Comedy Review #417

Okay, without further ado (and let's face it, it's long overdue), here's B5 Comedy Review #5: The Exercise of Vital Parts.

[begin preachy bit]

Now, I know that the newsgroup will have less people reading it, for whom the rest of the series was possibly spoiled by a subject header, but I've written this anyway, for the benefit of those who still have faith in this newsgroup, but whose sanity was shred many moons ago...

[preachy bit ends]

We start off with a fuzzy-grey TV snowstorm, which is a genius attempt to make us think:

1.The transmitter has gone off the air.
2.The video's gone on the blink. Again.

However, it's neither of these. Simply, Ovenivy is merely presenting another edition of "B5 Today". But where's Clive Anderson? And that testcard with the girl with the doll? Clearly, it was too hilarious a testcard for such a serious show.

Garibaldi is our new narrator, and he's good... real good. He tells us that, in the space of two episodes, Sheridan (boo!! Hiss!!) has turned into a right old Fascist git, pushing his weight around and generally thinking he can go up against Prezzy Clarke. But, way Garibaldi sees it,
Sher-o-ho-ho-dan is Clarkeing up the wrong tree, and should quit while he's ahead. Mr.Morden didn't quit, and *he's* a head, so this is frankly stupid advice.

Gary gets on the silly Mars high-speed thingy, where he meets Wade Schwade (who bears a strange resemblance to Stewart Copeland). Wade says: "Mr.Shhchhshchsh Edgarssshchshs wantchshch to shheeeee yooouu."
Garibaldi can't understand a word Wade's said, so he is under some apprehension when Mr.Schwade hands him a blindfold.
"Itsssh a sshheeecret location, Mr.Girabudo. Wear schis."

Garibaldi wears it, and later on is shown into a tiny bedroom, which is smaller than his 'hovel' on B5.
"This is plainly tichy." he utters. Wade says:
"I can alwayschshch move you into schomewier schmaller, Mr.Girowaldo."

Garibaldi declines the offer.

Some time later, he goes to see the Bill Gates of his time, Bill Edgars.
Mr. Edgars looks like George Orwell, and even has a silly little faded moustachio to prove it. Gary sits down and they chat.
"Mr.Garibaldi, have you heard of socialism?"
"Look, I don't know *WHO* you are, or WHAT you want with me."
"Mr.Garibaldi, I'm not here to discuss politics."
"Look, I don't know *WHO* you are, or WHAT you want with me..."

And so on. The next 15 minutes is rather confusing, something about Sheridan's a fool and Clarke's an amateur. Amateur at what? Fly fishing?
Back to medilab, where Doctor Frankenstein is trying to revive his latest patient.
"Wake up, damn you. Nurse, 500cc of engine oil, please..."
Sadly, he fails in his task. But Lyta comes in and finds something in common with the patient. Telepathy. The patient gets up like a zombie, arms stretched out, and holds hands with Lyta. It's like Sleeping Beauty, only the other way round. Sort of, Sleeping Telepathic FREAK!!

So, Frankie considers this a success for some bizarre reason.
"Wow!! Lyta!! You got him to move. That's amazing. 5 bucks an hour, you're on the payroll."

So, that sums up Dr. Frankie's idea of success. If someone electrocuted a dead frog so it leapt around, he'd consider that a success. Too many stims have, for him.

Sheridan places a call to Dr. Frankenstein. Now he looks like a member of the third reich, swanning around on his bloody Whitestar like some pompous oaf.
"Ein Stein," he scowls, monocle falling every which way, "Haz yuu th' frozen bodies ready for reviving?"

The doctor looks worried.
"Look, Sheridan, I'm eating my dinner right now, and I hate it when it goes cold."

Sheridan adjusts his monocle.
"Aahh.. zee telepathz are cold... they should be walking arunt... MY UWN PRIVATE ARMY!! Give... give me my telepaths"

Frankie turns off the monitor and leaves Medilab to talk to Lyta Alexander, who's spending her new-found wealth, and has acquired a New York accent.
"Nyah... let's go the canteen, Doc. Nyah..."

Frankie looks panic-stricken, and recites, out of breath:
"Jesus... Sheridan's gone nuts... he wants those telepaths reviving... his own private army... and... my dinner's... gone cold."
Lyta looks at him like he's crazy.
"Nyah. Ya wanna go eat?"
Doc glares at her.
"No, no. Not now. Look, there's money in this. Sheridan's richer than we could possible imagine. He'll pay me and you to further his evil ends. Now, I'm pretty broke with that sim-stim habit, and I know you're, er, exercising vital powers for some spare change. So, you in?"
"Nyah. Yah."

So she's in.

Back at George Orwell's estate, Garibaldi is sleeping, then is suddenly set upon by the SAS, and literally strewn out of bed and into a cold, dim chamber, where George Orwell and his comely assistant are seated.

"Pleased to meet you, old boy. Take a seat." murmurs Orwell in his best Eton, cigarette dangling from the very edge of his fringe. Garibaldi looks worried and is out of breath with worry.
"Jesus... there go the men in black (pa-pa), and your men in black (la-a-la-laah) interrupted a really great dream... there was Mrs.Edgars...
and a capsule of telepath serum... and a pineapple..."

[Footnote:Some of you may not have heard the Will Smith song:Men in Black (uh..uh...) and will therefore not get the joke... So be it]

"Mr.Garibaldi, take a seat," says Edgars/Orwell, "Forgive my men in black (pa-pa), they need the money. Now, let me tell you about my new novel..."

Garibaldi starts breaking things and screaming "Who are you? What do you want with me?". Mr.Orwell turns up a hidden volume control and a
high-pitched whine sounds. Mr.Garibaldi falls to the ground, clutching his ears.

"Now, Mr.Garibaldi, let me tell you about my novel. There are two states, constantly at war with each other. One is called Earthopia, the other is Babylonia. They are in perpetual war, perpetuated by thoughtspeak, run by telepaths."

"Cut the crap, Edgars, what do you *REALLY* do?"

And thus ends another episode, and the roles are, again, reversed:
Sheridan is now the evil bloke.

Edgars/Orwell is now the neutral bloke with only business interests at heart.

Wade is still a Schwade.

Garibaldi seems to be a good guy, unless he really *was* brainwashed.

Ivanova will never get a better job than TV presenter.

Looks like JMStravinski done a G'Kar on Sheridan. We thought GK was an evil bloke originally, now he's a good bloke. Vice versa for Sheridan.

But are telepaths really all that bad? Where's Bester? (at a Star Trek convention, maybe?)

One.. two...
"Here come the telepaths... (pa-pa), na na na naaaa na naaaa, here come the men in black (psi-corp), na na na naaa na naaa, naaa...

Points for De Scum:

  1. What does Edgars *REALLY* want? Kill telepaths? Nah, surely not. He wouldn't do *that*.
  2. Errrr... How far is Sheridan prepared to go to look like a total third reich loonie bloke? Quite far? Sure diddums.
  3. Ummm... Garibaldi is crackin' under the stress. How long before he splits open like that Alien poster?
  4. Well...
  5. That is...
  6. Why is there no testcard on B5 TV anymore? Did Clarke ask for them to take his likeness off? Ya nevuno.
  7. Mmmm... Why does Edgars look like George Orwell? I find this silly.
  8. Hmm. Hmm. Going on the good episode/bad episode pattern, what are the chances that next week's episode will suck immensely? As much chance as an American newbie will post a spoiler? Perhaps.

Last of all:
If you've just read this, remember *I NEED HELP*. I mean, *I NEED CRITICISM*. Tell me if this week's review was funny or not, whether you liked it. 'Cos if I download my news on that sunday afternoon and see a threadless "B5 Comedy Review #*" halfway up the screen, then NO MORE FOR A MONTH!! That's right!! I just will put down my quill and, arms, folded, stare blankly into space until I get some FEEDBACK.


(I apologise for the little third reichy german bits above, any germans reading. Purely for comedic element, they in no way detract from the facts of the history books. Or something).

(Apologies also to the Minbari... once ridiculed by me, you are no doubt a peaceful race with the best intentions... Now stop erasing the newsgroups off my harddrive, SCUM)...

1997 Jeremy Smith.