*** Aesthetic spoiler alert: contains occasional plot details. ***
*** Moral spoiler alert: contains regular random explicit thoughts. ***
Some serious metafictional stuff is happening. Is this Show’s advert for Show or is this Show’s show’s advert for Show’s show? << See what I mean? I mean >> I don’t know what I see. Aha! I see now. This: H50h Show (aka Show) proudly presents Savannah Walker’s show (aka show), which features Aisha Tyler taking a thrilling ride with Hawaii’s elite group’s member. While nekkid? Some of us would perhaps appreciate Savannah Walker’s clothesless condition, while all of us would surely appreciate the member’s pantsless condition. I’m inserting this random explicit thought to pass away time while horrendous opening credits of Prairie’s, I mean Savannah’s show, are soiling my screen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for Steppes and Stepperiders, I mean Savannahs, but it’s either that I’m tooo smart or that Steppe’s show is tooo stupid. Ugh. Out and over.
The smartie that I am, I condescendingly watch Steppe being brought on stage on a mobile bed and I think the following: 1) Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway is really about me and I should publish an academic article on this groundbreaking spatiotemporal disruption discovery. 2) I shall refer to Steppe Gazelle henceforth as Stalker, which is shorthand for Savannah Walker. 3) OMG!! A bed! Is my bed-fantasy, though not necessarily bed-room-fantasy, gonna happen? Ooh. I’m sooo exc!ted! << This was an example of mind multitasking. Watch and learn! Continued: >> Nope. Sh!t. No bed-action, chair-action or facechair-action either, what’s on is Stalker simply pacing the stage and hand-talking. I make a little understanding smile: of course, anyone who lays her eyes or any other of her bodily parts on McG starts to flail. Stalker promises it’s gonna be scary and graphic (and fun, says I) and I nod cause I can’t take my eyes of the miserable extras sitting right under the killer sun and cheering would-be-enthusiastically when prompted. Skin cancer attack. Eek.
Something went wrong and we’re watching a documentary. This: The H50hs HQ was opened in 1871, designed by an Australian named Blah Blah in an Italian Renaissance Revival style. Huh. Just now I’m in no mood for McNerd-ing cause I’m in mood for McG-ing. Stalker says the H50hs handle special cases (What a queer coincidence for a special taskforce to handle special cases!?) and the camera slides across Ess, around which Atplenkov’s Angels are gathered as per uge, and zooms on McG, who happens to be handling a special case right now. It’s a glass weapons showcase (Not weapons out of glass, but a showcase out of glass!) and though I love a man who comes prepared, I take a deep breath and holler “Picccniccc!!!” at the top of my voice. Fortunately, my voice is tiny and it’s daytime now, so my koala neighbours are not in and can’t mistakenly think I’m summoning them (Summoning not koalas, but neighbours: for the meaning of koala check out my dick(tionary)!). If I ever find out which insane individual is responsible for the ugly rug that McG’s wearing on top of his pretty head, I’ll send them what’s not gonna be fanmail. FYI. #LoseTheRug
Stalker introduces McG as the Big D!ck, though she really uses the euphemism Big Kahuna. A slideshow of snapshots of McG from My Baby Book is on and I wonder if it’s me who’s not right in my head or Show. Or maybe it’s a Hawaiian thing to pull out family photos of a public person about whose job you’re shooting a story for TV. It’s fun next, for the stalking Stalker who stalks does what she does best but fails pathetically. Namely: she asks McG a silly question (As any of us would do, like: Would you remove your rug/shirt/pants pretty pls and thx?), McG considers it to be a rhetorical question and stares silently.
Then a gentle dance-off ensues and something must be wrong with me cause I don’t hear McG but Alex explaining he’s not comfortable with being followed this way and I’m touched and feeling v v bad about myself right now, so I make a mental note not to stalk him so much, no matter that I only do it virtually. McG retreats into his foxhole office to bark “Maggie!” in the phone, while Stalker discovers that she has no fans among the core four. Cause Danny says what translates as: “I hate you. I hate you so much,” and Chin says what translates as: “If I were not a cop, I would be a cop.” And I ❤ Grumpy Danno cause he’s my exact copy, except male, and I ❤ Smart Chin cause he’s the *cough* older *cough* brother I want so hard. Almost as hard as the FOY.
Stalker smartly deduces that the H50hs just got a case. Obviously, otherwise what the h3ll would the rest of the epi be about? Huh? J/k. McG gives Stalker a quick glance but fails to eyes.x her, on which my panties creep sadly into a corner and cry. McG observes that Stalker and crew should always use protection (<< I’m loosely translating this from H50hspeak into FUCUPspeak, y’know) and >> when Stalker gets rationally concerned, Danno responds with such a loveable laugh that my panties, the infidels, think of taking McG on even days and Danno on odd days. This arrangement never occurred to me before, but after all, you’ve seen how good at multitasking I am, right?
I don’t understand why the rush to the crime scene, for this is no Walking Dead and the body ain’t going anywhere. Or? I giggle when Stalker thinks that her biggest problem will be speeding tickets. I continue giggling when she’s surprised to see crime on the crime scene. I’m still giggling when she says: “Did he just say mutilation?” cause no, my older brother Chin in fact said “mutilated”. And I just decided to keep on poking fun at Stalker. Sorry, Stalker. You had it coming.
H50hs credits start rolling and out of sheer joy over a new epi, I climb on top of my chair and make a little happy dance. I bang my head a bit while doing this cause I keep on forgetting I live in a loft with a slanting ceiling. Plus my chair is of the revolving kind. What an idiotic idea. While I’m nursing my BTTF, Stalker welcomes us back. WTF? I haven’t been nowhere. Silly Stalker! I mean, poor dear Aisha Tyler, what an awkward role she got here. On my screen there’s a zoom on the screen on the stage where Stalker is shown ambushing Max.
Now: Will you pls allow that I start calling this character Marx rather than Max out of my inner conviction? >> Lemme clarica: the place where my fat well-formed a$$ is located was and remains Eastern Bloc and locals who pretentiously call it Central Europe are LLWL. The name Marx, not to mention Engels, forms perfectly natural in my mouth, while Max still sounds strange. No matter my EngLit degree. Wait. This isn’t all about me? Oh. So here ya go: >> Stalker attempts to interview Marx but Marx interviews Stalker when it turns out that he’s her only fan ITWWW. I have a very limited understanding of what Marx is saying cause I’m laughing like a hyena. What can I say, I’m easily amused.
After Marx has professed his undying love for Stalker, she asks him a favour and Marx goes: “H3ll, yeah!!” and I go: “Whaaat??” cause I misplaced my mind in one gutter or another and all that it conjures up now are graphic images of s.xing favours. And I have this fixed conviction that Marx’s type is no Stalker but rather someone like She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. LoHo. Because tall beautiful blonds and small funny geeks kinda go together in my head. Marx, whom I adore as a fellow weirdo in a purely platonic manner, smuggles a camera clipped on his shirt on the crime scene. He gets exclusive shots of the desecrated corpse, though I’m not sure what for, as the graphic images are deliberately pixelated and I’m grateful. However, the audience of Stalker’s Show go: “Argh,” real shocked, as if they never saw a pixelated image of a ketchup-smudged doll before. Or am I insensitive?
After Marx states the obvious (like that the vic is dead blah blah), McG reaches out to pluck the camera from Marx’s chest and from now on, you’ll not see me unless with a camera v v visibly showing on my breast. You know why. McG, the good Smooth Dog that he is, fetches the camera to Stalker, who pats him on his rug, on which he wags his tail and runs away happily to continue in play. Wait. << Sorry, I’m confusing this with something on Animal Planet. Actually, >> as McG and his rug are zooming in, I’m busy screaming the picnic-word with such vehemence that tears of despair form in my eyes and my mouth opens so wide that I nearly swallow my laptop, rug and all.
Stalker doesn’t have the clarity of mind to snatch the rug while McG is lecturing her blah blah. Before he turns his back on her (which is almost as much of a treat as his front, anyway), he gives her a brief eyes.xing. At least as far as I can see, cause WTF is happening to the vid streaming resolution quality today? McG is off and so am I, for this epi is giving me serious rug issues and the mere sight of any innocent rug in the house makes me cringe. I’m throwing away all rugs in hope that the neighbours’ dog eats it. Koala neighbours’ koala dog, to be precise.
Owing to beginner’s luck, the next cop that Stalker harasses turns out to be Woah Fat, who has a perverse liking for uniforms, for a criminal. I chuckle idiotically when I realise that Woah Fat has been so far the most cooperative guy on Stalker’s show special. He seems willing to divulge all info, including the name of the tailor responsible for his custom-made tweed suits, but McG spots his Tweed Twin (as I shall henceforth call Woah Fat) and on this signal someone pushes a button somewhere and real epic explosions ensue.
My loudspeakers are nearly making me deaf while I muse how much arsenal it takes for god’s sake to hit an adult male of average height and weight. Tweed Twin gets in a car and leaves in peace and in one piece, while McG performs his funny yummy gun dance at the rear of the leaving car. I consider Tweed Twin’s escape an acceptable price for the hip dance, cause the moves have woken up my currently slumbering panties, which rose hungry. For McFood. No relation to McDonald, mind you. *shudders*
Oh. False alarm. I put my underwear back to sleep and it starts snoring indeed while Chin claricas that Tweed Twin is a global SOB blah blah. A few remarks: 1) Yawn. 2) A global SOB is a special cop term or is my big brah being rude? 3) My and McMarnov’s premise is that Tweed Twin is McG’s half-bro, but if Tweed Twin is also a son of a b!tch, does that make Doris the b!tch? How awkward.
^^ While I’m typing this stuff, you’re missing absolutely nothing cause after Chin finishes his clarica, Stalker begins her clarica and when she finishes her clarica, Kono begins her clarica. Yawn. Except Kono is shown in her HPD uniform with a cap roughly the size of her entire head or maybe bigger and either the uniform is too large or Kono is too thin or both. Also, Kono is involved in a joke at her own expense, which I unfortunately don’t get as I’m out of patience now. Show, pls make some stuff happen. Soon.
Yay!! That was fast! McTeam, Miss Stalker, Bill and Will (or whatyacall the crewmen that stalk Stalker) walk in Marx’s dissecting theatre to find Marx dressed up for a dramatic theatre and acting sooo adooorkable that I’d nearly consider taking him into a threesome. Or is it a foursome when I decided to include Danno about two thousand words earlier? Oh, and what about my NotMcG? Eh, it’s getting crowded in here and…
Oooh, nooo, I’m taking everything back right now at this very spot, pls forgive me, McG, and pls stop saying “Max” on this very sound frequency and volume intensity or else I’m sure to be committed in madhouse for chanting incessantly “I’m Marx” and “So long, panties”. Apparently, I’m extraordinarily easily acoustically stimulated. Mm, sorry, I’m a bit too tipsy to recap this scene really, so just what you need to know: McG speaks some more, I pathetically whisper IHH/NID to my laptop (which couldn’t care less), and Marx intimates that a piece of tattooed skin has been kidnappered from the corpse.
Bwahahaha!! Stalker just asked: “What’s a Fong?” and if I suffered from incontinence, I would have just peed a little. Cut to Fong, who’s being funny, at least everyone else except him thinks so. The brains behind the H50hs muscles that he is, he hasn’t found out anything. Yet, that is. LOL! I ❤ you, Fong, and if you call me, I volunteer to raise your ego. And maybe something else, too. Oh no, am I in the gutter again?! Ok, look, mine is a poor region with poor infrastructure, so needless to say that the fault is not mine.
Hey, would you mind me taking a break? I’ve been recapping for as looong as the FOOOY now, I’m as exhausted as after a good McG Styles S.x Boot Camp action and I sorely wish I would have written the article on Virginia Woolf instead of ^^ this ^^, which can be neither submitted for publication, nor can it be included in my CV, nor can I present it to the head of my department. I mean, sure I can, but I’d better not. (Hello Department!) TBC here. Till then, me & myself & my panties (in absentia).