Roswell
Viva Las Vegas

Episode Report Card
Djb: C | Grade It Now!
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The Real World, Las Vegas

Oh, hello, hot banana.

No time-burning previouslys this week, due in no small part to the direct correlation between the weekly developments on this show and how much God just really, really, really seems to hate me. Instead, we join Maria standing in front of a blackboard, chalk in hand, lecturing directly to the camera: "So there's been some confusion. Okay, a lot of confusion. And, uh, the only person who is gonna get you there is me." Oh, goodie. Way to give the already-neglected continuity editor carte blanche to look up for but a second from his director's chair, grunt in that you-talkin'-to-me-oh-clearly-not-ever way, take a swig off the jug with the three X's on the front always perched precariously on his lap, and return to his grueling daily challenge of trying to crack the Junior Jumble. I'm surprised at this scene's accidental good fortune when we cut back to the blackboard and do not find Maria wearing completely new clothes or replaced by Alex's dad or having the head of Maria but the body of a centaur. Continuity check? Check. And so we review. Maria The Non-Centaur turns to the board and draws a large circle, which she tells us is "their planet, off in the middle of the universe somewhere." She draws another, smaller circle. "This is our planet, Earth." Indicates Planet Arium: "Their planet." Indicates Earth: "Earth." Points to the camera: "You with me so far? Fantastic." Heh. She introduces the current incarnation of the Alien Four, replete with accompanying shots of each of them. We learn that "they landed here in 1947." Shot of "Summer of '47." "They gestated in these really gross pods for forty years." Shot of one of the thousands of shots of slimy pod emergence from season one. Shots of humans who know about the existence of aliens, ending with a picture of Maria from, I think, "Monsters," in which she sports her Crashdown tiara and her Eurythmics hair. She notes, "I hate that picture," and the frame wipes to a shot of a "Hybrid Chronicles"-era Maria, which she notes is "much better." And it is. Through his haze, the continuity editor recognizes the sheer impossibility of human hair growing that inordinate length in, like, three month's time, takes another healthy swig from the jug, and flips over the pink slip he's just been handed, using it as scrap paper as he wraps up the Jumble and moves along to the Wordy Gurdy.

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Roswell

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