The anticipation of the S3 finale reduced my mental faculties to the level of a 3yr old. Coz there’s a car chase opening scene and I got these dumb questions: 1) Is this a crossover of H50h and Alarm for Cobra 11? 2) Why does it look like the entire HPD car park is pursuing one H50h Camaro? 3) What’s Kono doing on the backseat and why is she not buckled? Yeah, yougotme, I’m a total dumba$$ or a smart 3yr old. Coz Kono’s gun killered a person who shouldn’t have been killered (says the script), ergo Kono is wanted for the violent crime. But she really should be wanted for the violent crime of wearing the world’s ugliest pants in the previous epi on screen, which offended me more seriously than one or another person’s death off screen. This distracting plot detail explains a lot, such as why McG strips Kono. Why McG strips Kono off her cell and drops it from the window while driving the get-away Camaro. That’s a littering penalty, honey!! Mm, while I imagine punishing Honey for littering very graphically, Kono is dropped and receives IDKW (I Don’t Know What) from McG with the instructions to lie low. If what Kono received was a nekkid pic of the FOY to comfort her, I’d surely lie low right on the spot.
Credits are on and I’m off to grab some special occasion vintage slivovitz, for the finale surely calls for it and drinking is really the best means of coping with anything. The Kono plot detail also explains why McDanno give up once they get rid of Kono, and why their useless copper colleagues are now all over them. Fun Fact #1: whenever a kid or a Kono goes missing in Hawaii, check car trunks first. But the HPD search yields no results and no Kono. The HPD Sgt Duke and H50h Honey (which is how McMom calls McSon, so why shouldn’t I, too) engage in a clarica c0ck-off so severely clarica-ish that it offends even my 3yr old’s intelligence level. Duke aka Dude claricas why he’s after Kono, while I stare transfixed at the amount of chest hair in Danno’s open collar, which reminds me of one of my cats’ fur. I like little balls of fur, justsayin. McG aka Honey claricas how he’ll prove Kono innocent, while I gaze mesmerised into his eyes, on which the sunlight conditions have a majik effect, and I suddenly feel like I’m drowning and nearly overthrow my slivovitz tumbler with my waving arms. Duke Dude hopes aloud that Honey knows what he’s doing, and I suggest aloud: “Honey, whatever you’re doing, come do it with me, coz I’m sure I’m more fun than Duke Dude. Also, I’m female.”
Honey gets a case call and the HPD and H50hs part peacefully. Did that just happen? Why weren’t McDanno arrested for aiding and abetting? Why wasn’t Honey stripped off his pants, I mean his badge, on the spot? Show is a weird alternative reality. McDanno meet Chinchin in the middle of nowhere, where there is a plane with no plates on it but a helluva bodies in it. Honey points at the plane with his suggestive finger, in case we should miss it, and my panties move nearer to the screen with genuine interest. Interest in the case, of course. While I clear my throat, cough cough, Marx the little ball-bellied baby in a jumpsuit with a shock of black Einstein-ish hair emerges, and I love him. Genuinely and totally unerotically. Show must have lost their natural scenery tapes, which is why they go for an extended footage of unnatural scenery dotted by corpses instead. Body count: 5 persons + 1 plane, for the blood stains all over the cabin won’t wash. Honey miraculously keeps a straight face as he deduces that whoever killered the guys landed the plane, and I scream with laughter while my panties make a jump at the screen right between his teeth coz: 1) that’s where they ought to be, 2) this will hopefully make him shut up. Also, whoever writes Honey’s lines hates him.
Chinchin clarifies that the corpses are agents coz they’re carrying neither purses nor cell phones. I didn’t know this is what makes an agent but I have a full trust in Chinchin. I have very little trust in American national security, though, for right now it’s being compromised by the hobbyhorse pilot who ruined the agents’ lives and the plane’s interior and, believeitornot, he is now in Oahu (claricas Honey while I drink to his excellent deduction skills). Camo Cat is casually strolling in a sunny somewhere and whispering dirty words in her cell, for Honey is at the receiving end. The words she says to him I won’t repeat, for they are plot centred and I’m not interested for they entail to nothing except that the undercover agents have great covers and nothing useful is known about them. Danno and me learn from Honey that a plane’s steering wheel is called a yoke and I seriously doubt the usefulness of this info too. Cat ends the call abruptly when she spots a man in uniform. She is being very rude when she turns down his MRE (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) dinner invitation and says that CDR McGarrett is too much of a beast to leave her with any s.xing favours to spare for another man, but that she did enjoy it the other day. Did she just say that?
Show is being experimental today. Instead of engaging Chinchin in an informative intercourse with the majik table as per uge, the Writers stage a video call with a big kahuna of an antiterrorist cell, who provides the ID intel this time. The fan of flying and agent killering with no hygiene issues is called Rafael Something, which I shall shorten to RAF (no relation to Royal Air Force, though he’s obvi a helluva pilot, too). RAF is a Latin American mobster, and I drink to Show’s striking innovations, for by watching H50h and living in Eastern Europe, I started to suspect there’s no mob anywhere but in Eastern Europe. Oh, and Show just recovered their lost landscape tape. Which they use as a means of transferring us to one of Adam’s countless luxury real estates, where Kono arrives and undresses and dresses. Undresses her shirt and dresses her stomach wound. I’m surprised that she’s not wearing the world’s ugliest outfit this time. Show is being truly inventive. Kono asks Adam if he sanctioned his brother’s borrowing her gun and shooting around with it. Adam asks Kono if she’s being any more transparent than him when she cloned his phone and fooled around with it. For the record: Kono is transparent, someone please feed her. Both non-Caucasians are upset, which is what inevitably happens when you go for talking instead of s.xing. I drink to s.xing: “Chin chin!!”
Chinchin storms into Honey’s flag-infested glass office to prove that he’s a big head who pulled the records of one the corpse agents’ cells and so got a hit on a house whose door is badly in need of being kicked off. I hate flags coz I can’t remember which flag goes with which state and I hate glass offices coz they’re see-through, exactly like the blouse I bought when I was young and silly enough to hope that I’ll grow visible b00bs to go with the blouse and I still keep the blouse in case I still grow a pair of these one day. After entering said house McG styles and frightening a young pretty Latin (?) American woman out of her wits, the H50hs learn that RAF is the woman’s seedling’s father and that he called and hung up twice to check if she’s in. Which she is, except her son is out and spilled his cornflakes all over his bed before going. My cats have better table manners than most kids and kids are dumb. But as a sign of good will, I drink to kidnappered kids. Sip sip. LAW (Latin [?] American Woman) met RAF in Peru, where she should have got her literature degree but instead got a kid with a terrorist, killer and kidnapper. Allow me to drink to my having a literature degree and no kid before we shall proceed. Thank you.
The drink I just downed was well timed indeed, for Honey in annoyingly ill-fitted pants whose pockets are filled with loads of stuff, which makes the pants look no better for it, struts determined through a nuclear shelter corridor dotted by an army of heavily armoured guards. The guards check out Honey’s a$$ while a security camera checks out his eyes, teeth and skull shape, or so it looks like. The camera fails to check out the FOY, which is much more of a distinctive feature, FYI. A steel plated door opens to an awful bunker with a bullet-proof glass cell, where the world’s worst criminal is detained. It’s totally inappropriate but I wonder where he goes for a pee, for his bare cell contains nothing but him. Woahfat in a jumpsuit, which is BTW a way better fit than Honey’s pants, walks sternly into view and I scream when he turns and shows his mutilated face. Woahfat’s bandaged hand twitches uncontrollably, and I’m honestly frightened to death. He might have lost his face but not his sharp wit, for he responds to Honey’s request for help with an explosive display of intellectual arrogance and morbid humour. When he turns down Honey’s offer of the exercise yard in exchange for cooperation with the words: “I burn easily,” I convulse with laughter involuntarily while at the same time tears stream down my ugly but unmutilated face. Also, whoever writes Woahfat’s lines loves him.
Having wiped off my tears and replenished my slivovitz supply, I drink to what I have just declared a scene most to my taste ever. My taste involves tense c0ck-offs, cruel humour, sharp intellect and brutal things done to my panties as a result of this. It’s not like that I’m oversharing or anything. The person responsible for my panty situation just switched from good cop to bad cop and threatens to discontinue Woahfat’s pain medication if Woahfat doesn’t please him. Did he just do that? I think Honey needs to be slapped for suggesting hurting hurt people even more than they are. I disapprove, dear. Said dear, who is badly in need of someone to take his ugly pants off before they drop on their own accord due to the weight of the stuff packed in their pockets, condescends to the old trick of making believe he’s leaving when he’s not. After checking out Honey’s a$$, Woahfat calls him back and gives him the name of the person whom he would approach for assistance in RAF’s position. At the apparently underground prison check point, Honey on his way out signs his name legibly in under a split of second (how did he do that?), but the guard, clearly bored to death, asks if he’s related to a Doris McGarrett, who visited earlier. But I ask: “Is Woahfat related to Doris?” while I drink to bastard offspring (hint hint) and make myself TBC (not “TuBerCulosis”, but “To Be Continued”) here.