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My 2 Cents on Dutch Treat
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Bilbo67
Heretic


Joined: Fri Oct 27th, 2006
Location: The Daisy Hill Cluster Lizard Farm
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Mana: 
 Posted: Fri Aug 27th, 2010 02:37 pm

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My 2 Cents on Episode 4.17: Dutch Treat
(8/27/10)



It lives!

And by "it" I mean "he."


And by "he" I mean "me."

In other words, me lives!

Boy howdy, with dead time like this you’d think reviewing Lexx was a cushy union gig. Alas, while thoroughly laundered kickbacks and the possibility of winding up floating face down in the East River come with the territory, I remain but a lowly independent contractor, forever doomed to foot the bill for my own dental care while dreaming in vain of making inroads into the world of organized crime. Oh well, it saves me the trouble of having to fork over dues and plaster my car with even more acronymonous bumper stickers.

So where has ol’ Bilbo been lo these past couple months? You’ve kept your collective ear to the ground, traded hushed, fragmentary rumors in passing outside seedy, raffish flophouses where no one could possibly be listening in (…or could they?), and undoubtedly caught a glimpse of one of those mysterious, unmarked, radar-jamming neon periwinkle helicopters that seem to appear out of nowhere at the slightest mention of my name (try it, I’ll wait…if they don’t show up, you’re not pronouncing it right). Well it’s time for me to man up and set the record straight:

Despite what the so-called fourth estate would have you believe, I have not shed my corporeal form and ascended to a higher plane of existence (strictly a black tie affair, that; and godlike delusions of grandeur or not, nothing in the multiverse is worth betraying my fashion sense over…plus I’ve long since forgotten how to tie a half Windsor), nor do I have any plans to have my brain removed and placed into the body of a horse in order to further my political ambitions. That is a nasty, totally unfounded rumor drummed up by my horse’s ethically blind P.R. department after I supposedly failed to go "halvsies" with him on a dry cleaning bill. Lawyers from both sides are taking depositions as we speak, though the odds are looking grim, as I’m told he’s friends with every judge in the state. As for me, I’m thinking of settling the matter…out of court. On a totally unrelated note, who needs glue?

So, who’s still with me after that one?

That many?!?
Sheesh, I’m losing my edge. Who’d’ve ever thunk a scant two months without catching a falling dumbbell to the temple could reduce you to a coherent, insightful shell of your former self!!! Never again, ma belle peche. Never…again.

Needless to say it’s been like a termite-infested wooden rollercoaster the last few months—minus the part where I flash a cheeky obscene gesture at the camera and projectile vomit funnel cake remnants all over the folks behind me. Without a doubt the highlight had to be seeing my brother get married, made all the sweeter by the fact that by some base miracle, a giant cane did not materialize and yank me offstage when I was asked to improvise a toast (which went over quite well amongst the attentive minority of temperate tipplers who had not yet plunged headlong into Dean Martin territory). Provided he and the missuz manage to get them to me before the sun burns out, I’ll be sure and post some pictures of myself in my clown suit (be forewarned: rice pudding complexion + three hours outdoors being shuffled around like a human chess piece by an ill-prepared photographess = "Aw crap, who invited Hellboy?!?!") On the flipside, I’ve absorbed a few karmic kicks in the teeth of late. Between losing my job, losing my dog, watching my book contract vanish in a puff of "we love your work but it’s too difficult to market," and a few other personal hindrances, it’s been a bit of a grind. But as I quickly found out, wallowing in self-pity is just too damned labor intensive for an untested amateur to pursue full time, so I secured a hold on my 19" biological headrest (my neck, dammit!) and wrung myself out of it, thanks in no small part to Maya’s fanfic contest. That was one of the first things that helped fill the void between mailing out résumés, and although I shot well past the word limit and had to drop out of the contest, I wound up whipping together a decent little yarn based on a slight misinterpretation of one of the potential story outlines. I’ll post it in time. Like everything I write, I want to let the first draft cool on the windowsill for a bit so that I can go back, trim the fat, and cram it full of deliciously addictive, highly toxic additives! Just the way you like it!

In the mean time, no matter how dim your prospects, you can always rest assured that Stanley Tweedle is having a worse go of it than you are (*double-checks to make sure Stan doesn’t get some action in this ep*). That said, a-Dark Zonin’ we will go!

Heavens to Mongoloid, now where did we leave off? Oh, right, our heroes escaped certain doom by the shapely, velveteen skin of Xev’s teeth and fled the horribly little blue planet once and for all, never to return again. After a brief stopover on the moon to score some space falafels and start up a Fra Mauro chapter of the American Freedom Rangers (Go go Freedom Rangers!), it’s back to the Lexx, now sporting a layer of itchy overgrowth and a sickly green hue (oh Lord, it’s my eighth grade Adolescent Issues class all over again…)

Now then, what’s a production crew to do when some zidiot stagehand bumps into the camera mid-take and they can’t afford to spring for reshoots because they blew the remainder of the week’s budget on cookie dough and absinthe? Why, work a dry-heaving-spaceship subplot into the script, of course! Apart from nibbling on the occasional slow witted extra when nobody was looking, Lexx hasn’t had anything substantial to eat since noshing on a leafy green Amazonian salad with a plutonium garnish. Bitchy, irrational, and hopelessly nauseous as most of us get when we miss something as insubstantial as our bi-hourly mid-morning rice cake and sausage break, one can only imagine the steaming wads of white hot verbal bile the big bug would heave at the tiny, relatively powerless creatures that have been freeloading off his forward momentum for the past four millennia, if he could actually speak. Without being spoken to. By the right person at the right time under the right circumstances (barring some sort of continuity error that never should have made it past the brainstorming stage, let alone onto my screen!). Aw, but why settle for verbal bile when you’ve a gulch sized gullet of the real thing cocked, locked and ready to spew? Everywhere it goes as the big bug commences to call Europe, splattering magnum upon magnum of centuries-old membrane sludge on…well, primarily on Stan, who decries the green glop as the most putrid substance he has ever encountered (a sweet—if overtly covert—gesture toward Xev on his part, considering nothing the Lexx could possibly cough up could ever hope to dethrone her petrified pork platter).

So let me see if I’ve got this right:

Blue goo = the most heavenly food-like nutritional seat filler this side of Krispy Kreme’s seldom circulated Orgy Flavored Cruller

Green goo = "Yucky!"

Aren’t picky eaters the worst?

So what’s the doomed crew of a doomed ship to do when faced with the prospect of certain doom? Ask Kai where he thinks the key might be? Ask Kai to ask 790 where he thinks the key might be? Ask Kai to ask 790 to attempt to assert some form of rigidly monitored control over the Lexx by interfacing with one of its wigglicious neuromotor ganglions, just like he did the last time the key went missing? Sleep on it? Shower on it…?

Mmmm…I think you missed a –

…oh, you’re still here…

All of the above are fine, fine ideas from which a robust bounty of follow-up ideas would undoubtedly flow, and so on and so forth until at long last one of them stumbled over the ultimate solution to all their problems. So naturally, the doomed crew decides a return trip to the doomed, hostile, violent, backwater doomed planet is in order. When in doubt (though not in track shorts, but that’s another story for another day…) flash a little leg and stick out your thumb.

Yes, our heroes are gonna bum a ride on ol’ Doc Longbore’s interplanetary pimpmobile, the Noah (so named because the producers felt calling it the Ark might have been a bit too esoteric…though arcane references to little-understood theoretical quantum mechanics get bumped to the front of the line). With only sixty miniscule days to spare before the wondrous flying machine is built, painted, detailed, OSHA certified, field tested in low orbit, and outfitted with the most kick-ass subwoofers this side of the Sculptor Wall, our heroes are left with mere minutes to itemize their mold-infested belongings and pack for the big trip, because as past episodes have gone to enormous pains to point out, flight time to and from the Lexx simply will not allow for a return jaunt.

It’s always hard to say goodbye to a place you’ve come to think of as home. None but the darkest of hearts could resist the urge to sink at the thought of our old friends having to part ways with so many squishy, humiliating memories. But what must be done must be done, so with grim dignity and a few jiggers of eyewater, they pare their pelf down to the bare essentials. Xev hitches up what looks like a sun-dried cow’s stomach that’s been reconfigured into a trendy handbag, Stan clamps his fondlers onto a portable, kerosene powered lampglass moonshine still (for when they go clubbing), and Kai would rather succumb to an unannounced permanent shutdown, leaving his clumsy, destructible friends emotionally crippled and totally defenseless in a potentially hostile environment than walk nine or so steps into the adjoining room to grab his protoblood. As for the protein regenerator…nada. It knows too much.

As does 790, whose myriad storehouse of astrological, technological, and plot-specificological knowledge can and has yanked the crew’s collective bacon out of the burner a number of times. Really now, what are a few narrowly foiled murder attempts when weighed against the ability to wiggle his…nose bump?…and instantly short out the strangely accented villain-of-the-week’s doomsday device after it has flash fried the latest crop of guest stars but before it can harm anyone we give a damn about (provided Kai is available, able, and sufficiently prompted to relay their wishes to him in time)? Hasn’t the let’s-get-in-touch-with-our-feelings crowd repeatedly told us that violent, destructive, sociopathic departures from the behavioral norm are really nothing more than cries for attention? I’m tempted to give weight to this theory, considering how little face time 790 got in season 3.

But ya know, I’m far more tempted to give something to Bunny.

I’m serious, she need only bat an eye, tell me she really likes my car, and I’ll fork over the key right then and there. And then I’ll let her take the car!

Just another lazy, soup can realphabetizing day in the Oval Office. Oh sure, the unemployment rate is fast approaching grain alcohol proof territory and the south is threatening to marginally boost national test scores by excusing itself from the Union, but on the whole, pretty slow goings. In other words, the perfect opportunity for Bunny to shimmy into her tinfoil singlet and film her Julliard audition (six years of tap, four years of advanced jazz, and nary a wire hanger to be found…casting couch here—and there—I come!) to the grin-splitting delight of her barrel-headed ball and chain, ably played, as always, by Rolf "The German Gomez" Kanies.

That’s right gals, just a few wild, ataxic minutes of discombobulated gesticulation a day, and you too can have a ruling class ass!

(*Tsst* Bunny…ix-nay on the uling-ray ass-clay, ookums-schnay. It muddles your already opaque message. This is [North] America, we’re supposed to be a meritocracy […in theory]. How else do you think the fitness industry is able to move thousands upon thousands of crappy, platitudinous, unproven workout DVDs year in and year out? By duping the rubes at home into thinking anyone can do it!)

Okay, so they’ll have to appropriate a few billion tax dollars to fix that part in editing. But the rest of her routine: epic win, as the no good punk kids who have me too terrified to poke my head out of my panic room after mid afternoon would say! It’s upbeat, it’s engaging, and between you, me, and the cellophane finger puppets I amuse myself with when the power goes out, I could sit and listen to "…and call the French ambassador, call the French ambassador" for hours on end. Hell, for as much as I consider ravers to be the single most potent argument for giving eugenics another try, the thought of reworking it into a killer techno track has me positively giddy!

PTV, however, is not amused (obviously a Pilates guy). We’ve all, at one time or another, had to share workspace with someone who is a complete killjoy, and while it’s perfectly natural—nay, expected!—to set aside a portion of your day dedicated to blissfully fantasizing about driving a shiny blunt object through said killjoy’s killspot, most of us could stand to do without that kind of black mark on our work history. Ah, but when you’re the most powerful man in the world (once again, you’re too kind, but I’m still talking about the President) and the boorish coworker in question is one hell of a malfunctioning appliance? (get it?!?!?) You lower the West Wing shades, crank up the volume on the Ida McKinley 5.1 surround sound stereo, and prepare to get all opposite-of-the-Eighth-Amendment on his ass!

And so, while Bunny—like her namesake’s eternal nemesis, the wily tortoise—struggles mightily to get up off her back under her own power (call me!), Priest unsheathes his Big Bertha, slathers a little Biofreeze on his shoulders, and prepares to give PTV the Jerry Ford treatment…only to stay his hand when it dawns on him that he lost the warranty card (that wouldn’t have stopped Elvis…where are you when we need you, King?)

Now then, I once caught the tail end of an interview with Morgan Freeman (because it was Morgan Freeman and he was talking…what other reason do I need?), wherein the interviewer asked him the one thing he did not want from a director. His calm, dignified reply: direction. I bring this up because I believe the beans took that philosophy to heart when it came time to film Prince’s portion of this scene. In lieu of painstakingly storyboarding every little flustered snarl and panic-inducing nostril flare, they simply tossed Nigel a construction paper copy of what passed for the script and told him "Just look at camera A and make some faces." End result: comedic gold. Score one for the guy from the electric company.

With little leverage aside from the ever-present threat of unending early 80’s Saturday Night Live reruns, PTV lambasts the First Fools for their nickel-plated nincompoopery while they bow, scrape, and cower next to one of the more historically significant patches of the Oval Office carpet. Talk soon turns to the key, as it so frequently does when Prince has exhausted his weather beaten supply of "a priest, a rabbi, and a glassblower walk into a bar…" jokes, and after pausing just a moment to name drop my forthcoming memoir A Long and Difficult Period of Celibacy (thanks a zillion Rolf…next sauerbraten slammer is on me!!!), Priest assures his loiny liege that they absolutely, positively might possibly still technically have possession of the key, in a nonspecific manner of speaking. Sort of.

Gotta dig the reaction shots of Prince, whom we’ve always known to be so cool and detached almost to the point of apathy, even when the situation takes a turn for the catastrophic. Even during his…audience…with the protein regenerator, he managed to cling to a few scraps of his composure. And now, for the first time since stepping off his gondola and into our hearts, the guy is genuinely flustered. For aught we know, ol’ Izzy has been surrounded by morons since the beginning of time. Only now, during his first couple weeks of forced retirement, has he found time to stop and reflect on the matter, and its more than his untested stress receptors can handle. Poor guy. Sounds like what he needs is some quiet time alone and a nice, challenging hobby. Cultivating sea monkeys, perhaps? (Hey, it worked for me until I accidentally drank them)

*sigh* No. No time for that. I forgot, with Izzy, it’s all work all the time. The man is simply incapable of unwinding. It’s what drove Stan into the arms of another, and it’s what may very well prompt Priest and Bunny to wheel him down to a secondhand electronics store, cash him in for a few bucks and an old-school NES, and get on with their lives if it ever occurs to them that doors—when sufficiently pushed or pulled—will open, and that things—particularly things on wheels—when similarly pushed or pulled, can be made to go through an open door. So at the most he’s got five, maybe ten years to work with.

In other words, time’s a wastin’! Correctly assuming that his stooges misplaced the instructions to their universal remote, Prince orders them to start packing, whereupon—after duping the Chinese into paying sticker price for the 98,000 square mile lemon that is Wyoming—they are hustled into the Presidential motorcade/matter transporter and instantly whisked off to Florida for another exciting installment of pre-explosion footage of the Challenger lifting off, to the everlasting chagrin of those long-suffering Cape Canaveral sea gulls.

Say, speaking of disease infested pests, it’s been forever and a parsec since we last dropped in on the Scooby Gang. You might have been under the impression that we’d never see them again, because they’d all gone to work for the ATF as biological bullet holders. Well, you’re half right. Uncle Sam’s done a bonny job of thinning the herd, but brahma boneheads Dougall and Tina have thus far managed to rout the reaper, which can’t possibly bode well for his next performance review. And speaking of bony old things we tend to associate with death and decay, Doc Long (tryin’ it out) is a little tardy to the party, as he’s up to his nose in work screening potential Noah candidates…in a manner of speaking. On the surface, his story seems to check out: their voyage could take decades, easily spanning multiple generations, and like any savvy breeder, he’s sensitive to the issue of histocompatibility (ostensibly to avoid inbreeding, which isn’t hard to understand considering who he’s been slumming it with for the past few years). But I think it goes deeper than that. Call me a rabble rousing pseudoscientific quack if you must (and feel free to chat amongst yourselves if you must not), but I think the ol’ Longer’s little…quirk…has less to do with shoring up genetic variation and more to do with space. Consider the following: the Noah, while radically advanced and abundantly spacious is, at the end of the day, a totally enclosed artificial environment. Burn a roast? Feeling a tad stuffy? Run out of places to discretely stick your used gum? Well you can forget about cracking a window! That in mind, when it comes time to select crew members, do you really want to run the risk of deadheading around the galaxy with somebody whose personal hygiene policies could best be described as…noninterventionist? I don’t think so. Paging Scientific American! Publish this man’s findings, he’s on to something.

Eeewww…but refrain from putting him on the front cover. Or at the very least, ask him not to smile. Every time he does that I can’t help but picture the Cheshire Cat getting loaded and making it with an Alien.

At least he makes up for it with modesty, coyly "aw, shucks"-ing Stan’s genuine amazement at the awe-inspiring vessel that Longer himself played no direct part in actually constructing. He would rather talk about them. More specifically, Xev, whose shirt he asks to borrow "for an experiment I’m doing." (Thanks for the line, Ernie, I owe ya one!). Alas, he’ll have to look elsewhere for someone to help him see his dream of winning a Nobel Prize for getting whites whiter and brights brighter to fruition, because Xev doesn’t appear to have the slightest clue what a t-shirt is, and seems more than a little proud to announce that she doesn’t wear socks or undergarments (…in those boots! Man alive, it’s a good thing I’m not a foot guy; her toes must look like champagne corks.)

 

Parting thought:
How badass would it be if Walter Borden lent his voice to Stephen Hawking’s synthesizer?

Elsewhere…

The Lexx’s docking cradle clearly knows that it’ll soon be out of a job, because its work ethic has hit the skids. Not to say that it handled inbound objects with kid…tentacle sheaths (?) before, but given the way it just nonchalantly slaps the shuttle out of the air, you’d half expect Priest and Bunny’s heads to snap off like mishandled Pez dispensers. As for PTV…okay, honestly, why is he still in one piece? We know Bunny is prone to the occasional bout of misdirected clarity, and meek though she often seems, we’ve seen her flip the action-girl switch when things start to get a little too weird. Well, what’s weirder than being barked at by a low definition import? I know, I know, improvising gives her a brain owie, but at some point prior to boarding you’d think she would have taken a stab at the old Yawn, Stretch, Elbow Evil Sentient Television Set off Space Shuttle Gangway technique. Then again, at that elevated altitude, it’s a miracle she didn’t forget how to swallow (whew!).

Does make you stop and wonder, though: what would happen if the TV Prince is trapped in (in, not on…important distinction) were destroyed? Would he be destroyed with it? It would be a highly ignominious, thoroughly Lexx-like way for him to go, but I doubt it. I’m sure he would turn up again in some form or another, for as I’ve discussed in reviews past, his aura/essence/what have you, seems yoked or bound to the planet as a consequence of his having "tainted" it after Fire and Water were destroyed. That he wound up trapped "in" a TV is, undoubtedly, a consequence of his being unable to traditionally resurrect/reincarnate himself, and could owe itself to the location in which his physical body met its end. Prince died on the Lexx, as we all know. But that was not the first time he sustained mortal injury during season 4. Think back to Stan’s time in the ATF bunker. Prince took a spill that should have shattered his spine like a Ming vase in a monsoon. At best he should have ended up like Kai in the final moments of his life: a quadriplegic wreck clinging to consciousness through no fault of his own as his pulverized organs slowly give out on him one at a time (make no mistake, Kai was a dead man the instant he hit that control pod…what HDS did was merely the final insult, but I digress…), but in all likelihood, hitting at that angle from that height should have killed him. And yet it didn’t. Oh sure, it hurt like all kinds of hell, but unless the beans shot and selectively aired an alternate scene for the express purpose of screwing with me (and how FREAKIN’ AWESOME would that be!), we all saw Prince get up and dust himself off just a moment later, nary a bruise to show for it.

By now you know that I hold to many of the theories put forth by Dennis Valdron. Like him, I believe that Prince was not—nor was he ever—the omniscient, ordained lord and master of the planet Fire that he liked to claim to be. He was just way ahead of the curve. As Darrow put is, "not the zookeeper, merely the smartest monkey in the zoo." In spite of the venue change and obvious alteration/reduction of his powers, that seems to be the case on Earth as well. With the exception of he and Priest, none of the other resurrected souls seem to have the slightest clue about their true origins. Moreover, they boast a full lifetime’s worth of personal histories and memories (refer to Bunny’s rambling, fragmentary sendoff for the most concrete case) that quite obviously predate the destruction of Fire and Water by decades. Now, I know positively bupkiss about metaphysics, so what follows probably won’t make a lick of sense to me, let alone anybody else, but here goes nuthin’:

Knowing full well that the so-called "natural world" is but one layer/level/aspect of the Earth (4.11), consider the possibility of a sentient, Gaia-type entity comprised of the collective human soul/consciousness/call-it-what-you-will (which might help explain Brunnis Sun & Blue Star, but that’s also for another day). Would it then be much of a stretch to suggest that the souls that were drawn to Earth following the destruction of Fire/Water were somehow absorbed or assimilated into this collective consciousness? I have no good answer as to why or how this might have happened, but assuming it did, perhaps the incorporeal entity that called itself Prince was just powerful or savvy enough to cling to his memories while the rest of the souls were given a "reboot." If you recall 4.1, Prince is already a fixture in the White House with—presumably—a history and a track record, so it would seem he was subject to the same assimilatory retrofit as everyone else. The difference being, he was able to resist having his old memories purged. In essence, he got the best of both worlds. He is fully aware—to the debatable degree that he can be—of who he is and where he came from, and he boasts a foolproof back story complete with full knowledge of Earth history, cultures, politics, etc, etc, etc…everything he, in his newly limited state, would need to usurp enough power to really do some damage.

But just as was the case with Fire, all that power seems to come at the cost of being moored to the world in which his essence was dispersed. Looking past the finale, I wonder what might happen if the supposedly "free" Prince entity touched down on another populated world. We’ll probably never know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the supposedly liberated entity found himself similarly yoked to the first world he decided to set foot on. An effect, perhaps, of tainting another collective world consciousness with his aura… or was Prince "designed" with some sort of "fail safe" for lack of a better term, to ensure against the unchecked dissemination of his evil? That’s treading into murkier waters than I care to wade into, except to say that if the Lexx universe(s) boasts a Prime Mover, shklee’s at least passively interested in keeping him on a leash, and while Prince may never fully understand who/what he is, how he came to be, and who/what is preventing him from being all he can be, he boasts one hell of a learning curve.



In other words, to dust off an old axiom that my initial run of Skiffy posts were a little too fond of, the only sure thing about Prince is that nothing is for sure.

…except that regardless of his physical state, he’s apparently prone to stress headaches. Just look at the poor guy cringe as Bunny attempts to high-five the Lexx’s control pedestal without blinding herself. He looks like he’s having a migraine…or for the sake of this show, a cluster headache! Huh? Huh!?! (in all seriousness, those things are no laughing matter…I used to get them in college, and a doctor once told me that according to patient surveys, they hurt worse than childbirth…so guess what tired old argument doesn’t work on me!!!)

By now Prince has got to be wondering if that other organic spaceship full of quirky, sexually tense misfits is in need of a semi-omnipotent evil enigma to terrorize them; but since telephoning his agent is out because he left his phone on his body, he resumes chewing out Lord and Lady Lunkhead, once again accusing them of having engaged in hankypankysufficientotbringtheFirstLadytotheedgeofsexualecstacy (all one word, apparently), which prompts yet another season 4 first: a heart shaped "flashback bubble"(?) that the characters may or may not be able to see…I’m not entirely sure, and it doesn’t look like the actors were all that certain either.

Radon tainted Lexx puke-induced collective aural and visual hallucination aside, Prince—like Kai—immediately concludes that the impromptu Presidential polling session from four episodes back must have inadvertently deposited the key in one of the moth breeders (yet again). And since the disembodied—unlike the dead—are not known for keeping their own counsel to the detriment of their companions, Izzy is quick to order the Cementhead in Chief to get to work vetoing the breeders’ metabolic processes. This time he needn’t worry about losing feeling in his killing arm, because Bunny is with him, and as we all know, aerobics instructors are master assassins (can you folks at home abide another longer-than-average layover? Because I think I just hit upon an idea for a book too awesome to actually exist!)

What happens next is a genuine head-scratcher. With little more than a snap of his fingers and a quick rummage through his hammerspace pockets, Priest dusts off his Yosemite Sam outfit and prepares to do some Burring. Now the guns I understand. As we’ve already discussed, interstellar travel takes time, so after a while you’ll probably run out of trail mix and have to hunt and kill your own vittles. Can’t quite grok the logic behind outfitting his six ounce head with a ten gallon hat, however. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of sunshine in space, and I hear-tell solar radiation plays havoc on felt.

Sweet Second Amendment, look at the pistol packin’ POTUS go! Now while I must admit that framing Priest’s killing spree in the style of a Benny Hill stop motion montage was cheesy even by s4 standards, all was instantly forgiven the second I saw him stop firing after six shots per hand to actually RELOAD HIS GUNS; something neither Clint nor the Duke felt they needed to do. Aces all around, beans. You’ve earned another freebie. Try not to blow this one too!

Meanwhile, speaking of blowing things, Kai is in Texas doing just that. To an opportunity, that is. See, like anyone who has ever taken a slug of suspiciously bitter coffee, Tina secretly records all of her coworkers. After subjecting Kai to the gritty, three hour epic that is Dougall picking his nose and cutting all the bra ads out of the paper, she shares some bizarre, thoroughly indicting footage of a mentally unstable Doc Long, whom she believes to be on the verge of double crossing them all. Kai’s response? (paraphrased): "You and your timid, defenseless friends watch the omnicidal maniac from a distance for the next couple weeks. I’ve got shit to do."

Back upstairs: so did Priest know that moth eyes were bulletproof, or is he—like the rest of us—operating under the assumption that at worst, a searing hot hunk of lead between the ears might just give Bunny a mild case of the sniffles? For that matter, are we to assume that 790 has been tokin’ his sorrows away lo these past twenty-three minutes or so? (or do those glassy, hopelessly bloodshot eyes belong to none other than Jeff H. himself?) Who knows and who cares…the important thing is, Tom Gallant finally gets to get paid again! To the flighty delight of President Priest—whose horrific looking "fish hook" scar I never once noticed until this scene—the big bug is back!

Just in time to vaporize the capitol of Canada!

Thank goodness no one was hurt.

(Anyone out there understand the joke—if there even is one—behind the shot hitting the "Edice Jean Calvin" building? I’m genuinely stumped.)

So the Lexx can’t quite perform like he used to. Well, you know what they say: starve a fever, feed multisystem organ failure. Because really, what are slow, painful death throes but a mere side effect of the munchies? You know, it’s been just a hair over two years since I almost hemorrhaged to death on a bathroom floor, and to this day I distinctly remember thinking, "Man…if I can just get my hands on a roast beef sandwich I won’t have to miss work tomorrow."

But what do I know? (stay thy curséd tongues!) Maybe The Hague is brimming with Vitamin C, or perhaps Lexx is jonesing for an Amsterdam-sized hit of "glaucoma medicine." Whichever the case, the big bug seems hell bend on devouring Holland, and while Madame Maudlin innocently chimes in with her customary "but won’t that kill millions of people," Prince fires right back with his equally customary pinpoint logic. See, they’re not exactly people, per se. They’re Dutch; ergo, they’re used to suffering (I dare say Nigel is almost Pythonesque in his delivery here)

Come and get it!

While the Lexx gorges on hutspot, Heineken, and all the tasty, carbon based meats with feets that used to subsist on such delicacies, our heroes attempt to lay in an intercept course on the one day in recorded history when moths are apparently too slow. All this while Tina manages to hack into the moth’s viewscreen to show Kai the shirtless pencil sketch of him that will forever adorn the back of her trapper keeper before she is apparently set upon and subdued by a frail octogenarian paraplegic in a noisy, cumbersome, outdated electric wheelchair. Oh what fun natural selection will have with these goobers if they ever do manage to uproot and metastasize.

And while we’re on the subject of all things busy and freaky, lemme tell ya ‘bout this guy I know who doesn’t buy into that "not until the third date" bunkum. He’s big, he’s long, he’s constantly hungry, and his propulsion nacelle is completely plated over with a thick, nutritious layer of space-faring space barnacles…from space! Oh, and the Lexx is a bit of a playa too. Regrettably, for once in his stellar tenure, Marty Simon must have been asleep at the wheel. I’d have loved to hear his haunting, atmospheric take on "Bow Chicka Wow Wow." Curse you "road not taken!" I thought we’d seen the last of you…

…but apparently you’re back for good, because not an instant later Kai vows—without the slightest prompting from the others—to personally kill Longbore…and then promptly drops the issue for the rest of the series’ run. Whatever sounds good at the time, eh old sport? Tell me again why you’re not in politics.

Speaking of which, remember what old man Hirschfield said two pages ago about the moth being too slow and too far out to ever ever ever ever ever ever hope to catch up to the Lexx? Fuggedaboutit! No sooner do Prince and Priest convince Bunny to mount the pedestal and try, try again (just thought of a catch phrase for the aforementioned too-awesome-to-exist book), then the good guys come charging onto the bridge, accusatory reprimands a’ blazin’.

As we’ve come to expect, the consequences are swift and pissed-off-Old-Testament-God severe! For his despotism, genocide, and repeated name calling, Prince is sent to the moon with no desert to think about what he’s done (in full spite of the fact that relocating Prince means being alone with Prince, which ultimately leads to listening to Prince, which usually spells doom for everyone but Prince). But it’s sweet, naive Bunny who gets the worst of it. Chasm-headed dupe though she was, her actions booted Ottawa out of the atlases; a mere dressing down just isn’t going to cut it. Hell, a slow death by a thousand small botulism-infested broken Coke bottle cuts is too lenient a punishment for that kind of crime. No, her actions warrant something truly heinous. Suffering beyond what we mere mortals have come to understand as "the pale." Torture that transcends the physical realm.

A night of passion with Stan it is! True, past episodes have shown that you can, in fact, cough up the key willingly (either that or Thodin and the Thodettes were into some big time second chakra type stuff), but nobody in his—or her!—right mind is about to tell Bunny that. And death…well hell, that’s just letting her get off easy.

If only it were that easy for the self-appointed Tingle King. I feel your pain, buddy…trying to hit the right combination of buttons in the right order in the right amount of time without dozing off or saying something along the lines of, "You know, you remind me of my mother with that hairdo." It’s why I missed out on a competitive Simon scholarship, and it’s why Xev has no choice but to flick the sassy switch, bench the menfolk, and take matters into her own…okay, we don’t really see what she uses, but I think it’s safe to say that if deviantART had been up and running during season 4’s initial broadcast, the sheer volume of educated guesses would have caused its server to rupture. You’d think the fellas—who are banished all of three feet from the launch pad—would be hastily scribbling down a few notes (…okay, Stan would be scribbling notes…Priest—if his quickie in the corridor with Bunny was any indication—should be the highest paid, most requested lecturer on Earth), but they don’t seem to think they have anything to learn, and are content to huddle around one of the Lexx’s many quivering keyholes, fidgeting and elbowing to try and get a better look. It’s as if Flounder from Animal House grew old and cloned himself. Except Flounder was never known for being all that quick on his feet. Stan, on the other hand, launches into a pursuit angle and lays out just in time to make a game saving interception. Looks like somebody’s going to Disney World!

Oh, right. Orlando’s a Crater. Dollywood it is, then!

 

You know, for whatever reason, this episode seemed to just shoot by. Maybe it’s because many of the scenes seemed a little longer than usual, or perhaps it’s because the main characters weren’t really given much to do for most of the forty-eight minutes (Priest and Bunny practically monopolized the middle portion of the ep). Whichever the case, it wasn’t a classic, but it definitely served its purpose, which was to essentially wave an ammonia cap under the status quo’s nose following a fun but meandering three episode departure from the main couple of story arcs. Not to say that’s all it had going for it, however, because like 769 before it, this easily forgettable outing planted more than a few long term seeds that will sprout and bear acidic mutant fruit before all is said and done. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I for one will never be able to listen to that awesome (and underplayed!) Shaman’s Harvest song Dragonfly in the same way again.

As I said, the Priest/Bunny/PTV triumvirate stole the show this outing. Rolf Kanies must have been having the time of his life filming Reggie’s Last Stand, Patty Z was on the mark yet again as everyone’s favorite lovable bubblehead (it’s a shame Christopher Nolan has apparently retired the Joker from future sequels, because I think she would make a dynamite Harley Quinn…though I think it would be even funnier to see her play something like a no-nonsense nuclear physicist, just to goose our perceptions), and Nigel—who could snare and keep our attention by merely sitting and reading his grocery list—left me with the impression that ol’ Izzy might actually be one helluva fun drunk! It was what it was (strange), and it did what it does (made us laugh, made us think, made us hope against hope that Xev performs more prolonged handstands in the future).

Now break out your eyeblack, athletic supporters, and hastily forged parental permission slips…it’s game time!

 

Cheery bye.



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 Posted: Fri Aug 27th, 2010 06:22 pm

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As always Bilbo I am captivated by your hysterical story telling, either that or it's gas. But anyhoo....I'm really sorry to hear about your book, hang in there cause you got the talent baby, ya got the talent.



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 Posted: Fri Aug 27th, 2010 06:29 pm

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Well done, and great to see you back :)

Heh...trapper keeper.



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 Posted: Sat Aug 28th, 2010 12:50 am

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Hey keep plugging away at that book thing, Bilbo, it took Laurel K Hamilton 2 years to get her first book sold and she's now on book 15, and all have been in the top 10 NY times bestsellers. And she just writes about vampires and werewolves !!!

:cat01:



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 Posted: Sun Aug 29th, 2010 01:31 am

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BTW, that reminds me, did you ever review Eating Pattern? I must have missed that one. I can imagine your philosophy behind the whole cannibal thing, and Rutger Hauer's 'disturbing' performances, both on and off set...ahem. :c030a:



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 Posted: Sun Aug 29th, 2010 09:23 am

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Waaaaay back in the day.  Skiffy aired the movies for what I believe was the final time, and I posted a mopey, sympathy-fishing rant about how I'd missed the first two.  Wouldn't ya know it, a few days later our old pal Dgrequeen sent me VHS copies of all four.  Since I could watch them at my leisure, that ushered in the era of the ridiculously long reviews!

I'm sure I paid homage to Rutgar Hauer's performance...but I wasn't aware of any off-screen antics.  Old Roy-Boy a bit of a cut-up, is he?



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 Posted: Mon Aug 30th, 2010 03:13 pm

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Let's just say the crew mentioned his 'unusual' demeanor and incoherence was not acting...

:drink4:



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 Posted: Fri Sep 10th, 2010 01:24 am

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Standard disclaimer here.

This episode has Lexx mating. That is a pretty significant thing for me to forget. I'll have to have a marathon season 4 viewing some time, because there is so much I don't remember.

There is also, the apparent death of Tina... cry.

Reading your review, I kept looking at the episode trying to see what you were referring to. Xev's hand bag that looks like it's made from a cow's stomach, what's that? Oh, you mean the flesh flask.

I wish I had found Tina's drawing of shirtless Kai. Sigh... is it really there?

I'll have to see your other remarks about lexx cosmology. I agree, I don't follow what it would mean that the beings from fire and water are embodied on earth, and their memory of their past varies, and that they arrive in current times (...). It's as if it has ANALOGY stamped on it (like if a food product had FOOD PRODUCT stamped on it, in red letters).

Also, I don't know what the Edice Jean Calvin building is...:

candian toal regulation commission
le commission de la regulation totale
edice jean calvin building
CTRC  protecting canadians from themselves

The CTRC is the canadian television and radio commission, probably.

I love how there is a TRS-80 in Tina n' Dougall's lab.

Bunny's disgusted face when Stan is bringing her to the height of sexual gratification is priceless.

And, of course, bunny and xev passing the key to each other, back and forth... how did I not remember that?

Also, I share your suspicion that Prince is not a deity, but sort of a low ranking affiliate.

Last edited on Fri Sep 10th, 2010 01:43 am by Varrtan



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