Six Feet Under
The Room

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Aaron: B+ | Grade It Now!
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Give me Lauren or give me death

Alan Ball: Listen, I want to apologize. I think we got off on the wrong foot.
Aaron: I'll say.
Alan Ball: I mean, everyone thought we were dead in the water, but it looks like the show's got some life in it after all, huh?
Aaron: Yeah. You're killing me with the puns over here.
Alan Ball: I know. I can't help it. I just keep coughin' 'em up. By the way, get it? "Coffin"?
Aaron: Oh, I get it. Get it out now, that is.
Alan Ball: And that's another thing. Why you always gotta be so mean?
Aaron: Hey, I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
Alan Ball: Ooh, good one. Is that from the Bible?
Aaron: Ja. Es ist von Deuteronomy.
Alan Ball: En fait, pas vraiment, mais je ne dirai pas.
Aaron: Hey, while we're chatting, do you think you could maybe put in a good word for me with Lauren? If she won't do the interview, you could at least get her to drop the restraining order.
Alan Ball: I doubt it. Those "Marry me, Lauren" billboards really creeped her out.
Aaron: Yeah, I know. But Gustave has interviewed the entire cast of Popular like seventeen million times. I'm getting a little inferiority complex over here.
Alan Ball: Gee, I wonder why.
Aaron: Hey!
Alan Ball: Don't look at me, buddy. I begged them to let Gustave recap this show. But nooooooo. You had to be all, "Look at me! It's my show! It's Sunday nights on HBO! I like to rhyme and repeat myself and make up phony conversations with people! Isn't that clever? Aren't I funny?"
Aaron: Don't make me send Kenny the Corpse over there.
Alan Ball: Shh. The show is about to start.

Reaching deep into his big bag of Visual Metaphors For Death, my new best friend Alan Ball fades up on curtains billowing against an open window. Of course, the de rigueur ironic twist is that it’s actually sunrise, rather than sunset. Pan over to what's really a quite quaint bedroom, where an elderly black man raises himself from the bed, griping about how cold it is. He closes the window, gripes some more, puts on a robe (StR = 43), gripes some more, and then tries to wake his slumbering wife. Gee, does sleep = death? I forget. I'll just mention up front that Gripey Guy is played by Bill Cobbs. I'd use one his movies as the de rigueur ironic nickname, but the guy has been in every movie ever made, so there were too many to choose from. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Although, if you actually bothered to read the threads I linked to above, you might be interested to know that his first film ever was The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3. The theatrical version, even. Anyway, the wife is our latest La Femme Morte de la Semaine, and The Ironically White Title Card of Death ironically laments the passing of one Mildred "Hattie" Effinger Jones. I've decided that the SFU writing staff is almost, but not quite, as good as you guys at coming up with the names. But more on that later.

Meanwhile, over at Brenda's place, Nate's gnarly-haired rectangle head looms before us, reading his book about Brenda in the foreground, while Brenda herself prances around the kitchen behind him. She's babbling on about some annoying client with a lot of dogs, and it's a stream-of-consciousness rant that somehow ends with the line, "It's like being in a live sex-show for Asian businessmen and frat boys." You know, given her evident inability to self-censor, as well as her oft-demonstrated inclination to spark up the dutchies, perhaps I should be calling her Brenda the Blunt. Seeing that Nate is too engrossed in his book to be paying attention, she does what people on TV always do when they see someone isn’t paying attention, and starts spouting all sorts of wild tales. She adds to the sex-show story with a reference to ping-pong balls that I can't even bear to consider re-typing here, and then muses about how funny it would be if she "got some hedge clippers and cut off [his] dick." At this, Nate finally manages to muster up a "What?" and Brenda disgustedly tells him not to read "that shit" in front of her. "I'm at the part with the doll," he says, and suddenly we're watching grainy home-video footage of the young, but still blunt, über-genius being interviewed by an off-camera doctor. Young Brenda claims her doll is angry because the doctor raped her (the doll, not Brenda), and provides a dictionary-perfect definition of rape when asked if she knows what it means. Back in the present, Brenda remains blasé, but Nate thinks it's neato. "It's so cool," he enthuses. "You're obviously doing it to scare him into leaving you alone." Gee, does Brenda ever do that sort of thing? I forget. Anyway, she gives him some spoilers on what happens in the next chapter, and then they pack up and head out to face the day. Incidentally, I have a doll too. His name is Timmy.

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Six Feet Under

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