Six Feet Under
In Place Of Anger

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Aaron: C+ | Grade It Now!
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The Naked And The Dead

Imagine, if you will, what the world might have been like had the following convorsation taken place in Gerald Levin's office a few years back…

Alan Ball: I'm sorry, but you want me to cast who?
John Hughes: Here's the list.
Alan Ball: All right. Let's see here…Emilio Estevez as Nate, Anthony Michael Hall as David, Molly Ringwald as Claire, yeah, I can see that. Hmmm. Ally Sheedy as Ruth?
Judd Nelson: That'll make more sense later in the recap.
Alan Ball: Uh, okay. Now, Mare Winningham as the wife of the DGDJ, sure. Same with Andrew McCarthy as the Little White Sex Dork and Demi Moore as Brenda, but what about Keith?
John Hughes: Um, have you ever seen my movies?
Alan Ball: Yeah. Why?
Molly Ringwald: Dude, if they were any whiter, they'd be Birth of a Nation.
Alan Ball: Good point.
John Hughes: I was thinking maybe Judd here for Keith. He does angry pretty well. Or maybe even Mary Stuart Masterson.
Alan Ball: Yeah. I don't know about this.

So would you still be watching? Would HBO have even given it the green light in the first place? Would I still be awake at this ungodly early hour on a Sunday morning writing a recap? All these questions and more may or may not get answered today, but before we go any further, here's another one of those opening-credit dance sensations that's been sweeping of late the entire TWoP nation. Incidentally, this one goes out as a long-distance dedication to Ellen in Boston, as she's yet another of my old high school relations.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Boop boop boop boop boop boop. Ding! Boop boop boop boop boop boop. Ding! Boop Bop Boop Bop. Bop Bop Boop Boop Boop Bop Bop! Boobeedoobee bop. Boobeedoobee. Boobeedoobee boo. Boobeedoobee boo. Boobeedeeboo. Boobeedeeboo. Boobeedeeboobeedoobeedoobee dop. Chingy ching ching ching chingy ching. Ding! Boop boop boop boop boop boop. Ding! Boop boop boop boop boop boop. Bwop Bwop Bwop Bwop Bwop TWoP. BWONG!! Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!! Boobeedoobee bop. Boobeedoobee. Boobeedoobee boo. Boobeedoobee boo. Boobeedoobee. Boobeedoobee. Boobeedeeboobeedoobeedoobee dop. Chingy ching ching ching chingy ching. Ding! Boop boop boop boop boop boop. Ding! Boop boop boop boop boop boooooooooop. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Fade up on a yacht, cruising through the polluted waters of L.A. harbor. There's some blah blah babblecakes from a pair of extras standing on the upper deck of the S.S. Andrea Boria, and then some random drunken guy appears. He bitches about corporate downsizing for way longer than I care to listen, and then falls over the railing to his death. Since this scene featured no gags, no gimmicks, and bore (get it?) a disturbing resemblance to a death scene from Dawson's Creek, I think the less said about it, the better. Farewell, Matthew Heath Collins. Next time, try beating the writers.

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