Alias
The Counteragent

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Erin: B | Grade It Now!
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Who? What? Where? Whyeeeeee?

Brit Girl goes on to tell Will that the questions on the list Will gave her weren't on the test in 1982. Will's all, are you sure? Brit Girl's all, uh, yeah, this ridiculously difficult spatial relationship question? The ones about why rainbows occur and why you have to be standing behind the sun to see them? Along with all of the television viewers, Will's all, whuh? Brit Girl's all, not on there, dude. Sorry. What's this all about anyway? Oh, and for the record, Brit Girl's hair and makeup are much better now than they were seven or eight eps ago, so she's probably had a makeover between then and now. At least this time she's not holding some article of food, thereby making the correlation that she EATS and therefore is FAT and UNATTRACTIVE TO WILL.

Plane Of Father-Daughter Missions And James Bond-Inspired Gadgetry. Spy Daddy's handing over a rather gargantuan pair of boots that he explains are propulsion boots. "You can do five knots with them," he continues. "We're dropping you a hundred yards offshore. You should be at the pier in under two minutes." Okay, while I'm still contemplating the fact that something like "propulsion boots" actually exist, Spy Daddy whips out a Heckler & Koch P-11 underwater pistol that holds five rounds of tranquilizer darts. You know, because Syd doesn't KILL people; other people KILL people.

I'm serious here. I really want to know what kind of quality drugs the writers have stashed behind their laptops. Because, like, I can only come up with fantastical items like "propulsion boots" when I'm flying high on a combo of PCP, ether, and Vicks VapoRub. I just picture the writers sitting around this big conference room with all their laptops, the smell of stale deodorant and rotting pizza permeating the air, trying to come up with little gadgets that are cool enough to make us all go, "Oooooh...wish I had THAT!" and yet just normal enough to make an idiot like me go to Google and look them up. And no, propulsion boots do NOT exist. And yes, I have the twenty-five minutes lost to Google searches to prove it.

Paldinski, Estonia. Home Of Blood Sausage, Liquors Of Unknown Origins, And Nuns Of An Untouchable Quality. We open up on a little rubberized version of Syd -- oops! I mean, Syd herself, of course, wearing the handy propulsion boots as she zooms through Estonian enemy waters. By the way, Estonia? Not so much "enemy" as "close to Finland and Latvia." You're more likely to run into winding cobblestone streets and brightly painted houses than scary Russian intelligence agents with big guns. But, you know, whatever.

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Alias

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