Aaron gave this episode a grade of
B-
499 users have given this episode an average grade of
C-
Faithful readers of this website have no doubt noticed by now that something a wee bit fishy has been going on with the episode scoring system. Apparently, some unknown asshole (though I'm sure his identity can be found in our ban logs) has taken it upon himself to flood each weekly poll with about three hundred "F" votes the instant the recap hits the homepage. Because of this, it's now incumbent upon us recappers to provide you with even more fair and precise episode grades ourselves, so that you can make intelligent decisions about whether or not to feel bad for having missed something (or possibly for having actually watched it). To that end, I've decided to abandon the rather simplistic "StC" method of episode grading, and switch to the formula displayed below. Incidentally, and before you all head over to the "Editorial Issues" thread, you should know that the only "F" I ever received during my almost eternal academic adventures was in college calculus. Twice, in fact.
∑ = √Δ BS / (POT * ∞)
(Fk3n * (StC + π r2)) - ∫{f(6.02 * 1023)1+x} dxWhere:
BS = n Brain shots in the episode
POT = n Times marijuana is smoked
Fk = n Times the word fuck is used
and StC = Start to Corpse
I had to buy time on a Defense Department supercomputer to complete the final calculations, but as you can see over on your right, we ended up with a B-. That sounds about right, don't you think?
Anyway, we fade up this week on a construction site that's so fake-looking you can actually see the Elmer's glue still drying on the model they used. A pair of workers (whom we'll call Catshit Boy and Hysterectomy Man), sit down on a girder to enjoy their lunch. Catshit Boy complains about his recent loss of appetite, and Hysterectomy Man explains that it's likely a symptom of depression. "I've been reading up on it ever since my wife's hysterectomy," he says. "She's been real down in the dumps. Loss of appetite, loss of sex drive, feelings of hopelessness and despair" Catshit Boy insists that he only suffers from the loss of appetite part, and blames it squarely on his wife's cooking, which resembles, well, cat shit. You know what's fun about these opening scenes? Playing "Guess How They're Going To Die." Since this one was written by Alan Ball himself, there's all sorts of subtle misdirection. Will they fall? Is his lunch poisoned? Does he have some sort of mysterious tropical illness? You should try to play along at home. It's fun. Especially since the only alternative is staring at the ridiculous "backdrop" "painting" of the Los Angeles skyline behind them. There's some additional banter about the relative wifely merits of a woman who cooks versus a woman who frequently consummates the marriage, and then Catshit Boy slams his cat shit sandwich back into his lunchbox. Before they can react, however, the lunchbox tumbles off the girder and smacks into the head of a random passerby, prompting Catshit Boy to close the scene with the following memorably expletive-filled exclamation: "Oh, fuck! Fuck me. Ah, this is fucked. Fucking fuck." Fucking farewell, Dwight Edgar Garrison. Your death was stupid and pointless, but at least you got to fuck Dina Meyer.
Which reminds me. As another fun game this week (and also as part of my important mathematical calculations), I'll be counting along with all of the "fucks" that are spoken in the episode. To make this fun for everyone, I've added a poll over on the right. See if you can correctly guess the number of times the word "fuck" (or any of its myriad variations) is used. No cheating, and the closest to the correct answer without going over wins. As a helpful hint, I'll tell you now that there have already been eight (EIGHT!) so far.
Aaron: Dude. A lunchbox to the head? You've got an Oscar and Golden Globe, and THAT'S the best you could fucking come up with?
Alan Ball: What? I kinda liked it. It's very symbolic of the irrational...
Aaron:...of the irrational absurdity of death. Yeah. We. Get. It.
Alan Ball: But see, it's also a sly metaphor for...
Aaron: For Nate's brain tumor. We know.
Alan Ball: Oh. Well, excuse the fuck out of me.
Aaron: It's okay. At least you didn't make us use algebra.
The episode proper opens on a beach with Nate and Brenda discussing their wedding plans, which confirms at least one of my hypotheses for how the season will be ending. Brenda thinks the location is perfect, especially once you add in the "sunset factor." Given that the director is currently using the "sunrise factor" to silhouette Nate's Schwarzenegger-sized brain, however, I'm thinking it might be somewhat more cheesy than perfect. Either way, Nate's primary concern is that the ground is covered with horseshit, which could mess up Brenda's white dress. Snerk. Brenda thinks otherwise, and claims that "if [they] exchange vows surrounded by horseshit, it would be kind of fitting." No, Brenda. "Fitting" would be if you exchanged vows with another man's hand in your crotch. She snarks on her mother a bit, but Nate, much like this season's writing staff, just can't let go of the brain tumor thing. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" he asks. "We're all going to die, I know. But the chances of it happening are significantly higher for me. That's just a fucking fact." (Fk = 9) Brenda steps over to pull him close, and explains her thoughts on the impending marriage: "I'm marrying you because I love you. Because you're the first man that I thought I could actually stand to spend the rest of my life with. Or the rest of your life, if it's tragically cut short or whatever." There's some psychobabble, which culminates in Brenda describing the future as "just a concept." "All we have is this moment," she says. "Right here. Right now." Shut up, Jesus (Jones). She finishes by tenderly placing a hand on Nate's face, and telling him in solemn tones that he should "Be here. Now." Shout-out? As they head off the beach, Nate calls out that he knows "a really cool Rabbi" who could perform the ceremony.
“ 'You need to take care of yourself right now,' he says. 'That's what you're for,' replies the Sleepy Black Sex Cop, as he begins undressing his Fully-Awake (if you know what I mean, and I think you do) White Sex Mortician. ”
Aaron: Be here? Now? Aww. I didn't know you cared.
Alan Ball: What the fuck are you talking about?
Aaron: You know, it's just like "Get out. Now," only it's the opposite, and I'm always saying you like to do the opposite, so it's a shout-out, right?
Alan Ball: Man, what a fucking moron.
Aaron: See? You do care.
Alan Ball: Yeah. Whatever. Look, I'm a busy man. Are we going to be doing this after every fucking paragraph?
Aaron: I don't know. Am I going to be writing about Nate's brain tumor in every paragraph?
Alan Ball: Oh, for fuckety fuck's fucking sake! We've been the fuck over this. For the last goddamn motherfucking fuck time, Nate's got AVM. Arterio. Venous. Malfuckmation. It's not a fucking tumor!
Aaron: Heh.
Alan Ball: What the fuck are you laughing at now?
Aaron: "It'z naht a toomuh."
Alan Ball: Fuck you.
Over at the largest apartment ever owned by a police officer, Keith comes stumbling out of the bedroom in his robe. "Did you sleep okay?" inquires David, who's already dressed and drinking coffee. When Keith admits that he's still not sleeping, David suggests medication, because drugs are much better than "choosing to suffer when you don't have to." Keith replies with a tired "fuck you," (Fk =10) before asking if there's any more coffee left. "I really don't think you should be drinking coffee when your sleep is still so erratic," moms David. But when Keith gives him yet another dirty look, David mutters, "Suit yourself, bitch" and gets up to fetch him another cup. Heh. Meanwhile, Keith reclines on the sofa and listens to a news report about Enron until he notices a random bottle sitting on the mantle. As he gets up to investigate, we see that the news report is actually CNN playing on the TV. Ah, AOL Time Warner strikes again. When David returns bearing coffee, we learn that the bottle contains Taylor's "Gummi vitamins," which she left behind when she went back to live with Mom. Keith wants to run them over to her so he can also check and see if Karla is still klean, but David suggests that he give them some time alone first. "You need to take care of yourself right now," he says. "That's what you're for," replies the Sleepy Black Sex Cop, as he begins undressing his Fully-Awake (if you know what I mean, and I think you do) White Sex Mortician. David wonders if he "basically exists just to serve [Keith]," and Keith pretty much says that he does. They kiss.
Back at the Fortress, the two largest feet on the planet are watching The Teletubbies. It turns out that the feet are attached (albeit somewhat tenuously) to Nikolai, who's whacked out on painkillers and trying to make sense of what he sees on the screen. Aren't we all, Nikolai. Aren't we all. And can I just say that I love whoever it is that's been finding these video clips to run on the TVs this season? It's not quite a Lauren Ambrose-sized love, but it's getting close. Anyway, Ruth comes in and leaves him some lunch to eat during the day, and then she wanders into the kitchen, where she finds Claire debating whether or not Britney Spears is still a virgin. How is that even a debate? I've seen less slutty girls working the street corners near my office building, for God's sake. Mommie Drearest asks her daughter to check in on Nikolai when she gets home, but Claire lies and says she has plans with DangerSlut because "[she] figured it was better to have a total loser for a friend than no friends at all." And there's yet another reason she should be hanging out with me. Mom is buying the whole DangerSlut routine until Claire goes too far and claims they're going to visit "the Getty." "Do you think I'm an idiot?" asks Mom. "No, of course not," sighs Claire. "But it's not like I'm lying to, like, cover up my drug habit. I'm lying to get out of emptying the bedpan of some man you're sleeping with. I don't think I should have to do that." Heh. You'll never have to empty MY bedpan, Lauren. That's what Mike Binder is for. Mom gets all testy at this point, and tells Claire that she has no idea how easy her life is. "Please tell me you're not going to start talking about your legless grandmother again," says Claire. Hee! And thankfully, she's not. "I pity you, Claire," Mom says instead. "You are under the mistaken impression that life owes you something. Well, you're in for some very harsh surprises. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go fuck my legless boyfriend."
Downstairs, David has finally managed to drag himself into work. The only problem is that the area around his mouth appears to be bright red and inflamed for some reason. The dialogue here is the only part of the episode worth transcribing verbatim, so here we go:
Nate: What's with the red face?
David: Oh. Um, Keith and I werefooling around, and, well, he hadn't shaved.
Nate: You big whore!
David: Is it really bad?
Nate: Nah. Actually, yes. It's bright red. It's red as a baboon's ass.
David: Oh my God! I look like a burn victim.
As David examines his face in a mirror, Nate asks the real question that's on his mind, which is whether or not David would be the best man at his wedding. David agrees delightedly, and they both head off to chat with the clients of the week.
“ I can't even begin to describe the horror that is Peter Krause's hair in this scene, but let me just say that edge lights are not his friend. That stuff looks radioactive, for God's sake. ”
Which is where we head as well, as we join them in Das Sargzimmer. I can't even begin to describe the horror that is Peter Krause's hair in this scene, but let me just say that edge lights are not his friend. That stuff looks radioactive, for God's sake. David tries his best to cover his mouth as he explains that the DGDJ had already made all the arrangements, so all the two daughters sitting across from him have to do is show up. Basically, this scene has two points. One is to emphasize the fact that the DGDJ wanted to be buried to their mother, and the other is for one of the daughters (the one who doesn't look like a reject from Designing Women) to tell David that she knows the number of a good dermatologist. With both missions accomplished, it's now time to move on.
Keith arrives at Karla's place, vitamins in hand, and he's met at the door by Taylor. She quickly takes the vitamins from him, tosses them in the trash, and explains that she's staying home from school because Karla is sick. The place is once again a big mess, and for the first time all season, Taylor isn't watching something disgusting on TV. Unless, that is, you consider Nelly Furtado disgusting, which many of us do. Karla emerges from the bedroom looking like shit, and warns Keith to stay away because she's got the flu. "Have you seen a doctor?" he asks, the disbelief clear in his voice. "I ain't paying nobody's doctor a hundred bucks just to tell me to stay in bed," she replies. "Fuck that shit." Fk=11. Keith strides over and checks to see if she's got a fever, which prompts Karla to ask if he wants to "shove a thermometer up [her] ass." I know I shouldn't laugh at homophobic subtext, but heh nonetheless. Keith sends Taylor to his room so he and her mother can argue, and she goes reluctantly. There's much Angry Keith-style screaming as he demands that Karla enter rehab, and there's also at least two more "fucks" (Fk=13), before Karla accuses her brother of becoming just like their father. "What are you gonna do ?" she shouts. "Slap me so hard I can't hear out of one ear for the day and a half?" Keith remains kold, and tells her that she can either do rehab or he'll call the cops on her. We get a too-tight close-up on Karla as she brings herself back under control, and finally makes the decision to get help. "It has to be outpatient," she insists. "I'm not leaving Taylor again." She sits herself down on the couch and cries a single tear as the scene comes to an end.
Aaron: Um, you do realize that you're averaging more than a fuck a minute at this point, right?
Alan Ball: Yeah, so? You got a fucking problem with that?
Aaron: No, of course not. It just seems sorta uncalled for, you know? I mean, not even Mike Binder was that bad.
Alan Ball: Did you just compare me to Mike Binder?
Aaron: Well, no. I just
Alan Ball: Because THAT'S uncalled for.
Aaron: I'm sorry.
Alan Ball: You should be.
Aaron: I know.
[Awkward silence]
Alan Ball: You wanna do some bong hits?
Aaron: Man, I thought you'd never ask.
“ I'm not sure whether to be touched by her love for her brother, or jealous that Peter Krause has his face pressed into her chest. ”
David once again enters Keith's place with a grocery bag, only this time he's surprised to find that Keith is at home. Apparently Keith's schedule got switched, and now he wants to know what's in the bag. David reluctantly sets it down and explains that it's just some things he wanted to keep there, since he's been spending so much time at Keith's place. The bag contains, among other things, a toothbrush, some Prevacid for his acid-reflux, a bite guard so that he doesn't grind his teeth, a hypoallergenic buckwheat pillow, and some earplugs for when Keith snores. You know, there's about nine million jokes I could make here, but almost all of them would get me slapped with a lawsuit by an ex-girlfriend who I know reads the site, so I'm not even going to go there. "Are you moving in?" asks Keith. "Because I don't remember discussing you moving in." "I'm not moving in," says David. "Jesus, are you paranoid, or what?" Keith stares him down some more, and David insists that he still has his own place. "Would you like me to go there now?" he adds, before Keith says no and leans in to give him a little kiss. "I made dinner," he tells David. "Oz is on." A perplexed David wonders if the term "mixed messages" means anything to Keith, who quickly admits that he was just teasing. "I'm just fucking with you, fool," he laughs [Fk=37]. "I think you should move inwhat are we waiting for?" David gets a huge smile on his face, and then does a little pirouette to check the place out as he redecorates it in his head.
At the Fortress, Nate is working in his office when Claire comes in. She asks what he's doing, and he claims that he's just making a list of things to do the day. You can check The Wake if you want to know more. She also apologizes for their fight earlier, and says that he was totally right about Billy being a freak. And then she gives him a really big hug, and I'm not sure whether to be touched by her love for her brother, or jealous that Peter Krause has his face pressed into her chest.
And finally, Claire goes upstairs to check her AOL email. Proving that Alan Ball has apparently never once used the internet, she doesn't have even a single piece of spam in her inbox. Yeah, right. I've gotten twenty-three stock tips, seventeen credit card offers, and at least three separate invitations to participate in various forms of bestiality just in the last six hours alone. The one piece of email she does have, however, is from Billy. It's copies of the pictures she took, and she gets a strange smile on her face as she looks them over. I'll ignore the fact that they were clearly taken from a different angle than the one she was standing at, and just say that some of them were pretty good. And as Claire herself realizes this, we fade to white.
“ 'Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice, young man?' ”
So that's it, kids. The final fuck score was thirty-seven, which may very well be a record for a one-hour show not written by Trey Parker and Matt Stone. If that's what you guessed back on page one, you're a winner. If it's not, you're a fucking moron. Either way, I'll see you back here week, where I'll regale you with references to movies, any number of possible RDC challenges, and my thoughts on the Stanley Cup playoffs. You won't want to miss that.
Aaron: Hmm. Let's see. Thirty-seven fucks, extended male nudity, and a secret pregnancy. Yep. That sounds like an Alan Ball episode to me.
Alan Ball: Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice, young man?
Aaron: Who, me? Never.
Alan Ball: Good. Because you're no better, you know.
Aaron: What do you mean?
Alan Ball: Well, let's see. I think I counted about 450 uses of the word "incidentally," ninety-four pathetic mentions of how much you love Lauren, and at least a half dozen shout-out claims that have nothing whatsoever to do with you. Yep. Sounds like an Aaron recap to me.
Aaron: Get out. Now.
Alan Ball: Heh.
Aaron: What the fuck are you laughing at?
Alan Ball: Ah'll be back.