Roswell
Ask Not

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Go, Greased Lightning

Fade up on a small but subtly positioned collection of product-placed "On tonight's episode of" CDs strewn across a table, hopefully none of whose lead singers went out of their way to record more than the fifteen cumulative minutes of music necessary for the total approximate length of each band's career. Two hands lower into the frame to work some mad voodoo alien shit on two discs, and after the hands make the music as wigitty-wigitty-wiggity-whack as prefab hip-hop knows how to be, we pan up to find ourselves in the Crashdown during a rather festive night indeed. Disco lights swirl, the music's kickin', and Isabel, Maria, and Tess are smack in the middle of a dance well-learned at The Bring it On Institute for Budding Faux-Female Liberation, a school whose efforts are continually appreciated by dance enthusiasts and pedophiles everywhere. Predictably, Katherine (or, more specifically, Katherine's breasts, who are actually in contract negotiation to each appear separately and under their own names in the opening credits, so focal to the action of the show they have seemingly become. "Tit" and "Tat"? "Head" and "Lights"? "Twin Peaks"? "Heigl's Jiggles"? I don't know. Maybe we should have a contest) dances directly in the camera's gaze, while her two Flygirls are thankfully relegated to the background, dancing that "cock the head, push the floor, push the floor" dance that's angling for sexy and stopping at "Thriller Video." The girls are all at various levels of suggestively slutty undress, because everyone needs a gold miniskirt and knee-high red leather boots to run away from the bad alien hunter men. Don't they, Maria? Yeah, thought you'd be agreeing with that. Nice boots, by the way. Are those leather?

But not all is well. Cut to a nighttime street shot of Max "Mayor of Roswell, New Pecsico" Evans, illuminating the path of his travel with some hefty headlights work of his own. If you know what I mean, and I think you do. Running, running. He has a red handprint across his chest as left by Nasedo, a clear sign that the full, unforgiving force of coming into contact with the pecs is enough to destroy permanently even an entity which once defined itself as indestructible. The pecs continue to teach us lessons of their manifold strength. They possess the power to heal, the power to kill. The power for good and the power for evil. The power to calm, the power to comfort, the power to help you quit. But at least we know that whatever great Glowing Mysterious Orb in the sky Nasedo has gone to, his final action was to lay a hand on the magical pecs. With which he gazed into his shirtless -- er, I mean "fearless" leader's eyes, whispered soulfully, "I love you, Waxed Evans," and slipped from consciousness for the very last time. That's the shit they leave on the cutting-room floor, but you can tell from the repeated viewings: the subtext was screaming it.

Back at the Crashdown, we pan over to the counter to see the spectators of the girlie dance show. Alex sits at the counter thinking he has a chance with the Maxim cover model. Michael sits on the counter 'cause this week Roswell's resident ambiguous rebellious alien is ambiguously rebelling against comfy bar stools. Face it, folks. The man is tough. And, oh my, who else is sitting at the bar? Why, it's Liz "More Wooden Than a Fourth-Grade Teacher's Mythologized Story About Lincoln's Boyhood Home" Parker, leaning back and watching the action. Oh, burn! They won't even let her dance! Oh, she's kind of moving her arms a little. Oy. If she only had a heart. Or insert "Tin Man" humor of you own making. If you must.

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Roswell

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