So much happened in one hour of the O.C. this week that it was hard to keep tally. I lurched back and forth between sorrow and hilarity so violently that I barely maintained control of my alimentary canal. That violence warning just before the opening wasn’t due to Jimmy’s smack down. It was a caution of gut punches to viewers. Luckily I came prepared for such an emotional pummeling wearing my best protection against odor and leaks. Thanks Oops I Crapped My Pants!
Sandy, “If things get messy, we’ll clean them up… together.”
Yeah, about those messes, Sandy, you’re embracing one. Mops and buckets were the theme of this week’s O.C. (and the series more generally) as piles or muck were tidily put in the pale while new sheets were soiled. There were so many heart poking moments that I too could have used a tissue and touch up by the end of the hour, that is, if my blood were two degrees warmer and I were susceptible to such manipulation.
Who’s my widdle messy boy? Jimmy, your face! Honey, exfoliate that shit. How much money did he owe because that didn’t seem like a million dollar beating to me. He looked well pounded no doubt but I really thought Pooper was going to be a super-double-widow after that shot of Jimmy the floater. Those gangsta’s didn’t do a very good job of killing Jimmy but it parallels the clumsy way the O.C. disposes of characters. Other than Cal, no one dies they just disappear via flimsy justification. Jimmy’s not dead he just needs to sail to Hawaii. Why? Because gangsta’s can’t swim. I’m not sure why that solves his troubles but it ends his 4 episode reappearance. Change my pic-ture. Smack my bitch up. Next plotline.
Speaking of well pounded, “We’ve never done this before.” Whatever, Dad! (We being the operative) I find it hard to believe that after all they’ve been through and all those nights in the lifeguard stand Ryan and Marissa are just now getting around to intercourse. They have hobbies, I guess. Never mind the creepiness of having your sort-of-brother and gal pal build you a fuckhut on the beach, is your game so lame that you can’t make use of your own poolhouse? Come on, stud, you’re stretching my suspension of disbelief. Of course the beach is the perfect setting for such a moment. Nothing says I love you like recreating the setting where you almost got raped. Or maybe Ryan was just being practical. If that really was Marissa’s first time then the sand and saltwater make’s cleanup a snap.
Last week’s episode featured the harsh wisdom of Old Testament legalism toward beachrape victims while this week taught us the ancient ying-yang view of the wholly balanced universe. On one hand, Marissa got rootered up the Tiki hut by Ryan while on the other hand she yet again loses a father figure and finds out she’s broke. Hardly equivalent? Bitch please, look at those delts. And Marissa’s not the only one getting a rash. Something tells me the Dean of Discipline is thoroughly pussywhipped by one Taylor Townsend. Could we be less indicative of that line crossing? He may seem like an asshole but he’s really just irritable after Taylor doesn’t give him a turn biting the bit.
Pooper’s getting her share of smacking too. I started to feel a tinge of sorrow when Poopernickel (almost Poppernickel-Pooper!) clutched Marissa as they wondered allowed, “What are we going to do?” Well, for starters you could get a real job, earn your own money, develop a skill set, some security and financial independence. Oh wait, that’s what you thought you were accomplishing with whoredom. Sadly, the well you almost poisoned is coincidentally similar to your role in marriage – a deep, dry hole.
That will reading was like an old episode of Let’s Make a Deal where everyone is expecting a new exer-cycle but what’s really behind door number one is just a can of soup. Only, instead of Campbell’s it’s an envelope that triggers psychosis in the fragile mind of the alcoholic. Did someone just provoke everyone’s favorite unstable Mrs. or say Pee-Wee’s secret word of the day because, wooo woooooooo, the crazy went off the charts in an instant. If making it through one night in a sleazy hotel staring at a bottle of vodka is all Kirsten needs to reassure her she’s ready to be a mom, wife, and run a bequeathed and troubled company then who am I to question Sandy’s relief. But, uh oh, what’s that grey cube in the sky?
I’m standing here on the shore of Newport Beach in my yellow rain jacket to report on the coming destruction of hurricane Borg. I’m sorry to say there’s no new information in Borg-watch but several confirmations of the previously affirmed. The Borg is up to no good. She lies. She drinks. And now we know she’s broke. She also has Kirsten’s family photo which suggests maybe a higher degree of inhumanity or a strong desire to steal Kirsten’s life. She’s blowing this way. Take cover. I’m still pulling for an attempted muff dive but we’ll just have to tune in and monitor the sapphic currents when she makes landfall. Is resistance futile, Ki Ki? Is it?
So, needless to say, I got my wish. Last week I pined for less tension and more muck and the O.C. came out slinging. Families are wrecked. Fortunes are lost. And assimilationist lip-jobbed floozies are on the march. But the kids in Newport may face their greatest horror yet, PUBLIC SCHOOL! Ahhhhhh! Run for your lives! The previews heavily featured a big boned girl making repeated finger-gun gestures at Marissa. This could get ugly – middleclass ugly. Hang on my little Newpsies, the fluids have just begun to flow.
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