Allie's mom is fucked up. Allie is fucked up.
End of fucking story.
I honestly, really, want to recap this entire conversation, but I know, deep down in my heart, that it would take another four pages to completely do it justice and, since it's 12:21 a.m. on Tuesday and Wedge is in the other room shouting, "DUDE! It's just a show! Get in here!" I can't get into it right now. I just can't. Not to mention the fact that I think their entire battle of wills is completely fucking irritating.
"I think when we go through those periods of not talking," says Allie in a VO, "finally, when we talk, we're like, 'I love you.'" Then Allie and her mother hug in a completely different time period. I know it's a different time period because Allie and her mother are no longer in the Italian restaurant but are in their apartment, and Allie's mother is wearing a baseball cap. My heartfelt thanks to the producers for whipping the Bunim-Murray rulebook out of their closet and bringing us into the world of "there is no time, only Bunim-Murray time."
Pueblo lamely smokes in his car. Yes, he lamely smokes. He puts the cigarette in his mouth, barely sucks, and then blows out a piddly little stream of smoke. He is not a real smoker. I know this because I am now smoking what might be my four-hundredth American Spirit of the night. I suck in, I blow out. The stream of smoke that exudes from my lungs is truly amazing. I do not gingerly hold the cigarette. I do not gingerly put it to my lips. I do not gingerly blow out. There is nothing "gingerly" about my smoking. There is everything "gingerly" about Pueblo's smoking. Smoke, dude. SMOKE. Before I have to come over there and thrust my crusty lungs into your face.
"What I want is to be living on my own," says Loser Smoke Boy. "And I'm gonna do whatever I can. And before, I thought I could do that with the Marines. Now, I'm gonna have to deal with my mom and I was so ready to just move out and move on."
Quick. Grab a pylon. We're gonna beat him with it and then stuff his head into it and then leave him on the highway.
Pueblo enters his living room and says something to his mother about having wanted to borrow money from her, but since she didn't trust him, he's offering up his cell phone as collateral. "If I don't return the thirty dollars to you," he says, firmly entrenching himself within my Den of Iniquity, "pawn it and keep the money." Mama Pueblo is having none of it. "Sit down and hear me first!" she demands.