Roswell
Tess, Lies And Videotape

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Govern Mental

Under a blood-red set, we fade in on Michael "Horses Sweat, Men Perspire, Women Glow, I Reek Like a Sow in a Trough on a Farm on the Surface of the Sun on the Hottest Day of Summer" Guerin hanging around his atypically typical environment at work -- though not so productively, it seems -- at the Crashdown. Holding a pot of coffee and flitting around like she owns the damn place -- oh, wait, I guess she does -- Liz "Putting the 'Ill' Back in 'Vanilla'" Parker approaches the counter and inquires as to whether Max "I Come From a Far Away Bland" Evans would favor another cup. He'd love one. And man, if we aren't off the to the races, plot-wise! Already we've recorded numerous action verbs from every corner of the dictionary (from the verb infinitives "to fade in, to sweat, to glow, to reek like a sow, to hang around, to hold a pot of coffee, to flit, to approach, to inquire"), with no sign of letting up. This wild episode should be bundled in warning labels and not viewed by the infirm, the elderly, or women with unusually weak constitutions. Stop the magic! Let me offa this crazy thing called Roswell! Oy. My heart is in a tumult.

Meanwhile, back in the land of Realitysville, where Roswell remains as tedious as golf on TV or poetry anywhere, Liz refills ("to refill"! Will it not end?) Max's coffee (he's allowed to consume as many cups as he wants without fear of parental rebuke because he's, y'know, thirty) and moves on. Isabel "How the Hell Could I Have Flubbed My Audition for the Part of Nicole Julian so Badly That I Ended Up in THIS Graveyard" Evans sits next to her brother in jaded silence. She wrestles with a seemingly recalcitrant pink twisty straw in nursing her own beverage, perhaps as a method of vicariously experiencing, unable as she is to bond with the rest of her fellow cast on such matters, what exactly it feels like to suck. Hee hee. I made a silly joke. She expresses disgust at Liz and Max's unceasing public ogling of the other's private goodies. And though cursed with a cadaver-esque stiffness to her body language that couldn't invite me to stare at her ass if it had instructions for getting my MBTV show changed to Sports Night tattooed across it, I am nevertheless drawn to it in following Max's southerly, ass-wards gaze as she walks away. Isabel deems said ass-gazing "creepy," just as Porno saunters up as if the word "creepy" had been chanted in three quick iterations, summoning creepy's earthbound manifestation made flesh. Liz, hell-bent on obeying her assigned stage direction of "suspiciously, as if having something to hide," instead offers something more in the way of "attempting to perform a foreign-language dialogue assigned in seventh-grade French class that she's forgotten to memorize." That's just how much her acting has improved in eighteen weeks' grace time. If I have to watch the rest of this scene uninterrupted, I'm going to plunge corn-on-the-cob holders in my eyes. So instead, I'll share the dialogue I had to memorize in my own seventh-grade French class, to indicate what she might as well be saying:

Monsieur A: On va a la plage?
(Translation: Are we going to the beach?)

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Roswell

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