No, seriously. We get it, Opening Death Sequence. We know that you're all about the big fake-out, the zig when we think you're going to zag, the observation that even our own fragile mortalities are most entertainingly ripped away from us to the sound of the grim reaper pulling his hand away from what seemed an inevitable handshake but instead becomes the reaper smoothing the hair on the side of his head and yelling, "PSYCH!" We know that even the most precarious series of activities (hot tub, tequila, fat man sex, etc.) will eventually undercut our expectations for the scene. We know we know we know. So you don't have to pull the rug out from under us every week, okay? I look forward to this opening segment finally cannibalizing itself to the point where one caricature looks at another and observes among a series of unlikely near-death moments, "Man, this whole thing is turning into, like, a bad Six Feet Under opening." At which point, I will rise from my couch, stride over to my window, and leap through it, leaving an exact silhouette shape of myself behind, Looney Tunes-style. My fall will be broken by a woman wheeling a grocery cart, who will collapse to the ground below me, surprised but unharmed. The two of us will attract the attention of a passing motorist, who will watch us enacting our slapstick stunt and take his eyes momentarily off the road. When he looks back, we will note that he is about to strike a squirrel who has wandered in front of his car, so he'll swerve madly and barely miss hitting a crossing guard and a group of second graders who are just beginning to cross the street. Once safely on the other side of the street, one of the second graders will drop his lunch. Another child will pick it up and hand it to the crossing guard, who will instantly lapse into anaphylactic shock and die from a peanut allergy. The fucking end.
Anyway, on to the actual show.
A young girl pets an adorable kitten. From seeming nowhere, an axe hurls itself into the frame and lodges itself in the child's back.
No, I'm kidding again. But don't tell me it's not possible.
The sounds of it's-not-murder screaming come from somewhere off-camera as we pan across a large outdoor swimming pool. Because this show is not to be taken the slightest bit seriously anymore ever, the crew must have found it simply hilarious that the prop department found a tiny floating life preserver coaster and placed a mixed drink in a plastic cup floating on top of it. The sound of screaming (my screaming, their screaming, everyone screaming for ice cream-ing) grows louder as we pan toward the origin of the sound. Inside an adjoining hot tub, we find dirty, dirty coitus. A large bottle of what I guess is moonshine (because it has no label) or caramel (because, fat guy) sits on the ledge of the hot tub, while inside it said gentleman grunts on top of a shrieking female. Lucky, we've checked in right near the end -- OF HER LIFE! -- and also or their dirty, godless love. He rolls off of her and she slaps her tingling legs awake again, while he breathes heavily -- BECAUSE HE'S ABOUT TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK! -- and tells her, "You went a little Showgirls on me there. Not that I'm complaining." Why, is there some kind of hot tub ombudsman who we can lodge formal complaints to on behalf of the searing pain currently jetting around my cornea? Because I'd be interested in writing some kind of strongly worded letter, if possible, provided I didn't slip on the pencil and accidentally jab it into my wrist, causing me to die of lead poisoning before I even got to the post office.