Yes, my cold is still present and accounted for. No, I'm not still on medication. Yes, I've switched to vodka. No, not with tonic or soda. Yes, with orange juice, you know, for the vitamin C and all. No, this recap probably won't be as detailed as the last one. Yes, Hank4 sucks ass. No, you may not know who Hank4 is. No, I don't care. No, I hope he doesn't live through the week. Yes, I may be the one who kills him.
In the little prequel to the opening credits, we see poor divorce-ridden Allie's mum bitching about how Allie's not really going after the Ivy League, the beautiful-yet-misunderstood-overachieving Anna fending off her Princeton-pushing off-screen mother, the financial-aid-seeking-yet-underachieving-bad-haircut-having Pablo listening as a counselor tells him to get on the ball, and everyone's favorite doormat-with-astonishingly healthy teeth, Saran-Wrap, going on about how impending separation from Robby the Roadster is scaring the shit outta her.
Off-screen during the black-n-white expo screen, Puck Lite's sad excuse for a father is berating him about shooting paintball guns off in the backyard, and Puck Lite is arguing that they're biodegradable and therefore, you know, cool and stuff. Daddy Lite doesn't give a damn, because they're all over the bloody backyard and this makes him a mite klimpy (tm Sandman).
Fade in to Puck Lite pointing his paintgun at his parents and stating, "Say what a nice child I am. On camera. Now!" Mama Lite succinctly and sweetly says, "You're a jerk." Daddy Lite says, "What, at pain of death? Are you kidding?" And they're both sitting at the kitchen table with full beers, smoking cigarettes. And THEY'RE bitching about HIM? It's not even dark outside and these two fuck-its are hanging out in their kitchen practically BEGGING me to go all social services on their asses. Shoot them, Morgan. SHOOT THEM NOW. I'll even provide you with an airtight alibi, dude. Seriously.
"I can't lie," says Papa Puck, "in front of the camera." "Don't you wanna have some fun in your life?" "I'm looking forward to having fun after you're gone," says Father of the Year. "Asshole," says Mother of the Year. After Puck Lite's stepped out, Daddy Lite, face in palm, articulately says, "Um." Mama Lite says, "And Job thought he had it bad." What? What'd she just say? Job had to endure the wrath of a God that purportedly loved him, not an intense and scattered kid with ADD and an overactive mouth. Shut up, Mama Lite, before I come over there and kick your beer-swilling ASS. I may kill her before I kill Hank4. ["Seriously. My parents sat around drinkin' and smokin' in the kitchen all the time but at least they thought we were the greatest things since sliced bread. The hell?" -- Sars]