Heroes: Villains

Last night wrapped up Heroes Volume Three ("Villains"). I sort-of-kind-of-liked the first season of this show. It had some horrible moments but, you know, it was about superheroes and that was cool enough to keep me watching. The second season was a car wreck that was impossible to look away from. It was mangled limbs and gore and shattered glass and fire but it was just too spectacularly horrible to take my eyes off of. It was a nice wallpaper show – TV running but 60% of my attention is on my laptop – and it gave me something to make fun of at the conventions.

Well, if season two was a car wreck then season three, so far, has been two eighteen wheelers running into each other at 80mph while getting sideswiped by an Acela train. Your mom’s driving the first truck and she’s getting ass-fucked by your best friend and face-fucked by your worst enemy while shooting heroin into her eyeballs and eating bloody shit out of an adult diaper. The other truck is driven by Santa Claus. His colonoscopy bag is rocketing through the front seat but he’s paying it no mind because he’s busy shoving the cutest baby you’ve ever seen in a blender and setting the controls for puree. As the two trucks hit Santa’s yelling, “If you only believed in me I would have gotten you that fucking pony!” And now he’s dead, and you’ll never get a pony. The train is being driven by the manifestation of all your hopes and dreams. We’ll call it “Bob.” As Bob’s face gets cut in half by rail and rusted metal you can actually see little bits and pieces crumbling off and being swallowed by the explosions of gasoline and spit and piss. There goes the house with the extensive library. There goes your All-Star pitcher of a son. There goes the hair. There goes the erection. Early-onset Alzheimer’s and another D.U.I. is all you can look forward to now.

This apocalyptic crash is set to the soundtrack of Kenny G covering Phillip Glass’s tribute to the songs of Kenny Loggins. It’s oddly catchy and disturbingly fitting. In the background is a concentration camp where the Jews and gypsies and blacks and Polish and midgets and liberals and puppies and rainbows and cookies are being incinerated. Then the incinerator is being incinerated inside a mammoth incinerator that looks like an open sore sliced across an ankle and smells like the rotting corpse of a dead whale’s aborted fetus’ diseased vagina. The sky is fuschsia explosion and the ground is the color and texture of the morning mucous from an emphysematic lung. There’s stickiness in the air, reminiscent of blood and cum and the crud one finds in the toilet of a long-forgotten Tennessee outhouse.

And while all this is going on you want to pull away. But you can’t – you’re strapped in with your eyelids held open by barbed wire. Your arms are tied-down by the entrails of a vulture that just finished eating a combination of excrement and nun. One bare foot is lodged into the ass of an 800lb shut-in while he seductively licks your other foot as if it’s a bucket of chicken deep-fried in chocolate. You squirm and you yell and you beg for God to take your life. When God doesn’t answer you pledge your allegiance to Satan if he’d just help you turn the TV off. But even he ignores you – you’re in a vacuum with Charles Manson and Adolf Hitler and Christopher Hewett and Sarah Palin. They’re asking you questions about two girls and one cup and lemon parties and goatses and even though you tell them you know what they are they keep showing them to you anyway. An epileptic wildly vomits Fruity Pebbles on your face and in the background is this symphony of pain that will be etched into your brain for as long as you live. Every time you close your eyes you’ll be forced to relive this cacophony of shame and regret and heartache and angel burgers.

And then it’s over. Volume Three is over. But a promo for Volume Four comes on with promise of fugitives and pussy pancakes and asperger gangbangs and mustard gas attacks on your dignity. And you say to yourself, “That’s it, seriously, I’m done! It just doesn’t make sense! How could all of this shit have happened in two days time? How is it possible that every character is capable of forgetting what happened two minutes ago? How are characters' arcs transformed into roller coaster rides that just shake you around until your brain is punctured by your cock and you always end up exactly where they started? How is it that the only thing that ever seems to motivate these characters is a desire to destroy whatever it was they were motivated to accomplish yesterday? What came first, the motivation or the self-hatred?”

And these questions keep running through your head and you laugh and you swear off future episodes but you know, deep down in your self-loathing heart, that you’ll be tuning in at 9PM on February 2nd, ready for another serving of Hell.

At least Ali Larter’s kind of hot for a transvestite.

Labels: heroes, review, television

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