Variety

Let the music play.

Pete's first up; she's chosen a song I don't recognize, something about days like these. Looking solemn, earnest, and limber, she wears a sensible periwinkle twin set and eyeglasses on a chain, but the gray streaks in her hair speak to a wild side. Throaty, heartfelt delivery. Nice resonance. A few unsuccessful reaches.

Betty Buckley's backstage throwing a Mariah -- her contract specifically says that she is not to be upstaged by Latina singing sensations, and here's Rita Moreno opening the show. Betty's brandishing a length of pipe, planning a devious blow to the kneecap.

As Pete continues singing, Said puts his skullcap back on and -- after contemplating its roundness -- his necklace. If you play Pete's song backwards, there's a message about how these two threads work together. And about how suicide for the devil is cool. Said's leaving solitary; his reunion with Arif and the other Muslims looks like an ad for the new Dockers line of religious headgear -- matching slacks and belts, fun, sporty tops in a variety of soothing jewel tones, and caps knitted by three-year-olds in Saipan. Lots of hearty man-hugging and back-patting ensues.

Said's moment of happy ends when he returns to his pod and sees Omar's face. Omar's also studying music, but I know that it's his face that upsets Said, because Said says, "Your face." Apologies all around -- Omar knows he fucked up, Said knows he fucked up, the required shit-beating tension release has happened, so now they can bond. Omar fills Said in on the Redding angle, Said understands that he was too rigid to seek out for help, Omar confesses that he needed some "Ike Turner treatment," and then Said has to ratchet it up a few psycho-spiritual levels. He reveals his own addiction -- to power. Omar, justifiably confused, grunts. In full understatement mode, Said throbs, "My power trip. I was high 24-7, being the master of your recovery." Then he asks Omar to call him "Kareem." Omar, stifling a laugh, says thanks and clasps Said's outstretched hand as Arif looks on from outside, crestfallen and matronly.

Betty Buckley, out on bail and under heavy sedation, tells McManus that he'll be very happy with the upcoming variety show, and that Omar will be the grand finale -- he may suck, she says, but by performing he'll be a success. McManus beams with self-satisfaction and magnanimously asks if there's anything he can do to help, fully expecting the answer to be, "Oh, no, you've done so much already." But Betty Buckley needs an emcee. D'oh! McManus doesn't want to risk the humiliation of getting up in front of a bunch of men who think he's a pussy, and sends her off to bother Father Mukada, who does it for God.

Yep, Omar sucks. Emphatically. It's almost likehe's trying to suck. But no, that can't be. Betty Buckley looks like Emmylou Harris while Omar butchers his number. He starts to freak out about his overzealous sucking, but Betty Buckley entrances Omar by doing the hypnotic circle march. She moves around him and commands him to repeat after her as she drones, "Fuck. Them." Omar, strangely surprised to hear the F-word coming from a woman who spawned Ryan O'Reily and blew up a cop, hesitates, then acquiesces.

Out of range of Betty Buckley's mind control, Omar again feels nervous and seeks out Poet, he of the brazen spoken word, for performance advice. Poet recommends drugs. If they're good enough for Olympic athletes, they're good enough for hardened criminals, is what I'm thinking. He gives Omar a tit and, for ordering right now, a free side of mouthing off about McManus and Said's bullshit -- how he's been there before, how Said wants him to be a symbol, "a phoenix rising on the wings of poetry from the ashes of a crack house." Ha. How Said-like. Poet seals the deal with a word of advice: "Remember one thing. Everyone's eyes will be on you." Good Poet, always ready to help out a friend in need. Omar grabs the tit and stumbles out, collapsing in despair on the stairs, as the hoots and hollers of a heckling audience rise in the background.

And now it's time for the variety show. Which is mildly confusing, since this could easily be a surreal dream sequence. Busmalis staggers off stage with a remark about the tough crowd as Omar reaches Betty Buckley, wrapped in a light pink boa that eerily matches her hair, ready at the curtain with a final word of encouragement for her star performer. "I would tell you to imagine that they're all naked," she says, "but I guess you've already seen a lot of them naked." She just broke the wind beneath his wings.

Mukada announces Omar; Betty Buckley parts the curtain and kicks his ass onto the stage. Greeted by a rousing chorus of boos, he stands, a deer in headlights, before sheepishly starting his song. The mike erupts in feedback, but Omar plows ahead. As the camera pans past Betty Buckley and poor Father Mukada, who was tackled by Patricia Field in the green room, where she balanced a Styrofoam hat on the side of his head and pinned a very large and very fey-looking flower to his lapel, the jeering subsides, Said and McManus exchange self-validating glances, Schillinger looks like he smells poop, and Ellie smiles like she just slathered Vaseline on her teeth. Omar finishes his perfectly pedestrian number. Said jumps up, applauding. McManus follows, and soon Omar's enjoying a healthy ovation. Betty Buckley runs over with a hug; Omar looks ecstatic. And not very fucked up.

In the hall, McManus and Ellie banter, thankfully out of anyone else's earshot. She's telling him that she knows he's gloating because he proved her wrong. He denies it, but he's totally gloating. She thinks he's cute for finding "vindication in the prison version of Star Search" (does Tom Fontana find vindication in the prison version of Melrose Place?). He babbles on about one success being worth all the abysmal failures, and it seems like he's grasping at straws to justify his sad existence, but she buys it and gets all flirty and touches his shirt and says lots of cute stuff before leaving him wanting more.

Omar pops by for a quick chat with Poet; Poet thinks he be the man with the plan, but Omar surprises him by returning the tit, untouched and complete. Omar says he came close, but then decided that he should feel the moment. See, sometimes a good beating is exactly what the doctor ordered. Smacks you right into line. Poet thinks Omar's fucking with him, but Omar says, "It's the tits that's fucking with you," and plants a kiss on Poet's forehead before walking jauntily out of the pod.

Over in the laundry room, there's trouble brewing with The Coordinated Separates Who Worship Together. Arif enters with a coterie of the beefiest Muslims as Said folds his clothes; Said correctly guesses that they have come to express concern about his continued association with The Smooth Sounds Of Omar White. Said explains that he is officially best friends with Omar, despite all that he's put him through during his recovery, because the alternative is repugnant to him. What's that mean, asks Arif, sad that he's no longer Said's official best friend, looking about twelve years ago with the upturned collar of his pale lime polo sweatshirt. Never content to stick with the issue at hand, Said guns straight ahead to big-picture territory, confirming Robson's assertion that Muslims do keep slaves. It's an aspect of the religion that Said has left largely untouched, but now he's ready to cast off his rose-colored glasses, as he explains, "Our Islamic brothers of the north, they capture our African brothers of the south, all in the name of Allah, to Islamicize the people who look like you and me." Basically, and with hats off to Arif for the encapsulation, Said now considers his "attempts at conversion a form of enslavement." Because Said's doing it for himself, not for God. Said could not abide his failure to convert Adebesi, so he killed him. Sponsoring Omar has taught Said that people should be allowed to be who they are. And that's a beautiful lesson to learn, as this week's episode of The Odd Couple comes to an end.

It's crime time in primetime. Robson, in full skinhead drag and spray-on hair, accosts a well-dressed black couple as they saunter down an empty street. Robson stabs the guy with an overtly sexual thrusting motion and then holds the blade to the cheek of the terrified woman. For assault and murder in the first degree, Robson gets a life sentence, with a chance of parole in twenty-five years. Aryans are complete fucking losers.

Robson sits down with his loser friends with a slight meal -- "nothing cold or crunchy." No, he's not on a diet, but his mouth hurts like hell. Even juice makes him wince like a baby, and forget about ice cream. A dentally aware bigot guesses recessive gums, and suggests that Robson not mess around with his mouth. Schillinger advises the avidly dentist-averse Robson to make a beeline for Dr. Feradj. Robson especially doesn't want a "sand nigger's paws probing [his] mouth," but Schillinger assures him that dentists wear gloves. Ever since that AIDS thing, you know, which just affects faggots and black women, so there's nothing to worry about anyway.

In the land of scary brown people, Robson learns that he needs gum surgery and decides to act like a dick to the guy who'll likely be giving it to him, which seems real bright to me. He can either have tissue from the roof of his mouth grafted on to his gums, which hurts like hell, or he can have gum tissue from a cadaver. Robson doesn't want the pain, but isn't sure about a dead person's gum tissue, and tries to intimidate by using the word "fuck" a lot. Dr. Feradj explains that dead gums equals organ donation, and gets points for dressing down Robson, saying, "Your own fucking tissue would require a longer and more painful period of fucking recovery. In the end, your fucking gums would be healthy either fucking way." Ha. Robson keeps at it, however, invoking some really well-chosen racial epithets, whining about needles, and demanding that Dr. Feradj wear two pair of gloves. Feradj replies, "Yes, sahib," and rips Robson's x-rays off the wall before retreating to his lair to mastermind yet another evil oral fate.

Mulling his options with Schillinger, Robson, particularly sassy this week, hints that he's leaning toward the gums of death. Robson tries the "organ donation" argument on Schillinger, who gets queasy and uninterested as Robson describes the procedure, which solidifies his decision to plumb the morgue for a healthy mouth.

So he immediately gets the gas -- laughing like a schoolgirl, gums a-bleedin,' Robson tells Feradj that he should be selling the stuff. "They may have tits," he says of the prison's drug crowd, "but you've got pussy." After making a Nazis/gas joke, Feradj takes a massive needle to Robson's mouth and begins explaining various "Why Hitler Hated Jews" theories that involve Hitler's psychology and descent (and potentially impure blood), while holding a scalpel in Robson's mouth. Then he mentions that the gums are always of unknown origin and that they might -- gasp -- "come from a kike, or a spic, or even a faggot. I mean, you could be getting the beautiful gums of a big, black nigger." Robson squirms, and I want to high-five Dr. Feradj.

Hoyt's singing a song I don't recognize either, about free will, which I'm sure will lead to indignation over my musical knowledge. He's doing some upside down pull-ups, air boxing, tough-guy emoting.

Alvarez and Penders arrive for dog lessons; Penders shows Ms. Dog that he trained his charge to fetch, which pisses her off, since the men were expressly ordered not to teach the dogs any "recreational activities." Nice one, dipshit. After commanding the men to wander aimlessly, Ms. Dog instructs a guard to fire a shot, which scares the bejesus out of Alvarez, Penders, and the dogs. Ms. Dog scares me -- she's got that no-nonsense-black-lady character down to a science, and she don't give a rat's ass about how the boys feel because she's in it for the dogs. And the dogs need to learn about control and retaining focus. At all times. Penders and Alvarez make some cheesy remarks; Ms. Dog ups the ante by explaining that the way to teach this lesson is "by standing on his leash and saying 'chill.'" Chill? That's right, doggie. Take a chill pill and mellow out, baby.

As the guard fires another shot, there's a flashback to Rivera, eyes gouged, in the infirmary. In McManus's office, Alvarez revisits the couldn't-be-more-perfect coincidence that drove him to the program and explains that he wants to do right by Rivera by giving him Julie The Seeing Eye Dog. Ms. Dog orders McManus to call Rivera to arrange a dog-brokering session. Although McManus wonders how Rivera will feel about returning to Oz, he and his wife Anita are there in no time flat. Free stuff, man. Works every time. Ms. Dog's channeling Pam Grier. Anita's convinced that the dogs are for lonely people; she likes taking care of her husband and doesn't care that the dogs will help her by freeing up time. She obviously wears the pants in the family. As Rivera does his best Ron-Popeil-infomercial rendering of, "I'm skeptical," Anita lays into McManus for the best idea since -- well, since those shitty interactions with Alvarez. When she discovers that Alvarez trained the dog in question, she flips, and forbids her husband to have anything to do with innocent, lovable Julie, who's gotten herself all mixed up in the petty wars of men. As Anita hustles her baby out the door, Ms. Dog and McManus entreat Rivera to take the dog, while I'm wondering why, if there's such a shortage of dogs, they're bothering to force one on a guy that doesn't really want one. Oh, yeah -- self-righteousness.

More crime. A protest. There's a cow protesting something. And Father Daniel Meade. A priest who destroyed private property and assaulted an officer of the law. An old priest who gets a fifteen-year sentence in Oz. Yeah, right, whatever.

As Miss Sally fondles the buttocks of a female associate on her new fitness show, Ryan leads the old man to his pod, where they'll be roommates. Ryan doesn't hold the door open for Meade, because he's got no manners. Purse-lipped and stark white, Meade starts on about an O'Reily family in his old parish, Saint Teresa Of Old-Fashioned Protesting Whup-Ass. Ryan cuts him off with the assertion that he's got no use for a priest. Wise Old Irish Priest Meade goes, "Duly noted." Will the salty man of God break down Ryan's wall of isolation and lead him to Jesus? Or will Ryan kill him? Stay tuned!