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|My 2 Cents on Episode 4.11: A Midsummer’s Nightmare
Those things do best please me that fall preposterously
I don’t know what the hell is going on here
For me, and for my laziness,
Here stooping to your pa-ti-ence,
I beg you read this garbled mess.
As those of you who read my schlock should know,
Insanity is properly defin'd
(By minds of slightly greater cred than mine)
As doing the exact same dumbass thing
The same moronic way you did before,
Expecting the result to somehow change.
And so it should have come as no surprise
When late last month I booted up my Dell
And gobs of nothing leapt ‘afore mine eyne,
Instinctively elic’ting, "What the hell!?!?"
"You suck, you stupid piece of crap!"
I bellow’d throughout the morning.
"I promis’d them a new recap,
And you fail’d to write it for me!
So there I sat for no small length of time,
Pausing only for a dead-sprint run
Through my exhaustive profane lexicon
After which the job remain'd undone.
"A muse, a muse, my single bedroom, rent
Controlled shitbox for a muse! Come on!"
My madcap mind I rack’d, most verily,
Like butcher’s cudgel unto mosten'd veal
Or Iron Mike’s most maleficent mits
Pulverizing some pissant pugilist
In time gone by when one could faint devine
Raking in three-hundred million greenbacks
To say nothing of pissing it away.
It seem’d a spark was what I really lack’d;
The kind that one might seek in one’s soul mate
(Though to that end I find myself most disadvantaged, as I’ve nary an intimate ear to confide in this side of my fish and my voice-activated Motorola, and even they I suspect—the latter, foremostly—of wiling away many a mid-day hour’s downtime in blissful mockery of me. Could I but catch them in the act…).
I needed inspiration by the pound.
Forsooth, there was the storied Hirschfield way,
Which though in no way safe or sane or sound
Hath work’d for him…why not for me? I say.
Oh right, there is that pesky little rider
That work’d for Jeff but always froze me stiff,
Of lounging in a bathtub full of spiders
Whilst eating paint and puffing on a spliff.
Yeah…think I’ll pass.
It look’d as though defeat was nigh at hand.
"So sorry gang, I’m throwing in the towel."
Until my half-ass’d bookshelf took a spill
And inspiration crack’d me ‘cross the jowl.
‘Twas one of my prized possessions from my carefree days of study. Nay, not the two-prong'd taser scar delivered upon my left deltoid by some inebriated frat prick (worry not…I floor’d him forthwith), but the complete works of that most venerable quillsman, that patron saint of the three walls, and—if thou believest that boring bucket of swill that swept the Oscars in ’98—that beleaguered ladies’ man extraordinaire, the Bard of Avon (…or whomever the hell actually penned all of those plays); a tome no self-respecting genteel abode should be without (along with Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, The Joy of Cooking, and—come that fateful hour when gilded literati lay hold and liberate the stick from whence fair Apollo knoweth no domain—anything by me!). Shameless imitation! By thunder, that’s the way to go! And go we shall…
Unless I’ve err’d—and chances are I likely have—
We’ve reach’d the ep that marks the middle-season break.
Because the beans had book’d their tickets in advance
And scurri’d off to places best not dwelt upon,
The chore of placing words into our heroes’ mouths
Was dump’d upon the laps of two myst’rious chaps
Named Jon and Andy. Anyone know who they are!?!?
This also marks the final ep I’d not yet seen
(Unless you count the fan-film our pal Darrow made.
I plan to do it as my very last review,
Which means I may well die of nat’ral cause ere then).
And so this makes for bittersweet occa-si-on,
The last new romp for me and the crew of the Lexx.
Wherefore cannot there be more shows in primetime slots
‘Bout lizard chicks, big bugs, and freaky undead sex?
Oh well…guess I’ll always have my infomercials…
The cock hath crew (quit gig’ling, you know what I mean!)
Alerting me this prologue’s pitiful excess.
I’d best shut up so’s we can join our heroes now,
Airborne t’ward England, and in fits of great distress
(Nay, they are not flying British Airways… )
The hour is grim; no time for ribald wordplay, nor
For weighted blows dealt ‘pon the expired equine
That is our gallant captain’s tête-à-tête with Prince
(The very bile-upraising thought of which would cause
One’s soul to drink itself into oblivion
And sprint headlong toward a speeding turnip truck).
Nay…quiet grieving, pain’d memories of times past,
The pyrrhic sting of victory too costly won,
The silent agony, and numb, pointless rage ‘gainst
The still-wet ink of sign’d and delivered fate
(All that stuff that might have snar'd this show an Emmy
Or two, had those stuff’d-shirt prigs ever grown a pair
And ventured beyond their blasé comfort zones)…
In this grim pool we find our heroes wallowing,
The trio now a pair, digesting mortal woes.
For darling Xev hath lain her life down for her friends.
And with this sting the Dark Zone bids us fresh "hello."
Thou highmost star of long-lost B3K
In cruel fortune’s crucible congeal’d,
With blunted end beshorn of dignity,
Thy virtue, ‘gainst thy spirit, damn’d to yield.
Who knew the untrod path fortuity
Before thy heels would lay, through time and space,
Perdition’s fires…to third-rate live TV,
By true friends ever buttressed apace.
Alack, thy temper’d valor budged not,
Thy grace, ahead thy loved ones saintly laid
And chance anew thy blessed cohorts bought,
At heaviest of outlay, fully paid.
To thine own tune thou danced to the end,
And livest on forever in thy friends.
All hope seems lost…but don’t tell that to our man Stan;
No reaching his unyielding mind once it’s made up.
Because despite the walking corpse’s words ‘bout death—
A one-way street, no coming back, and all that jazz—
They’ve all been down that road and back a time or two,
Seems death, at best, is but an inconvenience.
The answer lies, or so it seems, among the Engs
(The Engs! My God, how come I never thought of that?
Henceforth I here decree that those from Maryland,
As "Marys" shall be known and call’d and addressed!).
That dear departed patron saint of tight black chaps,
Who roke of forty diff’rent shades of fetid sweat,
Did drop a hint or twelve about his druid pals
Whom he assured them could revive our dearest Xev.
(Though it be worth noting that Uther—with whom the halo’ed hosts of Jove’s firmamental bachelor pad are splitting a case of piss-warm libations if there’s justice to be found beyond this world—never actually said that. However, in your humble reviewwright’s defense, I was working off a rough interpretation of what he was saying to begin with, so perhaps Stan was too. King of like how Jon can technically understand what Garfield "says"…zwounds! Two consecutive reviews with Garfield references. Tsketh tsketh tsketh!)
"Friends help friends, and sometimes friends are all you’ve got!"
So Stan insists when Kai dismisses his big plan.
I s’pose if Disney had produc’d this episode,
Stan, Kai, the Lexx and robot head would break right out
In syncopated showtunes; but it’s not, thank God!
(The beans don’t have to hide their phallic imag’ry
On cover art or splic’d in every hundredth frame.
They come right out with guns a-blazin’ in both hands,
Then rear right back and shove those things right in your…
…hmm…I don’t like where this is going. Permit me a shudder…)
His fingers Stanley gently runs through Xev’s soft hair,
A tender, heartstring wrenching little human touch
(Considering he prob’ly has a ball of it,
Along with toenail clippings from the past few months,
Adjacent to the hat rack on his sock crevice).
While 790—like my boss’ four-year-old
Who speaketh not a word if ever I’m around,
But waits until her dad repeats what I’ve just said
And answers him as though I’m nowhere to be found—
Responds at last to Kai, who picks up Stanley’s slack.
The feast has mov’d…because of foot in mouth disease
(Which one would think would work out for the greater good,
For after all it is an airborne cow disease,
And more dead livestock should mean they have lots more food),
So London now will host the pagan revelries
Aside what looks like an old cigarette fact’ry…
Or maybe it’s the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant?
Though station’d some five football fields from the door,
The keen-eyed watchmen—all two—still accost the crew,
Paying not a second’s heed the comely corpse,
But prattling ‘bout the Mincefields and Druidic code.
(And though I humbly kowtowed and begged most charismatically my low-res screen that Kai, his brace, might two half pints of chunky grey house paint their cerebral baggage make, or that an errant hunk of disattached airline equipment might visit its velocity atop their cruddy little kiosk, or that that pallid vestige of Brunnis 2 that was might back up, take unto himself a running start and boot the both of them o’er the continental horizon, bending them in so doing like Beckham, or…you know, I was building toward a point, but being ever full of self affairs, my mind did lose it. Now how do ya like that!)
Weapons check: no braces, bombs or badass black packs,
For all is fun and games ‘til someone’s vaporiz’d.
A 1.6 inch blade is all the guests may pack,
Which like a buzzkill sounded…’til I gave it thought (aw hell…)
Could I a dinky blade attach unto a "hilt"
That is, in fact, a fourteen-inch lead billy club?
But I digress…two tall, robe’d fellows intercede;
‘Tis Tarquin Falstaff and his lackey…Mike (or Steve?).
They kindly bid the guards "piss off!" with bright green eyes
(Like royalty these druid folk must interbreed!).
This Tarquin chap—T-Bag, for now—doth seem a pill;
A name like his, you’d ‘spect a jovial blowhard
(Though just in case, his pockets do for roofies check),
But to be fair, compar’d to Fuzz, this guy’s a blast.
The mead men talk of Uther’s death…a sack weighs in,
So T-Bag beats it, as most sane folk prob’ly would.
Our heroes join the fray inside a fireworks tent
Which looks to be adjacent to the parking lot.
We’ve mead in wooden coffee mugs, clandestinely
With ‘radiated preschool glitter good and spike’d (ziggy socky!),
Folks in robes (*coughvirginscough*) like ijits gig’ling,
A marker board, and music—if it can be called—
That has my ears their eyes attempting to claw out.
Would someone in the know so kindly set me straight:
Are all conventions like this? If so, count me out!!!
Kai plops the limp girl in a chair with practic'd hands
(Methinks he did this often in his college days)
While Stan kicks back and watches Lexx in puppet form,
And…holy crap, I’ve found the key to season five!
Who’s good with scissors? Any two or three will do
(I’m not suggesting we should our own puppets make,
But rather, find the beans and tie them to some chairs
Then threaten them with scissors ‘til we get our way!
Moving right along…)
So "lusting partners," if I understand it right,
Are bawdy tens whom sad-sack gents pursue all night,
Afore the girls trade up and tell them "hit the bricks"
And leave the poor saps holding fast their wither’d…pride.
If I’d a shiny five pence for each one I’ve had
Well…let’s just say I’d occupy a nicer pad.
But just a tick…she said that’s how it’s s’pose to be,
(I mean, come on, would that nice lady lie to me?!?)
That means Stan and I are waaaay ahead the curve,
So choke on that, if you’re not us! You just got serv’d!
Now, if you need us, you need look no further than
Adjoining presidential suites in New-Found-Land.
I guess we have to turn things o’er to Colin now…
He who stay’d up all night baking lemon squares
(Good Lord, he’s got the personality of paste).
The Feast of Mograth—for the few who give a damn—
Commemorates the wedding of the Forest King (Bambi?),
Who trades his bride in ev’ry fifteen hundred years,
Presumably because he pulled the trigger on
The cellulite clause in his previous pre-nup.
He pours a forty for their druid forefathers,
Who may have been an ancient group of spacefarers
Who learn’d about our heroes inadvertently
When asking lotto numbers of the Time Prophet.
Then speaking as the College of Grand Druids’ rep
(WHOOO! Give ‘em hell Echidnas! GD football rules!!!)
He ushers in three out-of-town celebrities:
The Ebon Man, the Dead One, and The Crimson Fool.
Yes, it’s…the Mincefields!?!? ‘Ello there, what’s all this then?!
(In fairness though, I find it most prudent my wanton ire to stay, for the Minge- er, um…Mincefields, short the Maker’s standards though they fall—as all of woman born do—are basically nice folks. Yay, the daughter hath piss poor posture, the wife be frigid as a Minnesota meat freezer, the husband but a few plumb puddings from yielding his foot to adult onset diabetes and their goddamn dog never shuts up…but really, nice people).
O…kay…’tis beer o’clock, past time to tie one on,
No better way to stop a train wreck ‘fore it smokes
Than with a pint or ten or Irish mother’s milk,
Whom sloshy coeds know as love-in-liquid-form.
They top ‘em off, and slam ‘em back, and hit the floor
(See, idiots and Everclear…they seldom mix)
Ol’ Captain Stan looks dead as Xev, what’s Kai to do?
It’s likely he won’t help…nobody asks him to.
But praise Fortuna, look! The mead guys are still here.
Cue the shaky ref’rences to Bubba Shakespeare.
Our pal T-Bag is "Mograth" call’d…but who knows why
(Like all those strange-named cons out there…it just sounds cool).
His given name is Oberon, the Fairy King
(Who wants this one? Because I will not be spoon-fed).
He rolls with Puck, a lifelong Judy Garland fan,
And answer to that age-old riddle: "What if Roy
And Siegfried went and pilfer’d Teller ‘way from Penn?"
And last—and least—no king’s complete without his queen
(I don’t mean Puck…least not this time…I’m not that mean).
The burlap pouch of fungus hue and same-said stench
Doth piss and moan and thrash about ‘til Kai steps in.
The ties he cuts, and ‘fore you can say "razor burn"
A waist-high wad of pink and white-clad body hair
Doth all but suck the undead lips right off his face.
And while the vast majority of guys out there
A queen to kiss would prize the opportunity,
It’s likely Kai his stomach’s contents would unload
If not but for the dead their cookies do not toss.
Titania—hereafter "Tanya DeVito"—
Doth looketh like a cross between a three foot bum
And some poor frat pledge mortgaging his dignity.
The pallid reaper’s scythe King Oberon can stay
(So Uther got one right…they’ve snow in hell this day!)
About Xev’s cold and lifeless side the good king kneels
Her beauty he extols, her waxen locks he feels,
And then her lips in his he takes, and with one breath
Usurps The Dead One’s fate and bites his thumb at death.
From void outside of time Xev’s spirit heeds his call,
And Stan’s astounded eyes behold a miracle:
New breath she draws, this erstwhile corpse, her ashen lips
And cheeks do sunset red, the hue of life, eclipse
As with a start, though wrench’d awake by sudden jolt
Her eyes peel back their lids, and old friends she beholds.
Contrived be the writing, no denying that,
But I’ll let this one slide…it’s good to have Xev back ;)
‘Tis great indeed, and yet I can’t help wondering
If Xev he resurrected, why can’t he fix Kai?
His soul perhaps could be entrapp’d beyond his reach,
Or could be that Kai’s body’s more machine than man…
But I believe it’s ‘cause Mike’s contract clearly said:
"Three same-sex kisses in a season, and no more"
And Paul & Crew decided to hold on to one.
It’s been a trying day for all—‘cept maybe Kai—
If I were Xev I’d prob’ly want to hurry home
(A shower she could use…or maybe two or three…)
But that could prove a problem, thanks to Oberon.
No sooner has the shock of cheating death (again)
Worn off, than Xev is told that she’s a bride to be.
Her troth the Live Dead One’s to give the Fairy King,
(If she don’t like it, tough!…or so it seems to be)
While Stan for fifteen hundred years their whims must serve
And Kai the happy lovebirds nightly serenade.
While the dead should be indiff’rent, Kai takes umbrage,
Out he pops the brace…oh God, you know what this means
"I have kill’d blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah"
‘Cept afore his vocal cords can get their orders,
Oberon doth turn the brace into a birdie.
(A screen door on a submarine makes far more sense…
And so my mind its shut-off switch I opt to flip
Just how his ordnance Kai regains I could care less…
Betwixt the beans and God that great conundrum is!)
"Let’s blow this spotted dick stand" Stan and Kai proclaim,
Whilst angling for the door with parakeet in hand,
And hereupon we reach the point at last, methinks,
Where someone dipp’d the steadycams in LSD.
The plant in but one night the kudzu has reclaim’d,
We’ve singing trees and smiley faces on the moon
(Wherefore could not those braying boughs at least reprise
That kickass German leitmotif from Brigadoom?)
His boneyard baritone the dead man lends the choir,
Some pelvic thrusts and quick two-steps he adds as well
While Stan and Xev retreat back to the fireworks tent,
Which now looks like a little slice of Rivendell.
And then…hey, what the hell…did I just hear a phone…?
(Forthrightly I do confess that at first, ‘pon hearing that shrill and damnable tintinnabulation, I took it for some kind of sophomoric editing error, or a clumsy stagehand who had wandered into the shot. Nay, gentle simpletons, genuine the article be. And who among them goeth to it like a waterfat hound unto a veldt of trees, but our man Stan. Tarry, rash wanton! Under what disloyal appendage’s banner is thy common sense marshal’d!? When last you answered a ringing phone, you got You-Know-Who. And while lightning might not strike twice, this belabored bondsman can easily imagine him lounging in a bubble bath aside his speaker phone, candles lit, whale song CD playing on a loop, sipping a nice Merlot and idly brushing his hair as he innocently asks Stan, "So…whatcha doin’?")
He’s no such luck, ‘tis Tanya on the other line,
…Its…husband’s weekend minutes frittering away
While Oberon and Puck, like blue hair’d biddies at
The local beauty parlor, sit and jaw and yak
And kvetch and bicker ‘bout the damn’dest little things;
And Kai and the Dark Men a supergroup have form’d
(Without Sebastian Bach…perhaps there is a God)
To serenade the king with public domain tunes.
(A modest show I make when folks my praises sing,
That said, I truly do not mind that sort of thing.
But if I had to hear this puke inducing tune
For more than fifteen ticks, you bet I’d flee the room.
I can’t imagine hearing it for fifteen hundred years…
I’d rather help the Joker make a pencil disappear!
My lot this time I’ll cast among the atheists…
What kind of loving God lets such a hell exist!?!?)
Oh good…Titania’s crying…that’s just what we need
Real human drama (of the Nook variety).
The blissful days of yore she/he/it pineth for,
While Oberon doth bitcheth still and chug his swill.
Alack for thee, thou foppish cankerblossom, that
Belief in fairies dwindl’d like my IRA.
‘Tis thy own fault…and Puck most likely screw’d up too.
But still, the bond between the fairy world and ours
Some chewy mental caramel doth introduce;
To Brunnis Sun and Blue Star doth my mind retreat
To dwell upon the overall cosmology.
Alas, I’ll have to cut this speculation short…
I just can’t do it justice in poetic verse
(However half-assed it may be).
And then her tune Xev changes…that train’s never late,
And Obie shows the future to his would-be mate:
Endless sunflower fields (she’s allergic to those),
A sprawling, glist’ning palace…with no access roads,
A smiley faced sun straight out of kids’ nightmares
That through the bedroom walls perpetually stares,
The sky’s a lovely shade of post-apocalyptic gold,
Those intermittent Matrix clouds must make it mighty cold.
The flowers, it turns out, are Obie’s old ladies
(His loins must house more pathogens than the CDC).
So in west central Kansas the Fairy King dwells,
Best not tell the Phelpses…oh man, would they raise hell!
With Xev and Obie off discussing grown folks’ biz,
It’s time for Stan and Puck to fin’ly break the ice.
Though bon-bons they have not, nor lipstick shades to swap,
Girl talk ensues ‘bout Obie’s marital habits.
See, Xev’s not quite his "type" (…do I still have a shot?)
Can I put this delicately?…no, I s’pose not:
A bit comme-ci/comme-ca the gilded emp’ror is…
In other words he seeks a mate whose luggage matches his.
Now technic’ly engage’d to Obie, Xev lets fly
Demands: "Change this, change that, I hate that shirt and can
Not stand your friends! You’d best cut Stan some slack or else
You sleep alone tonight, and if you don’t make Kai
Shut up, I’ll gnash my teeth and cry. And one more thing
Ere boots we knock I must get off my chest…the way
You browbeat Tanya…give that crap a rest…mmm’kay?"
Some modest nagging, say you not? Nothing too tough.
But Obie’s set about his ways, and shan’t his back
Upon them turn…not even for a crack at Xev
(Forsooth m’lady, I can change! Ask anyone!).
The next best thing already have his eyes locked fast
Upon: that brimming monument to all things man,
‘Bout whom he first read on a swingers’ forum run
By one called "DC_white_topXXX69."
Stan, Stan, only Stan, won’t you take this fairy’s hand?
*shuddereth the second*
Oh save them Kai! Come kick some ass and take some names!
He can’t…’cause he’s a tree now…can’t say I’m surpris’d.
Does anybody out there know some "deadwood" jokes?
‘Cause at this point we might as well just smile and nod…
…or would if for a second he would shut his face!
Might Xev make him a sock into it put? Fat chance!
She sings to him to try and make his singing stop!
Well that would be like downing fifths of Jack and Crown
At your sotted deadbeat cousin’s intervention.
For no good reason Xev into a tree is made,
(This, children, is your brain on drugs. Questions, please?)
Her rough soprano to the chorus joins forthwith.
So…once upon a time, the whole world was like…this…
Huzzah, tra-lah! Three cheers for deforestation!!!
Back to the Kansas Matrix for another round;
‘Tis Stanley’s turn to hear the king’s proposal, while
Bedeck’d in scant white silk that lifts and separates
In all the most profoundly ghastly ways. And yet,
At home he seems in pumps, the dress he all but flaunts…
Methinks the heretics pull’d wicked hazing stunts.
With little said to sway his thought, Stan says he’s game,
Provided Obie do away with all that talk
‘Bout flanking his impenetrable rear guard and
Conquering the final piece of Ostral-B.
That crow don’t caw in Kansasland, the red-hued king
Proclaims, palavering at worked-up length about
His royal "appetites." Alack that Stan’s erstwhile
Masseuse, ol’ Brother Smiley, is millennia gone,
For certainly that pious, pleasant, pers’nable,
Precocious, pouty pincushion would proudly pump
His fists (‘mong other things) if Stanley tagg’d him in,
And get right down to business servicing his king.
(But he’s dead…argal, commence with the cross-dressing)
His foremost salvo counter’d, psy-ops now the king
Resorts to, scraping at the brittle, moldy crust
Of Stan’s subconscious to extract a flake or two
Of ammo…’course he could just take and hide his hat,
Alas, the randy bastard never thinks of that.
His morphing powers (yeah…apparently he does
That) strangle Stan’s attention span and set his loins
A-thumpin’, for a curvy carbon copy of
Our dearest Xev he emulates, and pops again
The ques-ti-on: "So do you want to be my mate?"
(By Aphrodite’s gams, DC_white_topXXX69, whosoever he or she may be, hath given his silky majesty a veritable master’s course in Tweedle Pleasin’!)
Well, Stan’s mind melts in record time, and acquiesce
He does, and look you not in my direction for
That olde deluder’s advocate…no, not this time!
A fan of Stan I am, but cannot stand the man’s
Impenetrable thickness (…stepped in that one, eh?)
In cases such as this. For God’s sweet sake, sirrah,
Hast thou forgot thy last liaison with a pert
And uninhib’ted Xev?!?! To what bleak netherealm
Hast thy healthy skepticism been banished?
Were I in thy red cap and proposition’d so,
Why, I’d…prob’ly do the same thing…hail Queen Bilbo…
With Tanya this uneas’ly sits, and out…it…goes
To bawl and bray and pout away while Obie preens
And primes the pump. The cheese-gold fields of Kansasland
Are where…it’s…headed next; and yet…it…yearns for so
Much more: to join the fairer sex (if they’ll have…it…)
TreeXev consoleth…it…as best a tree-girl can,
While Kai dispenses overpriced free advice:
"Thou must do something." O…kay…I guess that’s a start…
(Though last I checked, the closest hospital that does
That is Charing Cross…who’ll charge an arm and leg…in
Addition to whatever else you want removed).
With little time to spare—and even less to think—
Right into half-bake’d action Tanya boldly springs.
What better way to pull a fast one on…its…man
Than with a cavalcade of blushing maiden Stans.
As Tweedli Xev and Kai and Puck emerge, stage right
(Methinks DC_white_top’s heart would burst at the sight),
And while his Kai impression’s downright fantastic
Brian’s Xev doth come across a bit ataxic.
"Will the real Stanley please get his arse over here!"
Doth the king now demand with a snarl and a sneer.
And while Puck chews his nails, the other three step up...
I am Sparticus H. Tweedle, and I..look...FABULOUS!
With even less time now (yeah...he's on a schedule),
A bride the king must choose, lest...something...I dunno.
It's Stan he truly wants, although I see not why
He goeth not for Kai, who's every bit as good
When viewed from behind. And Xev...my goodness man!
I get she's not your type, but look at her...hot damn!!!
I’d say she’s worth a try. No? Nothin’ doin’, eh?
Titania he doth choose, because he thinks…its…Stan,
And if that maketh sense to you, you’re ow’d a hand.
Surprise, thou jackanape, for thou hast just been punk’d,
And hitch’d thy wagon once again to the little runt.
It’s up to Tanya now to try and make things work…
Eternity is ample time to tame a jerk.
Wakey wakey time for the party-going fray
While Stan and Xev and Kai, well they just…walk…away
Of this they all agree to never speak again…
Cue that trademark season 4 super-abrupt end.
That made precious little sense to me,
Lord, what lunatics these writers be!
If good taste I have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
Shakespeare's dead and cannot sue me,
And I live out in the boonies.
So it seems unlikely that
Piss’d off Bardolator packs
Might a posse organize
To make cufflinks of mine eyes.
Now, as to this episode:
Many say it's not so good.
As I am an honest chap,
Here's the crux of my recap:
Certainly it's not the best,
But its own charm it doth possess,
Most of all, 'tis in the range
Of the show's promised "strange,"
So I'll give this one a "C,"
Good—not great—this effort be.
And that's a wrap for this big guy...
See ya next time...cheery bye!
...and masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass
|What can I sayeth, Oh Bilbo Dear,
Thy written word I fear
has enthralled my eyes
holding them faithful to
your written prose.
A gift thou has, that goeth
AWESOME, FUCKING FANTASTICALLY AWESOME!!!!!! I love how you did the whole thing as a Shakespearean review! I am speechless at reading this, (I think for the first time in my life), this is the most stunning review I have ever read. I can see how much time and thought you have put into this and am so appreciative of your very accomplished talent as a writer. YOU ROCK DUDE!
|is literally left astounded..for she reads this literary pile of fancied words and is left awonder at the way his mind is fractured..alas and alack..not alex..alack..I am simply left at his feet in humble adoration..my liege please..do with me as you will for I have none..will that is..toys and treats abound though..just a thought..your everloving stalker..K
Glad y’all liked it, and I’m sorry as hell this review took as long as it did. Full disclosure: yes, I dawdled a bit, but not that much. It honestly did take a helluva long time to write, and a couple times throughout I was tempted to quit. I actually hit on the idea of reviewing this ep in Shakespearean verse a long time ago, and filed the notion away for later. When it came time to actually do it, I wanted to be good and prepared, so the first thing I did was sit down and re-read A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the first time since college. I took a few pages of notes along the way, because my original intention was to include quite a number of direct references, allusions, and callbacks to the play…a plan I quickly jettisoned when I watched the ep and realized that it bore almost no similarity to the plot at all, aside from a few character names and a case of mistaken identity. In hindsight, that allowed me a lot more freedom, though I did still slip in a few lines—some verbatim, others slightly modified—from MND, as well nods to some of my favorite plays (see how many you can find). I had some more in mind, but it felt like overkill.
The Xev sonnet was the last thing I wrote (I had big, block text that said INSERT SONNET in that spot for the bulk of the time I was working on this review), and I was tempted to leave it out altogether, but after I knocked out the first two quatrains in a single go I decided to stick with it. It's more than fair to call it...uneven...and a couple times I really had to stretch to conform to the rhyme scheme, but on the whole it turned out a lot better than I thought it would.
The prose interludes were pretty much born out of necessity…stuff I wanted to say, but couldn’t condense into verse. At first I thought about doing all of the parenthetical asides in prose, but that would have intruded a little too much, so I resolved to use a light touch. As if the poetry were actually worth half a damn, the prose is, by my own admission, godawful, sometimes deliberately so. A couple times I tried to see how many times I could use inversion in a single sentence and still render it coherent (such as the line about wanting to see Kai take out the security goons).
The bulk of the verse is written in iambic meter (buh-DAH…an unstressed syllable, followed by a stressed syllable), with some trochaic and anapestic variations thrown in:
While the dead should be indiff’rent, Kai takes umbrage,
"Will the real Stanley please get his arse over here!"
Hardly textbook examples of either, but it worked for me. There are probably a few dactyls, spondees, and pyrrhics sprinkled throughout too, but if so, it was inadvertent.
I started out intending to write the bulk of the review in iambic pentameter…ten syllables per line, which is what Shakespeare primarily used, and the prologue is mostly in that form, with a few detours into tetrameter country. But when I dove into the real meat of the review, I added two more syllables per line, for a total of twelve, or six iambs. This is Lexx, after all, so it only seemed appropriate that I use iambic sextameter! (Yes…I really did go to all that extra trouble for the sake of an esoteric in-joke). Ergo, the reason this damnable thing took so long is not because I didn’t know what to say…I knew exactly what I wanted to say, and could have whipped up a traditional review in no time. No, it took forever because I had to painstakingly sit and map out a way to condense each sentence of each thought into metered form. Some days it was easy, others I was lucky to walk away form a forty-five minute writing session with two quality sentences added. Like I said, I really did want to quit at times, but once I got about halfway through I knew I was in it for the long haul.
As I said, not every line is perfectly metered. I’m not terribly concerned about that, and I take solace in the fact that Shakespeare himself was not above slipping in a little discord in the name of turning a phrase.
For a short time, I thought about foregoing a written review altogether in favor of posting a video review of myself doing a dramatic recitation of this thing. Just a few hitches there: for starters, I don’t own a digital camcorder, nor do I have any idea how to upload videos. Add to that the fact that it would have taken me another month or so to memorize all the lines and practice them to the point where I felt like I wouldn’t make a complete jackass out of myself, and I’m positive I made the right decision (although candidly, when Maya posted her interview with Mike McManus I briefly considered how cool it might be to see him recite it…I know, wish in one hand…).
Anyhoo, those were just a few musings I thought I’d jot down. As always, I’m glad you liked it and I appreciate the hell out of your feedback. I’m off the clock for at least another week or so (got books that need my reading, weights my lifting, and a couple vague story ideas that I’ve been itching to evict from my skull), but rest assured the next review will come along in a far timelier manner (but just in case, know that I like to eat my words over-easy with just a pinch of dill)
|I know Maya can't wait to read it to darlin'. I sent it to her so she could print it out, she's been so terribly busy with work, but as soon as I told her about it, she couldn't wait to get a free moment to set her eyes on it.
|I am so stunned, there are no words. Will Shakespeare is grinding his teeth in his grave in jealousy over your magnificent prose.