Graz might’ve jaunted off to Italy, abandoning me to wallow in my filth and sadness alone for three weeks, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you, seeing as how she made sure we recorded at least one Revengecast (initially it was supposed to be two or three, but then traumatic life events interfered 😕)! So it is in her dearly absent honor that I will attempt a mimicry of her blog post style for this, newest, episode of Revenge.
And what an episode! So neato we had to invite SomeVito! By which I mean “it contains a lot of Mason Treadwell (aka “the best character on Revenge” (aka “One Fat Daddio” (aka “Seersucker Jesus” (aka “Okay Buddy I’ve Read Some Melville In My Time To And If Your Go-To Quote Isn’t “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off” THEN WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM”)))).”
In this episode of Revenge, where as many as two plot-relevant events occur, Emily finds out Momma Clarke (aka “Momanda” or, possibly, “Momily”) was married to the White-Haired Man, gasp! Emily makes as big a deal out of this revelation as is necessary; that is to say: she does not give a literal shit BECAUSE WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE A PIECE OF PAPER CAN’T DEFINE OUR LOVE, BILL BUCHANNAN. This not-literal not-shit-giving is contrasted with Momily tromping over to the Graysons like they didn’t try to have her murdered 15+ years ago and stopping over in their powder room to literally wash the literal blood off her hands in a manner those of us in the business like to call “allegorical.” And what’s one allegorical wrench in the ole gears without another, provided by the immaculately dapper, dashing, and debonair Mason Treadwell, who proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is, in all ways, a Burn Expert, if you know what I mean (that’s a double entendre, savez-vous? SAVEZ-VOUS??)
Because he asks Fauxmanda about her missing burn, b-but also he takes great joy in distributing, to all and sundry present, “burns” which is general slang for… Look, okay, just google it. I don’t have the time to teach remedial dozens.
Meanwhile, Declan is making stupid plans regarding the future prosperity of Mold Heaven (in the past, you’ve heard it referred to as “The Stowaway”), Jack is agreeing with said stupid plans like he’s the HEAD FOREMAN on the STUPID PLAN JOB SITE and THEY’RE NOT PAYING HIM BY THE HOUR, and Padma, who is worse than Declan, is furiously stabbing the modestly pointed end of her cost-effective open-toe business heel into her stupid craw as she aggressively storms towards dooming Nolcorp and its beloved fey wildling/maypole dancer/CEO, Nolan, with the aid of a heat-seeking missile propelled by sheer, unrequited horniness (Aiden) for seemingly no other reason than she refuses to stop talking. And why should she, when Nolan rewards her adorable fiscal catastrophes (OOPSIE! 😂 I TOLD A HEDGE FUND THEY TECHNICALLY OWN THE MAJORITY STAKE IN YOUR COMPANY 😂 I’M SO UNUSUAL! ZOOEY DESCHANEL!) with an incredibly romantic Butlered Beachside Breakfast Brunch! And look I’m not saying Nolan’s Howard Hughes or anything but it seems, like, slightly out of character for a clean freak like him to be willing to tolerate that much sand and surf near that much exposed honeydew. Also, honeydew? I hope you got that shit imported from Europe or Asia or something, Nolan, because there hasn’t been a single iota of flavor in any honeydew grown in the United States in the past 60 years and that’s just a true fact. Not that our just-as-massed-produced-and-flavor-free cantaloupe is that much better, but at least you feel like you’re eating something besides a vaguely moist hunk of styrofoam–though that may just be the full strip of prosciutto I wrapped around its tasty melon core before I shoved it into my fat mouth. As they say in Italia, “Abbraccio!”
Topics for Consideration:
Momanda & The Guest Bedroom; The Dense Secret Of Their Sins
Stop Saying “Ciggy.”
Next Time On: “Coma, Or Really Long Nap?”
A Real Proxy Thing To Do
NONE CAN KILL THE UNBORN
Fauxamanda Makes An Executive Decision
Conrad Prepares A Counterspell