don't do any, like, drugs or anything like that after school, or drink or smoke or anything like that. I'm a clean kid." And right here, right now, I'd like to publicly apologize for those earlier recaps where I gave Mouth a lot of shit. I know now that I really, really like him. I didn't drink or do drugs in high school and I was STILL kind of a freak. I am now a full-on card-carrying member of the Puck Lite fan club. He rocks. So hard.
What. Is. That.
Holy Mother. It's Scott and some no-haired friend wearing what are obviously chick tops. And not just ANY chick tops, but tops that have price tags hanging off of them which, you know, means THEY'RE OUT IN PUBLIC TRYING ON WOMEN'S CLOTHING. What the -- but before I can figure out just what they're doing, they run back into the dressing rooms, and we're on to Allie's place, where she's letting in some friends and we see some liquor being poured and then Allie's saying in an interview, "We can't talk without screaming or fighting...I can't do this anymore. I'm exhausted. I am tired of this."
Then that same chick that I didn't know from the last episode is onscreen talking about how everybody gets in a bad mood sometimes and that she's been in, like, a bad mood her whole life. Who the hell is she? Are we EVER going to meet her? I am so confused.
Quick shot of Pablo with some more of his skanky hos. Then Pablo's saying, "Right now? As long as I got an apartment? I don't really care what else happens to me." Is it too early in the recap for me to say I want to hit him over the head with something other than a Nerf bat? No? Okay, good. Make it a two-by-four, then. And make it good.
Then Roadster's on-screen again, saying, "One cannot discover new land without consenting to lose sight of the shore." What? What'd he say? Shut up, Roadster. Just. Shut. Up.
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up? Anna. Sitting pretty by the lake, hair a-flowin' and perfect skin a-glowin'. Gee. I wonder who chose this location for Anna's little interview. Nobody's grooming her for a future as a network anchorwoman or anything. "I am," says Anastasia, "I am ready to leave my home." Make way for Anastasia's personal segment.
Anna's in her kitchen, filling out her Brown University application as her mother hovers over her all, "This is what I've been waiting for! For you to fill out college applications! It's like, I can decide what college I would want to go to." She then turns to Anna's father and says, "Does anything come to mind for you, Abe?" Anna's father, who has a slight accent that I can't place, says, "No. I've never been to Rhode Island. At all." Then we get a close-up of Anna's eyes, which so obviously say, "Oh, drop dead, Daddy."
Okay. Just got back from running yet another dry cycle for my darks which, apparently, have decided to soak up half of Lake Michigan and not let it go for the duration of one forty-minute cycle. Oh, and some dipstick from somewhere else in the building has decided to take over the one remaining dryer by placing their articles of clothing within and placing a large Bloomie's bag on top and then NOT PICKING UP THEIR DRY CLOTHES UNTIL JANUARY. Fucker. I know who it is, too. It's this guy who lives across the courtyard who doesn't seem to own a laundry hamper or laundry basket, who carts his dirty whatnots around in paper bags and then overtakes a chosen laundry room and then hovers over said laundry room like a post-apocalyptic vulture in case any poor unsuspecting tenant should try to remove his wet and/or dry articles from a particular machine in order to do their own laundry. Whatever. I mean, WHATEVER. At least I got me some more vodka...
So Anna's sitting at the kitchen table still, and her mother-without-purpose fidgets nearby. "Am I making you nervous, Anna?" she asks, flitting about and touching Anna intermittently with little bee-feelers. "Yes, no, I mean," Anna sputters, wishing she were in London having pints with Ewan McGregor and his penis. Oh. I mean, I wish I were in London having pints with Ewan McGregor and his penis. My bad. "You want me to help you?" Freakmama asks. "I'm standing here helping you..." Freakmama realizes that since Anna looks like she's about to have a nervous breakdown, she should back off, and does. "Okay. Okay, I'm done," she says, searching around the kitchen for something to buff or polish.
Anna gets up from the table and walks over to her mother, her astonishing hair all piled up on top of her head like a digital TV cable ready for connection. "That's more than he's talked to me all year," she says, referring to her verbose, multicultural father. "You know what I'm sayin' there?" "Right, but," says Freakmama, "we kind of feed into negative situations when we give people dirty looks." What are you, Queen Elizabeth? Why are you using the royal "we"? Huh? HUH? "Oh, stop," Anna retorts. "You know that's not fair." She grabs her keys and heads toward the door. "It's just best not to show negative thoughts on one's face, that's all I'm saying," says Freakmama. That's it. I've decided that Anna's mother is a Stepford Wife. She just putt-putts through the house, cleaning every possible surface, trying to make it perfect for The Man Who Says Little, never uttering a word out of turn nor an expression that might be found distasteful. "Well, I thought it was best," says Anna, fighting off the hypnotic Stepford laserbeam eyes of her robot mother. "Well, I know that he did not," says Stepford Freakmama. Anna looks back through the slamming screen door as if to say, "Yes, I know you know that he did not. I know this because you've lost the capacity to think for yourself since The Man Who Says Little sucked your brain away. I'm going to get a Slushee. Later."