Six Feet Under
The Eye Inside

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Our Bodies, Ourselves

You just can't have Billy without Elton these days, right?

Fade up an attractive young woman, stepping out of an L.A. nightclub to head home for the evening. She's cut straight from the Alan Ball sassy-redhead cloth, and she's soon attracting whistles and catcalls from a group of men loitering nearby. Her face initially betrays just the slightest smile at their obvious attraction, but that soon disappears when they turn the corner to start following her. Because it will be important later on to your capacity for assessing the believability of this scene, here's a random sampling of some of the comments they make as they tail her down a darkened street: "Hey baby, where you going with that ass?" "Slow down, bitch! We just want to have a good time." And, of course, my personal favorite pick-up line: "Bitch, you know it's going to happen." That last one proves to be the final straw, and she darts out into the street to get away from them. As she does, the men suddenly start calling her by name, and reveal themselves to be "friends" who were just "joking" with her. Unfortunately, however, a car soon comes barreling down the street, and despite that fact that its headlights were on full and our young lady friend was wearing lots of reflective shiny black leather, it still manages to smack our hapless victim straight into The Ironically White Title Card of Death. Farewell, Callie Renee Mortimer. And let your death be a lesson to us all: If you simply must have assholes for friends, at least make sure you can identify their voices.

We come back to see the L.A. Gay Men's Chorus, crooning an old jazz standard that's vaguely recognizable even to me. Unlike last week's Gilbert & Sullivan serenade, however, Google wasn't exactly very helpful in identifying the origins of this song. In fact, the first ten search results alone contained links to versions by James Taylor, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, "The Department of Sunshine and Rainbows," and a wholesale muslin canvas supply company located just outside of Dallas. The choir (whoops, "chorus") director, who looks for all the world like a younger, gayer Harry Shearer, delivers a scathing (and frequently both prissy and hilarious) critique of their performance. Young Gay Harry (or "Wailing Smithers," as I like to call him) then dismisses the group, but David is intercepted on his way out by the Little White Sex Dork II: Electric Choraloo, who invites him to a party by promising that "it won't turn into one of those sloppy scenes where everybody ends up naked in the pool and you have to deal with the image of their soggy pubic hair in your mind for the rest of your life." Well, thank God for that. Despite the fact that Foreshadowing is standing right behind them waving a print-out from the Television Without Pity Personals that suggests they'll one day make a perfect choral couple, David declines the invitation, citing the fact that he's "going away" and thus won't be able to attend. The LWSD2 smiles and suggests that they see each other at the next practice instead, and then proceeds to lovingly check out David's ass as he walks away.

And speaking of asses, here comes JP, moaning and groaning and loudly thanking Claire for providing him with an orgasm that he can only describe as "a really great one." Sigh. There are times when I truly hate this job. Then again, I've spent most of this week cheating on Lauren Ambrose with my first recapping love Barbora Kodetova, so I guess I can't complain too much. They're in Claire's room at the Fortress, and when JP asks if "both" of her orgasms were as great as his, I'm inordinately pleased to hear her reply that she had only one, and seemingly can't muster a description of it any stronger than "good." Nothing on this earth is more gratifying to the ego than discovering that your fantasy TV girlfriend's skanky boy-toy isn't anywhere near as good in bed as he thinks he is. JP seeks and receives permission to spend the night, but Claire does warn that he can't use the bathroom because her mom "gets up to pee like five hundred times a night." This, of course, only makes JP need to urinate even more than the expected post-coital bladder pressure might cause, so Claire suggests that he avail himself of the open window, which is precisely what Nate used to do when this was his room. Boy, that Nate sure seems willing to whip it out just about anywhere, doesn't he? Claire does, however, have a simple request: "Try to avoid the avocado tree, because we eat those." Heh. Viewers across America lovingly check out JP's naked ass as he walks to the window, but I'm too busy wondering what's up with this whole Season of Scatology vibe we've got going this year to really notice.

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Six Feet Under

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