::runs away before anyone shoots me::
::stops:: Wait a minute, nobody talks to me anyway. ::sticks out chin:: I can say what I want. Lalalala.
Okay, so I'm hopping up and down on the couch because I'm the biggest Spangel-slut (S/X-slut, S/Wes-slut, A/Wes-slut...okay, just slut) out there. There it is, all flashbacky and in your face, yo. Ah, so long sub-text we hardly knew ye. Heh. "with another man" "deviant" Heh. Makes me all tingly.
My husband says, "You are sooo weird."
And I say, "And you love it. Shut up and watch the show. You're interrupting my seething disappointment."
Well, yeah, baby! There were three things that made "Destiny" worth watching and I just mentioned one of them. Can I say Lindsey? LINDSEY!? Hoooo yeah! Bring it on! Love the tattoos. Now I'm all tingly again. And the tender moment between Gunn and Angel...not reading any slashy context there. 'S fine. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar is a damn fine cigar. They connected. I felt it. Wahhh! Sucks to be Angel.
But as for the rest....ehhhh.
And Willy? Go for the three-way. I'm not buying your hurt indignation. I'm not feeling for you. WB wasted all their advertising dollars for a "She's mine!"? I'm not feeling for you, babe, just go for the three-way. Besides your human self may be all huffy-puffy, but your demon self should be a walking hard-on. You're a vampire now. Hello?
And that last Angelus and Dru pose? Over the top. Please. Just please, people.
Oh and how about the matrixy flipping and flying about? All chest-banging and boohooing and fake Captain Kirk blood everywhere. This is a pivotal scene and the only dramatic tension I was feeling was my finger hovering over the remote. We've been waiting years to see this and this is what we get? I could be having hot sweaty sex or reading fan-
And speaking of hot sweaty sex (Spike & Harmony. No. Just no. Do not relive my childhood trauma)...I may be married, but the last time I looked I had to undo my pants to get laid. I've heard of the zipless fuck but come on...And I'm not fan-wanking to say it's vampiric speed zipping (and vampiric belt buckling and vampiric breech buttoning...), I'm just not. They were dry-humping. Say it with me, they were dry-humping. Suspension of disbelief my ass. It's called camera-angle. What, they had an intern on the set those days or something?
Oh, and Eve, thank you for finally taking off that Retaurant Hostess dress. A Hostess may be the epitome of power & evil in lower Manhattan, but when the rest of us eat at Black Angus...uhhmm, we just don't get it. Also, stop talking like you're going to seat us in the nice little booth by the window. It. Gets. On. My. Goddamned. Nerves! And why are you talking to Lindsey like you're going over your grocery list with your goldfish? It's LINDSEY! And "shot over the bow"? Badly written and yet so...badly delivered too. Get a dialogue coach, woman! Everybody else does (well, except for certain actors who do flashback scenes...).
I'm going to be facing the torches and pitchforks for this one...JM, you've done better, dude. This is your time to shine. Don't just show up to work to goof around with the guys and get a paycheck. Just don't. Don't get me wrong. You're good and you did a good job last night. But good is not good enough. We know better. People would pay good money to see you read from the telephone book while you fondle a rock. And I know the scripts can be sub-par, but you can deliver a line from here to Toledo. I know the movies sing and the theater calls to you. Maybe you just want to get on with your career. Maybe you don't want to be known as
JM, you can act the pants off anybody in the room (oh, and please, please do). Except for AD (you can act the pants off each other, I won't mind). So when DB takes your pants off and runs away with them, there is something seriously wrong with the universe...
So my husband says, "What's your problem? It's just a TV show."
Well, my problem is that I'm a fan. Which is short for fanatic. I don't have to be realistic. I don't have to make sense. I'm in bondage to the thing, damn it. I'm going to watch, and I'm going to bitch, and I'm going to hope.
I'm going to lie there straining against the ball-gag in my mouth while the Saturday morning cartoon that masquerades as the show called Angel dances nakedly about me. It's taunting me with the Feather of Delight, crooning, "You'll never be satisfied..." Now if I could only get loose from the handcuffs of hope, I'd like to throttle the little clit-tease.
It itches and I just can't scratch.