This episode finally had a character on the show suffer the realization that I did dozens of episodes ago. Deb is all like, “Harry was probably a puke-filled toilet of a Dad.” Even if you take away the idea that Dexter is interpreting Harry’s code through a blood-soaked curtain, why the fuck would a Dad ever drub up such a thing? All I know is that if I ever have a sociopathic kid, I probably won’t default to teaching him the right people to kill. I’ll probably start with therapy. Throw in some mind-massaging medications. See where that goes. I don’t have to worry about that, though. Whatever sort of child rears up out of my scrotum isn’t going to be a serial killer. He’ll be a manic depressive and lord willing I’ll try the same methods I would if he were a sociopath. Worst comes to worse he’ll end up like me, masturbating and playing video games. It’s a solid existence, if not a valorous one.
Maybe Harry just didn’t want to accept that the crying little duder he dragged out of a blood-filled shipping container was broken. His raw love for Dexter overrode what was an obvious need to rock whatever sort of healthcare provider he had and get his son a serious set of cognitive behavior therapeutics.
Oh LaGuerta, you son of a gun.
Props to the writers for going with LaGuerta on the Bay Harbor Butcher tip. The show is excellent at play-action. It loves obfuscating the obvious in a mire of dumb fucking emotion. After seasons of painting LaGuerta as a soulless manipulator, she could very well be the one to bring down Morgan. My natural reaction is to want to dunk her head in the same puke-filled toilet that was Harry’s fathering, but then I’m all wait. Wait a second.
Dexter is a goddamn serial killer. Dude killed Doakes! Cold-blooded! It’s a clever ploy, getting my back all up by having such a loathsome character undertaking a righteous act. There I was, spitting at the television, SpaghettiOs flying all over the bluish hue of the plasma screen. Then realization set in. I sat down. Nodded my head. Understood that I was being played the fool. Again. Dexter loves juxtaposing rationality against emotion.
That Dexter guy.
Dexter himself is the best example of emotion running amok. The show (no shit!, you’re saying) works because it has the viewer empathizing with a murderer. There is clever equivocation. He murders the bad guys. Batman with a blood lust. There is his charm. However after seven seasons, all that paint is flecking off the walls. Dexter’s clever code has fallen apart, if it were ever useful in the first place.
What I used to think was a clever guy running against the tide is now a fumbling addict. A package of damaged goods approaching its expiration date. I used to be aggravated at Dexter’s stupidity in handling of his murderous affairs, but I ain’t any longer. What I should have realized a while back is now apparent: dude has got a sickness.
Quinn is totally from Fallout 3.
What is up with Quinn. They always pair the dude up with a storyline that has some dime (or nickle, or penny, whatever) getting the hots for him. I don’t see it. He’s a strange orange huge, he blew up the bridge out of Gotham in Bruce Wayne Climbs, and none of his clothes fit. For years its bothered me, but I finally realized where I know Quinn from. The dude looks like every goddamn ghoul in Fallout 3. Maybe his radioactive ass emits some sort of brain-scrambling frequency that casts him in some sort of attractive aura? That is the best I got. He looks like a hobo who pulled some decent clothes and the keys to a nice car off the corpse of a better man.
He’s all wrapped up in that storyline with the stripper and the Kiev guy or whatever. Does anyone give a shit about this filler feint? I mean, I realize they need to give the rest of the cast something to do, but at this point is just tastes like poop pudding. Recycled poop pudding. Yet again, Quinn is led around by his nads by some lady while Angel barks disappointment at him. I’d rather just see the two of them getting trashed and doing donuts in Angel’s car.
Serial killer philosophers and action figures.
How about the serial killer philosopher? Just dropping some knowledge in the middle of enjoying an ice cream cone on Dexter’s ass. His episode-ending monologue was a bit of a blather. Oh shit! Obvious foil! How many times has Dexter done this? Whatever. Now Dexter is all sad and shit, doubting his ability to change. Wah, wah. Shitty Hairline Serial Killer Philosopher’s boring and obvious rant at the end of the episode was offset by his righteous metamorphosis into a cake of mushed organs across asphalt. I’ll take that transaction every time.
Then there’s Louis-Lewis-Louie. The fuck is that guy up to? Dexter should have rolled that dude when he had the change. Now Lou is all smacking lips with Angel’s sister right in Dexter’s own pad. As an aside, props to Louis for respecting Aquaman’s points of articulation. Nothing ruined childhood rumbles between my action figures like a lack of character flexibility How the hell is Hogan supposed to pile-drive Wolverine if neither of them can assume the position? Preposterous. Then, a bit down the road when adolescence hit: how are my friends supposed to cop my figures into homoerotic orgies while I’m not paying attention if they don’t bend at the waist?
Deborah Morgan and the serial killer rehab.
You can read Deb’s insistence on trying to rehab Dexter two ways. First is that it is patently dumb writing, and that there is no way she could think this nonsense is actually going to work. A week ago I was crediting her for being a hell of a detective. This week she thinks she can reform her mentally ill brother who has been killing people for double decades, yo! Or, if you feel like being charitable you can return to my earlier idea. Like Harry, she’d rather double-down on a fleeting idea than face the monster before her. She condemns her father for a ridiculous idea, while her own emotions eat her up in ways that last season she wished Dex would. Hey-o! Lame joke awash in a lame column. I apologize.
It makes sense, though. While contemplating it, I sure as shit don’t think I could turn my brother in. And even if I did, I would definitely grasp at straws before doing so. So it goes! Serial killer rehab, dudes from Kiev stabbing people in the eye, and Louis totally butthurt. Can’t wait to see where it goes.- Caffeine Powered