Roswell
Interruptus

Episode Report Card
Djb: D+ | Grade It Now!
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Too many khooks in the khitchen

Kitchen. Again. Kyle stews shortly until Michael and Max enter to hear Kyle rant, "I can't believe she didn't tell you. About Khivar." Max and Michael exchange worried glances, and Kyle asks even more bitterly, "What, did I say his name wrong?" Heh. The one good line makes all the bad lines look so, so very much worse. Kyle continues on that Khivar was dancing with Isabel, and that he looks like "a human." Michael: Worried. Max: Furtive. Me: Dammit, my plane is practically taxiing right now and we're still hanging out before the opening credits here.

Opening credits: Hey, Ringo? I thought I told you to tell that bitch to chill.

Crashdown. Liz, Maria, Max, Michael, and Kyle sit around a video camera and watch the wedding they attended six minutes earlier. They watch as Khivar khuts in on Michael, and they freeze the frame at Isabel's you-are-the-star-of-my-liquid-dreams moment of recognition. Michael asks, "How can that be him?" as Maria makes an "ooh la la" face that indicates she'll be seeing him in her own Celine Dreams shortly. Michael gives her a jealous glance, and she retorts with an "I'm just sayin'" shout-out to the MBTV community at large. Kyle inquires of the group, "Now, the way I see it, most people watching this show are doing so on a dare. What quickie backstory can you offer these media bottomfeeders?" He may have phrased it somewhat more elegantly, but Max obliges in answering my exact question regardless: "In our other life, Khivar was our enemy. He was trying to take over my throne. Isabel fell in love with him and helped him overtake us. It was a bloodbath. We were all killed, including Isabel." Kyle glares down at Max, silently begging him to put down his ninety-sided Dungeons & Dragons die and just tell the freakin' story, but Max keeps the dork-o-babble knob turned way, way up to eleven: "Our genetic material was mixed with human DNA, and we were sent here." Kyle tries to lighten the mood by asking, "Nothing's ever simple with you people, is it?" Fleh. I'm not any more endeared to a script when the writer starts to make fun of himself just for realizing how much it sucks. Note to "David" "Simkins" and his challenged sense of self-parody. Max and Michael believe there is only one solution; they have to go to La Jolla. Michael waves a hand over what appears to be some "past due" bills ('cause he's a slacker, see), turning them into two first-class tickets to La Jolla. I won't even go into a rant about how many plotlines in show history could have been rendered totally moot with the simple waving of a hand we just saw. If they can turn bills into plane tickets, why not turn an ugly wedding dress into a pretty wedding dress? Why not turn those bills into cash with which to pay those bills? How about if they can turn ketchup into mustard, why on earth not turn blood into a different kind of blood? Oh, damn. I've gone and given the speech again, haven't I? Anyway, they're going to La Jolla. To khill Khivar. 'Til he khant be khilled no more.

I know we're in La Jolla, California because of the MS Word Alien Bold subtitled announcement that we're in "La Jolla, California." A cab pulls up to a very Club Med-ish resort, and out jump a smiley Isabel and Jesse, free from care and obligation and, soon, pesky virginity. Thank goodness for vows. But not all is well at Khlub Khivar, for Isabel thinks she spies the scarlet-collared one kharrying a bag and walking just inches away from her. But a car pulls up between them, and when it passes, Isabel realizes that it wasn't Khivar at all. Tease me, Khivar! Tease us all, you teasy teaser! Jesse smarms up behind a distracted Isabel, all hands, and asks her if she's okay. She's "tired," which bodes well for the numerous non-sex-oriented activities one can enjoy on a honeymoon. Jesse, in the mood for love, suggests that they check in and "slip into something a little more married." I have no idea what that means, but I'm still calling for a planet-wide moratorium on the expression "slip into something…" due to the high level of unsexyness it always inspires in me. It's got all of the sweet-talking cache of someone asking me if I wanted to "make whoopie." Which no one has done. But do feel free. I am home, with not a heck of a lot going on at the moment.

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Roswell

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