X-Files

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Have you recovered from the finale yet? Hangover gone? Horrible, heart-wrenching bitterness fading? Little puddles of plastic vomit cleaned up yet? Oh, wait. That was my post-finale extravaganza. I'm thinking about checking my action figures into Action Figure Rehab, because when they came to after passing out in the middle of the finale and realized that they missed the very end, they started drinking again. And when I eventually showed them the final, schmoopy, answer-less coda? They started chugging it right out of the bottle. I think they've made up, though. I overheard the Mulder say something about "luuuurving" the Scully and I think I heard her tell him that she wants to lick his sideburns right off, even if they do leave a plastic aftertaste in her mouth. Right now, the Scully is wandering around the bookshelf with an empty single-serving package of creamer balanced on her head, sing-songing something about being free at last. They've locked the Britney Spears into a makeshift jail (formerly known as Mulder's Shoe Box Office), but they let her out every ten minutes to regale them with song. And how am I spending my summer, you ask? I have to go into the office and write about [boring subject matter removed to keep me from getting fired in case my boss is reading this and suspects that the Word documents I'm working on at the office are not actually about said boring subject, due to the large number of "Doggett"s and "Scully"s and "holy shit"s in them].

Rain pours down onto a ramshackle old farmhouse. It's the middle of the night, of course, because I can't think of a single episode of this show that didn't start in the middle of the night. (Don't email me a comprehensive list, I'm sort of exaggerating.) Inside the house, people yell. We pan on in, although it's almost too dark for me to see anything. I forgot how dimly lit this show used to be. Seriously, I can't see anything. Except the creature on the dining-room table, which appears to be giving birth to...um, something. A deformed hand reaches into a dirty bowl of primitive tools, taking out a filthy fork. Two...um, individuals lean over the person on the table. She's screaming in agony. Then, a weak cry fills the air. The umbilical cord is cut. The mother stops yelling and starts whimpering.

The infantile yelping continues as three men walk out on the porch in the rain. A young Mark Snow enthusiastically presses the "Ominous Inbred Baby Killer" button on his Casio. "This show is better than Starsky and Hutch!" he chirps to himself in the studio. Ah, we were so young once, Mark and I. So young. So naïve. The men walk through the yard and into a field, where one of them digs a rather shallow grave. One of them awkwardly pats the bundle, from which a deformed hand pokes. The last man sort of keens up at the sky. The lightning snaps, vaguely illuminating the three of them. And, man, are they ugly. I think they move beyond "ugly" to "oogly." They might even be "foogly." Anyway, the ugly dudes bury the baby alive. Yeah, remember when this show was creepy and hardcore and didn't hesitate to bury babies alive? Now, they just farm them out to innocent couples who have no idea that they're going to be made part of a slave race to the alien masters in 2012, if they aren't killed when weird guys with bumpy necks come to steal their magic kid around 2005.

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X-Files

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