Oh, hello, hot banana.
No time-burning previouslys this week, due in no small part to the direct correlation between the weekly developments on this show and how much God just really, really, really seems to hate me. Instead, we join Maria standing in front of a blackboard, chalk in hand, lecturing directly to the camera: "So there's been some confusion. Okay, a lot of confusion. And, uh, the only person who is gonna get you there is me." Oh, goodie. Way to give the already-neglected continuity editor carte blanche to look up for but a second from his director's chair, grunt in that you-talkin'-to-me-oh-clearly-not-ever way, take a swig off the jug with the three X's on the front always perched precariously on his lap, and return to his grueling daily challenge of trying to crack the Junior Jumble. I'm surprised at this scene's accidental good fortune when we cut back to the blackboard and do not find Maria wearing completely new clothes or replaced by Alex's dad or having the head of Maria but the body of a centaur. Continuity check? Check. And so we review. Maria The Non-Centaur turns to the board and draws a large circle, which she tells us is "their planet, off in the middle of the universe somewhere." She draws another, smaller circle. "This is our planet, Earth." Indicates Planet Arium: "Their planet." Indicates Earth: "Earth." Points to the camera: "You with me so far? Fantastic." Heh. She introduces the current incarnation of the Alien Four, replete with accompanying shots of each of them. We learn that "they landed here in 1947." Shot of "Summer of '47." "They gestated in these really gross pods for forty years." Shot of one of the thousands of shots of slimy pod emergence from season one. Shots of humans who know about the existence of aliens, ending with a picture of Maria from, I think, "Monsters," in which she sports her Crashdown tiara and her Eurythmics hair. She notes, "I hate that picture," and the frame wipes to a shot of a "Hybrid Chronicles"-era Maria, which she notes is "much better." And it is. Through his haze, the continuity editor recognizes the sheer impossibility of human hair growing that inordinate length in, like, three month's time, takes another healthy swig from the jug, and flips over the pink slip he's just been handed, using it as scrap paper as he wraps up the Jumble and moves along to the Wordy Gurdy.
The aliens have special powers. Shot of the statue molecular manipulation in the Pilot. The aliens are difficult to maintain relationships with. "It's like typical bad relationship stuff, but even weirder." Shot of "End of the World." That episode was all of difficult, typical, bad, and weird, in fact. So, good example. Regarding that long-forgotten episode, Maria reminisces, "[Liz] ended up missing out on all this romantic stuff they would have done, like eventually eloping and getting married in Las Vegas." Nearly drowned out by the clamor of an approaching wheelbarrow containing the bricks and mortar intended to reconstruct the tattered remains of television's fourth wall, Maria hastily segues, "Speaking of Las Vegas," taking us out of the classroom for good and bringing this very special, highly instructive episode of Maria in the Middle to a close.
Eerie nighttime dream sequence (I, er, spoiler!) at West Roswell High. Max "Siegfried" Evans and Michael "Roy" Guerin tear down a hallway and hide, Charlie's Angels-style, behind a wall of lockers, Max noting, "I think we lost them." Michael sweats and gasps; Max's patented personal training system of rigorous, daily Pecs-ercise is clearly a regimen he feels serves him best when unshared with friends and loved ones. Even those so very, very much in need. Michael gasps, "What do they want from us?" Max deadpans, "We need a plan. We can't fly by the seat of our pants anymore," and Michael turns to note that Max has suddenly disappeared as a cavalcade of Storm Trooper-ish baddies rounds a corner and comes to face Michael directly. Clad entirely in black, they wield guns with red laser pointers affixed, this helpful attachment an instrument best known for its other heinous purpose of being shone on a movie screen, often right at an actress's cleavage, often during a particularly dramatic turn in a movie you're maybe trying to take seriously, often by the fourteen-year-old boy who seems to receive said red laser pointers directly from God on the day he enters the seventh grade. Stupid kids. Stupid public places. Stupid going outside at all. Anyway, the pointers zero in squarely on Michael, and the Storm Troopers fire at will and Michael slams against a locker and wakes up at once in The House Government Subsidy Built. Still panting, he makes his way to The Refrigerator Government Subsidy Bought And Which Expired Food Stamps Product-Placed, notices that his hands are still shaking, and slams the (now bare, curiously) top of the fridge, clearly blaming it for the many ills of his world. Because on Michael's native planet, refrigerators apparently dispense worldly wisdom and helpful, problem-solving advice in times such as this. Michael then grabs at his left shoulder, aching as it must be from the shooting last week, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense considering that Max healed the wound, an action which has never before left any lingering pain. Odd, that. Michael makes his way over to a crumpled paper bag, pulling out the bribe money from Susan from Seinfeld and Harvey the Gay WonderWASP, and all but stares directly into the camera himself. People, the trend is over. That's the kind of kitschy shot that got Get Real canceled, and if you want to avoid the exact same fate, you couldactually, on second thought, stare away. I'm right here! Hey, you guys! Over heeeeeeeere!!!
Still free of lights and action, the camera has to work triple overtime in cutting hastily over to Chez Evans, Michael bursting through the upstairs window and telling Max, "I need a road trip, I gotta clear out the cobwebs." Max, still vaguely disoriented from that lofty recurring dream where the power of the pecs finally ends the war on his home planet and the peaceable factions shake hands in front of the waving flag of their new democracy, featuring the hand-woven representation of The Upper Body That Saved The Universe and with the inscription of this new world order, "Don't Tread On Pecs (or you'll accidentally be shredded to ribbons)" sewn across the top, comes to just in time to ask, "What the hell are you talking about?" He might as well be asking me that question, after that last sentence right there. Michael is talking about "getting out of this stupid town for a couple of days and having some fun. Is there something wrong with that?" School? Parents? Other general, world-saving issues of Earth-in-peril proportions? Feh. Michael rants that he's been having nightmares for two weeks, Max decides they need a plan, and they sit down, Max asking, "So, where are we going, anyway?" Michael is still panting, barely choking out, "You're gonna love it. It's a place without rules, without responsibilities, a place where we can forget our troubles. It's the city of dreams." Thailand? Oh, for the love of Tom Jones, Michael's gotten himself caught right in the middle of the shooting script for Brokedown Palace again, hasn't he? No. No, he has not. In fact, it's the script for Swingers. I get my exhausted-movie-clichs-that-were-vaguely-cool-in-college references mixed up all the time. "Vegas. We're going to Vegas, baby." Even 1996 winces in embarrassment. Michael will be offering to thank Max for taking him away by buying him a not-at-all-culturally-over "Royale With Cheese" before they hit the Nevada border.