ER
A Saint in the City

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A Saint in the City

Wherever Dr. Susan "I Need Another Job" Lewis is, it's dark. The lights are off. She's exiting the room of an apparent chronic masturbator who, she says, needs to use lotion or else "he's literally going to jerk it off." Her parents must be so proud. Jerry says that the paramedics are bringing in a fall victim; she brays that he needs to call the idiots in Engineering to come fix the lights. On cue, the lights flicker back on, and Susan rolls her eyes. Suddenly, a curly-haired blonde bursts in and screams, "Nobody panic!" Thanks for that. Because I was totally about to freak out about the ER being too quiet. Susan makes a crack about the nuts coming out when the sun goes down, and the double meaning to that last sentence just had me giggling so hard that I had to stop typing for five minutes. I am so easy. Which bodes poorly for the show, given that it doesn't really entertain me nearly as much. Dr. Kerry "Weavus? What Weavus?" Weaver appears next to Susan, trying to sound totally controlled but looking quite tense. "Are we ready for him?" she asks. "Who?" Susan asks. After a dramatic pause, Kerry intones, "The alderman." Pause again. People, he's not the president. He's not a mob leader. He's not even the president of the local chapter of the NAACP, here to investigate why men of color here are relegated to being either doormats (Gallant) or assbags (Pratt). No, he's just a city councilman. Bully for him, and all, but he's not so important that I'd let him eat cookies in bed without sharing.

The paramedics burst in with the alderman on a gurney, accompanied by the same freaked-out blonde. The press is clamoring to get inside, and failing. The alderman is John Bright, and he took an eight-foot fall off a stage. "It was a dais," his assistant corrects. Well, that changes everything. Weaver muscles her way up to Bright's head and coos, "Alderman, it's an honor to have you here." Such an honor that he can cure the grief of a miscarriage. Maybe he's some kind of magic alderman. Maybe, if he'd been here last week, he could've pulled another Weavus out of a hat. Speaking of, I'm really going to miss the Weavus. I feel like somehow, the Weavus was meant to come to us as the counteragent to Rex the Wonder Preemie -- sort of a Battle of the Plastic Fetuses, or little matching angel and devil babies to perch on patients' shoulders. I guess that dream will never be.

Unloading Alderman Bright into a room, Weaver and Susan call for all the usual tests. "His chest is clear," Susan assesses. "Chest is clear," repeats the crazy assistant. She's standing behind Bright's head barking into a cell phone and leaning over and basically getting in everyone's way, but no one's reprimanding her for this, because she's the magic alderman's assistant, and no, she doesn't have to wear gold lamé and heels unless they're at a council meeting, so stop bugging her. "Jennifer, honey, try to breathe," the alderman sighs. Susan politely tells her that she can't use her cell phone in the hospital. Finally! Do TPTB read the boards? Because nobody issued the same warning to Abby when she was yakking away in the middle of a trauma. Maybe the rules are different for haggard nurses with bad dye jobs. "Alderman, have you been drinking?" Susan asks him. "You don't have to answer that, sir," Kerry interrupts immediately, winning a surprised glare from Susan. Kerry is such a whore. I love it. It's the other side of her character that we've been missing lately: the prostitute to politics. Bright pleasantly answers that he's been "on the program" for two years now, so no, he wasn't blowing the froth off any cold ones this fair night. "Don't worry, sir, you're in the finest hospital in Chicago," simpers Weaver. And of course, just as the gushingly overdone reassurance drips from her mouth, the lights shut off. Kerry nonchalantly whips out a pen light. "Okay!" she chirps, trying to pretend nothing's wrong as Susan gawks at her. The credits roll as we wonder how Sandy reacted to news of the miscarriage, and how Weaver broke it to her, and why everyone's acting like the Weavus was a figment of our imagination. Maybe the writers should stop writing fat, overwrought, overplanned scripts that have to be slashed, and instead concentrate on telling just a handful of stories and telling them well.

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