Desperate Housewives

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The Crunk, The Junk & The May-December Funk
In a hurry? Read the recaplet for a nutshell description!

Somehow Susan taking Paige to the park for a half-hour involves Lynette tying Susan's shoes for her and making sure all the necessities are involved. Again, I must ask how putting your child in Susan's hands is not only foolhardy but, as we see, pretty much a duplication (if not exponential increase) of effort. Lynette heads upstairs to cry over the onesies that Paige has outgrown, which I guess was her plan all along, and Tom helpfully suggests starving their daughter until she fits back into the clothes of a much younger woman. Because that works so well for Teri Hatcher.

Bored of talking about their children or anything besides his chronic inability to find gainful employment, Tom Scavo tosses his wife manfully to the nursery floor -- "In front of Peter Pan?" she asks, and "He had to grow up sometime," Tom answers -- so they can have some sex. For the first time in the history of this show, though, it will not result in Lynette shitting out more ginger spice thanks our little friend Tubal Ligation. (Did we know that? Was this during the five-year jump?) I've always thought the actor of Tom was a very attractive man, but for some reason the concept of Tom Scavo fucking? Still makes me want to hurl.

And yeah, my innocence is less endangered than Peter Pan's. But you know whose isn't? That eternal innocent Susan Delfino, whose goldfish brain rediscovers sex only when it's happening. Having misplaced Paige, or a toy, or her mind, somewhere between this paragraph and the one directly above, Susan comes bumbling into the Scavo sex and screams, "I forgot Paige's doll! I'll tell her it's dead!" she screams, and runs off down the stairs and down the street and out of her clothes and into a beartrap and out of the beartrap and into an open-casket funeral for a doll.

Mary Alice starts off on this tangent about broccoli but ends up in this super weird, Monsters Are Due On Maple Street kind of Red Scare Paranoia thing that is, no doubt, the reason Republicans love this show so much. That and the Mexican jokes. "It's a question we all ask ourselves: Do I trust the folks who live next door? Can I count on the woman who lives down the block?"

That is not, Mary Alice, a question or set of questions that "we" all ask ourselves, with any frequency really at all. I understand that, as a murderess and kidnapper and wife of a lunatic and victim of blackmail and chopper-up of toy box-crammed corpses and associate of drug addicts you might think that this is healthy paranoia but it's really not. Not even with Paul Young's spicy self buying up all the property like we're on Park Place do those questions really count. This sort of thinking is how somebody like Bree ends up with guns.

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Desperate Housewives

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