Six Feet Under
A Private Life

Episode Report Card
admin: A | Grade It Now!
Yea, though he walk through the valley of the shadow of death

Season-ending shout-outs, in no particular order, to the following people: Sars, Wing, Glark, Gustave, Jessica, Strega, Camper, Shack, Pooh, Rona, The Owl, The Gaylord, Rachel, Rachael, Marc, and everyone else I'm forgetting. Also Rick and Larry, because I know you're reading, and because you're better writers than I am. Also, because it apparently just can't be said often enough -- marry me, Lauren.

David Chase: You believe this shit? He wastes like half a page naming names, and we don't even get like a "mad props" or anything. Meanwhile, if it weren't for us condescending to stop by and chat every now and then, this guy would probably be writing for the WB Scoop.
Alan Ball: Actually, I just assumed we were The Owl and The Gaylord.
David Chase: Why would I be an owl?
Alan Ball: And just what makes you think I'd be The Gaylord?
David Chase: Grace Under Fire.
Alan Ball: Oh. Right.
David Chase: Anyway, Fontana and I are headed over to Tom Hanks's place later for the time-slot handover ceremony. You wanna come?
Alan Ball: No thanks. I've already been from the Earth to the moon with that guy once. Actually twice, in fact. I don't need to do it again.
Aaron: Actually, I'm going to pass on that one too, guys.
Alan Ball: Oh, please. Like anyone even cares what you do.

Fade up on a young gay couple cavorting at an ATM. They're hugging, withdrawing money, and making "size doesn't matter" jokes about each other's balances. And while I object to PDA (regardless of gender) on general principles alone, it's worth noting that they're not really doing anything untoward or obnoxious. Not, of course, that they deserve to be brutally beaten and killed even if they were, but you know what I mean. Anyway, two muscle-bound morons show up in a Trans Am, which is of course the official international car of muscle-bound morons everywhere. As a personal favor to Sars, I'll just add that Michael Knight is the exception that proves the rule. The muscular morons confront the cavorting couple, and bigotry and violence quickly ensue. One of the young men gets away, but after the other makes an ill-fated decision to attempt to retrieve his dropped cell phone, the muscular morons catch up to him. They kick him and beat him with a lead pipe, before finally running off and leaving his body in an empty parking lot. Farewell, Marcus Foster Jr. We hardly knew ye.

Despite the continuing, unexplained absence of The Ironic Musical Detachment Fairy, The Ironic Segue Fairy cuts us straight from The Ironically White Title Card Of Death to a close-up of Rico's newborn son. As he hands the baby over to a gushing Nate, he instructs him not to "hold him like he's a football." Is that supposed to be a Sports Night joke? "It's more like you're carrying a watermelon," continues Rico, and I'd be willing bet that's a set-up for a future embalming-MacGyver joke. Behind them, David enters, just in time to hear Ruth assert that even though the baby looks just like his father, he'll probably "grow out of it." That's probably also a meta-comment about Rico's inevitable redemption from the depths of his soon-to-revealed homophobia, but we'll talk more about that later. David stands outside the doorway, making any excuse he can to avoid holding the baby himself. Ruth, meanwhile, overshares that Nate was "a very gassy baby," before moving on to more meta-mockery by snarking that David "hardly even made a peep." Not to be outdone in the subtext sweepstakes, Rico asks Nate and David when they're going to "grow up and make this woman a grandmami." David dodges the question, much to Nate's delight, and the scene ends.

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Six Feet Under




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