Six Feet Under
Coming And Going

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Djb: B- | Grade It Now!
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Large And In Sarge

"Love your enemy," preaches Father Gay at the big church. I can't remember the pastor's name. You know the one. "Turn the other cheek." Well, if there's one tenet of the good Christian spirit David wholeheartedly embraces, that'd be it. He steps into the aisle like he's about to launch into a full-scale Madeline Kahn impersonation and sit on some parishioner's lap while he croons "I'm tired," but instead chooses to speak more about Christ's message. Whatever. I thought this was an alternative church. ["No, this is Ruth's church. The minister at Keith and David's openly gay-friendly church is a lady." -- Wing Chun] Father Gay tells a story I've never heard about Jesus and Peter, and Peter forgiving Peter's brother seven times. But then, see, Jesus said, "'Not seven times, but seventy times seven.' Whoa! Do the math!" The answer is one million. And Christ never said "Whoa." It's in the Constitution.

Just like that, Jimmy Felon launches into the frame and takes the butt of his gun to Pastor Gay's face because this isn't actually happening and everybody totally knows it. Pastor Gay collapses because relying on the strength of the Lord might be as unreliable a concept as George suspected it was, as Jimmy Felon kicks the shit out of him and yells something about his being a hypocrite. As the chase music rages (indicating that the Fishers are totally about to run into a roadblock), David launches to the front of the church and takes down Jimmy with a total body check. He wrestles the gun from his imaginary adversary figment's hands, shoves the gun in his mouth, and growls, "How does it feel?" It feels FAKE. So get on with it. Ruth looks over at David with a look of concern because he's the first Christian whose mind has ever wandered while sitting in church. He mumbles the word "heartburn" and runs off to calm his stomach with a heaping hot bolt of lime-flavored vinegar.

"See" Nate "Run. Run, Nate, Run" Fisher...well, runs up to his house, not nearly sweaty enough for what we usually hear from him is three miles. I guess pot smoking and dog-talking aren't as aerobic as this show would once have liked us to believe. He notes the car of the urban legend named James Dubois Marshall, peeking in the passenger side window and observing (though not nearly well enough), "Nice ride." And even if he weren't dead (and he is, Nate), wouldn't you be a little more sensitive in your speech to a stranger in the driveway of a funeral home? It's not like he's a friend of the family, so it's obvious that he's there in some extremely death-oriented capacity. Nate pauses a second, leans into the car, and sighs, "Goddammit." Dead people. Always fucking up his day as an undertaker.

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Six Feet Under

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