*** Spoiler: little plot, much silliness and some explicitness got in. ***
Find Part 1 here. And now, find the H50hs gathered around Not Ess, the low-tech wooden table at Kamekona’s (aka Big K’s) junk shrimp truck, to where they are pursued by Stalker’s sidekick’s camera so shaky that it constantly keeps on chopping people’s heads off. And I’m grateful. Don’t get me wrong, I normally disapprove of guillotine cameras, but two days later I still can’t get over McG’s red rug. And I think of smart sistah Kimmer (*waving frantically*), who started a petition for Tweed Twin to kidnapper and torture McWig. Please don’t send it any help!! #AcceptableCasualties. While I conjure pornographic scenarios of using the red furry fox from McG’s head to feed sharks to the accompaniment of the chilling music theme from Jaws, I notice that there is some plot going on.
This: Kono declares that a Russian mob member is suspect and I fidget uneasily, for I happen to be Eastern European and I’m not sure if Show doesn’t put too much emphasis on nationality. Ugh. I’M-STOPPING-SEEERIOUSNESS-NOW. And I’m fetching myself some slivovitz as appetiser, for the camera bounces in Big K’s direction, and Big K tells me I should grab my lunch. Big K’s Not Ess is heavy with food about the weight of Big K himself, and while he practises his advert routine, I wink repeatedly in disbelief. For either it’s that behind Big K there is standing a very close copy of Big K himself or it’s that I see double and shouldn’t even start drinking now again. Danno, who has learned from the best cargo-panted devourer of dreams, enlightens Big K that his ad is not reaching anyone in time for the food not to go off, unless it’s plastic. Kono helps Big K’s clone off a plastic bag that appears to contain (plastic?) food aaand cut.
The cut is to the back seat perspective of the Kicka$$ Camaro, where Stalker plus Shaky Camera squeezed themselves in. I don’t envy Stalker atall cause this angle makes the headrug look extra fugly, though I didn’t even think it possible, and simply sitting there would make me seriously carsick. I mumble the picnic-swearword and picnic it is on all levels, for I’m chewing on a buttered toast and amusing myself by trying to catch in mid-air the crumbs spilling in the keyboard. My lack of interest in McDanno’s professional plot-related convo is paralleled to Stalker’s lack of interest in the same, for she suddenly jumps at McG’s lap to strip the rug off his head and the pants off his FOY. Now, not really, it’s just my projection. In fact, Stalker figuratively jumps in the men’s talk to trigger a cargument by her extremely childish question why is that McG drives Danno’s car.
Stalker’s question reveals her to be a total loser, for it’s a fact fundamental to each FUCUP that McG has control issues, which he tries (and fails) to figure out in the S.x Boot Camp McG Styles. Silly stupid Stalker is missing all the fun. This is roughly what Danno explains to her, for as a father, he is used to talking to little girls as yet ignorant of the adult intel that Uncle Steve can entertain you on multiple levels. Danno starts talking more and more rapidly and heaps piece upon piece of proof that commander McG is at command always and ever after, including TV programme, dinner place and bedroom workout choices. Ok, forget the last one. Danno doesn’t say that one but he has it on his mind, on which McG says: “It’s that you’re indecisive,” and thinks: “Were it up to you to decide, we’d still not be a couple.” Stalker uselessly says: “They love each other,” and me says: “ACA.”
Running swiftly upstairs are wigged commander in control, his pompadoured partner under control and a camera shivering completely out of control. Stalker catches up and comments on the action, but she is breathless and so am I, only for different reasons. You know my strange sensitivity to the sound frequency of McG’s voice at specific occasions, and this is exactly what is happening when McG is shhhing Stalker to stay put. Stalker boldly proceeds forward, tho, and so do my panties, for they thought they were being called and threw themselves against my loudspeakers on receiving the signal. They curled themselves snugly in my subwoofer, and the fabric against the membrane makes the sound come out somewhat muffled, and I’m all kinds of melting and I think I may need help. (Don’t dare send any!!) My vision is getting blurred as McG is opening a door McG styles, and brutal uncivilised Neanderthal McAnimal was sexactly what I was missing something fierce, and I love a man who can do things with his limbs, and I think I’m emitting embarrassing sounds unwittingly.
There is no one behind the kicked-out door, in case you care. But there’s a real large telescope (The owner must be seriously compensating for something real small: what would that be?) and there are surveillance photos. Stalker is nearly as excited as I am (nope, not even close to my level of sexcitement really) and she calls from the corridor that McG had better come there now and grab her. (That’s what I’d call.) But she calls McG to grab the suspect, for there’s an innocent civilian just happening to walk by and by a single look at him, Stalker knows him to be their guy. McG asks twice v v slow-wittedly: “Whaaat?” and I’m LMAOing so hard that I choke on my buttered toast, tears form in my eyes and I can’t see anything again. But I cleverly deduce that the suspect is running, stupidly, and McAnimal is making to launch himself at his head. Oooh!! McG is not only running v v perveliciously but also suddenly he’s taking a leap over the balcony and gliding v v smoothly down to land in the pool below. Ahhh!! I love a man of action. V v much.
There’s something wrong with Stalker cause instead of being turned on by the scene, as a woman with eyes should be, she thinks it’s an example of well-done workplace humour. She laughs: “Did he just do that?” and her question reveals that she indeed doesn’t have eyes, as I suspected before. Silly sightless Stalker. Stalker’s surprise surprises Danno, who is not surprised at all. If that makes any sense. Meanwhile, I assume a cross-legged position on my revolving chair, which keeps on revolving erratically when I’m doing this, and start chanting: “Ohmmm, mmmay the rug drooown, ohmmm…” When suddenly something happens and my screen blackens. Where’s my wet seal?? Heh?? No, you don’t mean it, CBS!! I scream: “F U!!” in *cough* no particular direction *cough* when I realise that the malfunction is not on part of my laptop but on part of Show, who cut short the wet scene and my wet dreams in one blow. My panties cringe, climb down from the subwoofer, and I put them back on. We are both v v sorely disappointed.
Sobered, I watch Chin descending to what looks like a nuclear shelter but turns out to be the Blue Room. Chin buzzes the door, the door buzzes back, and Blue McG emerges. Of course, he put on dry clothes off camera. If I didn’t have hygiene issues, I would have just spit scornfully. In no particular direction, mind you, CBS. McG’s surprise at the perp’s silence does not surprise Chin, who dryly observes that the perp is not their perp. If that makes any sense. I chuckle cause: Is Chin being funny or is it me being hysterical again? Stalker, aka Miss Marple about a hundred years younger and a few shades more tanned, announces that the surveillance photos seen earlier were of the butchered and carved corpse in the back alley. Am I being graphic? Sorry. Miss Marple warned ya. Stalker’s audience’s prefabricated startled reaction to this info amuses me. It’s like you said: “It’s raining,” and someone went: “Arghhh,” real shocked in response.
Some perfectly useless shaky footage of some cars arriving somewhere is on. I spot McG’s rug and then the man himself getting out of one car as Stalker’s fine brown Not Rug emerging from another car gets in view. Chin, whom I suspect to be the only male ITWWW who can wear pink and still rock his masculine looks, solemnly declares for plot purposes that the name of the next suspect is blah blah. I may or may have not heard Roger Carson, so I’ll shorten it to RR, roger that? The plot indeed propels forwards as the BAMFs enter another hotel room whose door McRug opens McG styles. I choke on my slivovitz when I notice that heaps of panties crawled out of the drawers in response to McPanty Destroyer’s approach and spread themselves all over the bed, floor and elsewhere in said room. The room looks a lot a little like my house cause McPerving is a 24/7 profession and I have no time for home chores. Chin observes that someone has been looking here for something and I’ll remember to use this as an excuse, should my NotMcG notice the unhygienic conditions around.
There is no one behind the kicked-out door, in case you still care. Over the phone, Kono directs the plot and the BAMF threesome towards a third hotel room, on whose door McG tentatively knocks before attempting to enter. Is that a new thing? A woman opens and has a series of *ehm* natural *ehm* reactions: 1) She doesn’t remove McPants off the FOY. 2) She says “oh no” so flatly as if she were told that Neverland’s market turnover dropped by 3.14 159 265 358 979 323 846% rather than that her BF is in trouble, which equals to killered dead dead dead. Stalker is told off, she has the door shut in her face, but she still attempts to stalk through the window. I disapprove, but realise that this was Show’s intention. I may stop chanting “F U” now, Show, but your epic fail in the wet scene will be neither forgotten nor forgiven. Ever.
Stalker tortures McWig. I mean: Stalker tortures McWig with obvious questions like: “Is it fun to tell surviving relatives that they are surviving relatives?” McG, who has NOT been acting McAnimalish for at least two minutes now, to my surprise cooperates and to my lack of surprise claricas that it’s not very enjoyable. Dun dun dun duuuuuun. This scene doesn’t work for me cause it doesn’t go beyond stating the obvious. Sorry. Miss Marple, now live on her stage, affects a constipated face and says this: “I WAS UNCOMFORTABLE pressing McCommander at such a SENSITIVE moment blah blah…” and I seriously spit a mouthful of slivovitz water all over my screen cause this is sooo funny!! A total suspension withdrawal of belief. Or am I drunk? Sorry again. I’M-STOPPING-DRINKING-NOW.
I’m wiping the mess off my screen to discover I’m in a tattoo studio. Maybe this is the painful moment when I allow one of my fav quotes to get literally under my skin? Like: “A rose is a rose is a rose.” What’s beautiful about this one is that there’s no denying it, right? McG, with the picnic still on his head, learns from the tattoo guy what translates as: “Ya cops R dumba$$es coz the Tweed Cop already got the pic of RR’s tat this morning, so why T F wud ya ask 4 it again?” (<< That’s roughly how a non-native Englisher erroneously envisions that an underclass tattooist would speak when polite.) What we learn from this, besides that Tweed Twin is an early bird who caught the worm, is that the tat is not a tat is not a tat, for if it were, the global SOB couldn’t care less unless he just gets a kick out of parading around in uniform.
The H50hs get hold of footage from a conveniently placed security camera in the tattoo studio, which Kono feeds to Ess, which chews on it and spits out an image of the tat. Chin says in Swahili: “That looks like whatchamacallit,” and Danno returns: “That’s exactly what I was about to say,” and I giggle and send Grumpy Danno virtual hugsies. And maybe s.xing favours. What looks like a tat which looks like a goddess is actually a map, as it turns out when McPicnic asks Kono to under- or overlay whatchamacallit with another whatchamacallit and I can’t hear cause I’m giggling cause said McPicnic appears to have difficulties remembering his high-tech line. I’m cruel, I know. And if I didn’t have hygiene issues, I would have just exploded with laughter (but that would be a mess), cause Stalker on stage produces a ridiculously dramatic face and dumbs down what we’ve heard: “The tat is not a tat. It’s a map!!” Audience cheers and so do I. For this is the most brilliant satire of human stupidity as showcased in TV shows. I hope the satire is intended.
To give Cath (aka Cat) something to do, now that she’s a series regular To get help with identifying the exact area that the man map covers, the H50hs summon Lieutenant Cat. Camo Cat in camo cap acts sooo wonderfully awkward in front of the camera and is accidentally sooo beautiful while doing this that I have a weird moment when I regret I prefer men to women. #TotalGirlCrush. Stalker cross-examines Cat, who claricas to the silly Not FUCUP that yeah, it’s perfectly normal to use military equipment for playing around with McG-Spot and yeah, her favours are frequent and are repaid in breakfast. *Cough* Dear Cat, you forgot the part BEFORE the breakfast *cough*. Also, Cat thinks that her and McG’s s.xing arrangements are none of nosy America’s business, and this 1) cracks me up, 2) moves me to shout at my screen v v loud: “Fck yeah, Cat FTW!!” And I think Cat totally deserves her FOY. Of course, I’d deserve it more, so she comes second. FYI.
At H50h HQ, Red McRug receives a call from some big boss, and it’s a matter of national security, but don’t worry, the nation is secure, for tho the convo is classified, Stalker says McG overshared later to enlighten us. This: The man with the map tat wasn’t Roger Carson but Gary Ray Percy (that’s what I hear), and it doesn’t much matter, there are still multiple Rs in the name, so I’ll stick with calling him RR. Stalker demonstrates a 3D-printer in action to show how RR shockingly abused it to print money, and I make a mental note to start saving up to buy this cool office device for home use. Danno’s pompadour and McG’s rug make a jump on RR’s GF, who probably tells them something useful, considering that the interrogation is part of the plot. Sadly, I don’t understand the talk, for I’m distracted by the GF’s wearing a long-sleeved warm jumper while appearing otherwise nekkid. This perverse wardrobe choice is perfectly logical for any female in McG’s proximity, except that I’d lose the jumper, too. And the rug. #LoseTheRug.
A new suspect emerges, Tony Something-or-Other, and even tho there are no multiple Ts in the name, my OCD requires that I call him TT to keep the naming symmetrical. The H50hs believe TT to be on a treasure hunt on the spot narrowed down by Cat, together with Tweed Twin, cause they share their initials and so were destined to share the treasure. Till the untimely death of one at the hands of the other do them part. (<< I like this sudden idea so much that I regret I didn’t include it in my marriage vows. Too late.) Owing to the inaccessible terrain, the Core Four use four-wheelers to get to the location of the treasure. It looks frightening, I fear hope for the loss of McG’s rug in the wind and I wonder who’d go for a bumping ride on this devilish machine when very much the same workout routine can be exercised upon the handsome devil man’s nekkid body. #JustSayin
Team Four and four-wheelers arrive at the spot to find the treasure dug up, but whatever happens, I find a strange comfort in the just discovered fact that altogether, they add up to an even number. (Y’see, odd numbers are scary.) I’m not taking into account TT, of course, who is currently a corpse. The Twin Tweed, as yet unseen, is on the run with the kidnappered banknote engraving plates of which the treasure was made up. Soon enough, a loud noise is heard and Tweed Twin death-stares down at H50hs from a helicopter just rising above the jungle. More loud noise is heard as everyone starts shooting (not me, mind you, I’m not a Russian mob member!!), and I’m relieved to see that this overkill is more successful than the previous one and the helicopter drops down. It’s not that I approve of violence, rather, it’s that I occasionally wish for some marginal proximity to reality, y’know. Just from time to time and I’m fine.
The black hawk is down and it’s a mess of metal. The musical accompaniment to the scene is so tense that it freaks me out, but I’m slightly entertained by the little neat camp fire burning low near the helicopter. Let’s go grilling, anyone? McBarbecue inexplicably makes me LOL by ordering to secure the perimeter, and I dunno precisely what it means, so I just make one revolve on my revolving chair and make sure I’m alone. Which I know I am, cause if I weren’t, I’d now be struggling to get out of a straightjacket. Enough of this silliness, cause: Out of the blue, or rather, out of the green jungle, Chin is shot in his kevlar jacket and I twitch, startled. Meanwhile, mayhem is going on and multiple bullets and pellets and whatnots are exchanged. Shaky hand camera gets hit to be replaced by an even shakier cell camera, which, nevertheless, has an amazingly clear and sharp vision.
From nearby, a man growling in pain is heard, it’s getting worse and worse and goes on for ages, making me v v uncomfortable. It’s the Bad Twin, severely scorched, and begging the Good Twin to finish it. The good one considers it, pointing his gun at his agonised counterpart pointlessly. The bad one makes a feeble attempt to crawl, but ends up face down in a shallow stream. McG puts away the gun and I hate him, I hate him so much, and the others, too, for they are simply standing and staring stupidly, while I must insist that baddie or no baddie, he is suffering as no human being should be allowed to, and what about calling an ambulance, heh?? No one?? I’m still too sad when a cut shows the half-dead Twin actually being brought in hospital, while McG struts after the stretcher and orders top security measures. I still hate him. Tho I understand that he says “I don’t care” to Stalker’s stupid question if the Twin survives. Is she mistaking McSeal for Dr Andy or what?
Cut to Stalker pacing her stage and being pathetically sentimental about the H50hs’ honour, valour and merit. I think I’m starting to feel sick in my stomach and I may need to skip this scene. I hate this. I hate this so much that I may soon throw something at Stalker’s face. And it won’t be my panties. Ugh. This: Dear Stalker, if you have nothing besides stating the obvious, pls stop now and no one gets hurt. >> Ok, dunno how, but I survived this havoc of fake sentiment to see the next cut. >> It’s showing a scenery of cloud-covered Oahu at dawn, so beautiful that it hurts, to the accompaniment of hospital monitors bleeping so chillingly that it doesn’t make my guts any better for it. An unreasonably large number of cops guards the Tweed Twin, who is covered in gauze, appears alive but comatose and is surely not going anywhere any soon. Maybe ever. McG enters to death-stare at him and his face hurts me, but in a good way. Dear McG, this was the hard path to make it up with me, next time just go for taking off your pants. And the rug. Thank you. P.S.: I love you again. Signed off: Marnov.