Roswell
A Roswell Christmas Carol

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Djb: D+ | Grade It Now!
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Fa la la la...not

Opening credits: Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat. Please to put a penny in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do. If you haven't got a ha'penny…you can still afford to double this show's F/X budget. Nice green wall, Good King Pecs-ceslas.

The Djb Store has sold out of "my last nerve," so much have I already had it with the kitschy soundtrack, which greets us upon triumphant return from commercial with a ditty by the Barenaked Ladies' non-union counterpart "The Clothes-Free Females," or whatever, who let us know that they want "an alien for Christmas this year." Maria is behind the counter at the Crashdown, and Michael rings the bell from behind the short-order window and beckons his good woman over. She calls him "spaceboy" to remind the viewing audience that Michael is, in fact, an alien, seeing as nothing else in this episode has thus far fulfilled that task. He comes clean in telling her, "We got three days till Christmas," and politely requests that they wait until after the holiday to exchange gifts. He's working every day? Well, I guess after the nine-week sabbatical he just wrapped up a few weeks back, it makes sense that's he'd have to string a few days together. Maria asks if he needs "a little wiggle room." Gack. Not in those jeans, Puffy. And for the love of Jack Frost, I don't ever want to think about Michael Guerin joined with the words "wiggle room" ever, ever again. Either way, Maria thinks she's cloaking her sarcasm marvelously, at least through the line, "How about the second week of January?" She guilt trips about Christmas being "the birthday of our Lord and Savior," and tacks on a classically in-the-spirit-of-said-Lord-and-Savior rider with the galling threat, "You give me that damn present on December 25th or I'll never speak to you again." She smiles wanly and walks off, to…

…inside of Simon from Go's office at the UFO Center, donning her now some truly gay apparel of a brown, burlap-y poncho thing, adorned in orange shag-carpet trim ripped right up off the floor of the seventies basement rec room set of a new ad campaign the FBI was finally able to stop Calvin Klein from shooting. She calls Simon's name repeatedly, even though he's sitting right there in the corner of a not-really-that-dark-after-all room. He says hi, and she launches into a prepared speech about her "non-boyfriend, Michael Guerin," which he is quick to shut down. "It's just not really a good time." Awwwww. No flirty, here's your sandwich, "pepperjack-frost-nipping-at-your-nose" chattiness for Maria and Simon this week, I'm sad to report. He expositions with a little more grace than the aforementioned Rupert, but the dialogue is still so transparent and deliberate that he's still less Basil and perhaps more their solid but predictable uncle, Carl Exposition. And this is what he says: "Listen, I'm gonna be away for a couple of days. You don't need to bring my lunch." She asks if everything is all right, and he lies and tells her yes with a "fine" that says "let's forgo garlands this year and decorate the tree entirely in foreshadowing." She makes for the door with a "Merry Christmas," which he whispers in return all ruefully after she's out the door. This involves the looming specter of death, I bet.

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Roswell

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