Am I starting to like this show, or has the abundance of dialogue that seems to be written by a collegiate improv team knocked me retarded? Wait, it looks like my iTunes playlist has a Good Charlotte song in it, so it must be the latter. I’m beginning to fear that Firefly
is beating my higher education out of me, causing me to revert to primal instincts and hooker jokes. To wit: this episode is about whores. The ship has a whore on it, one of those whores with class and poise and stunning beauty, i.e. one of the whores that doesn’t exist. I’m sure all of you well-bred readers have little experience of the prostitution trade, but as a veteran of bad death-rock bands playing the bar scene, I can assure you that they’re not geishas. What beauty they may have had has been long eclipsed by the septic cocaine sore in their nasal cavities, and they certainly don’t have hearts of gold. They have hearts of congealed STD viruses, and the scabs to prove it. I have nothing against the trade in principal. Hell, society treats women like a commodity, so they might as well turn a profit on it. It’s just the portrayal on screen tends to be a little over-glamorized, like slutty heroine chic. The captain of the ship is in love with the whore, which is not so much a plot twist as it is a plot-gentle-curve-in-the-road-that-you-can-see-coming-a-mile-away-because-nothing-else-is-happening-and-there-are-signposts. They also rip off the That 70s Show
handheld circle-cam, which is a bit like lifting brush techniques from a five-year old finger-painter.
I have given up on the turkey. All I can see is tiny avian flu viruses swimming around in the gravy, and what’s either black pepper or the bubonic plague in the mashed potatoes. I’ve ordered a pizza. Pray that it reaches me on time.