CSI
Fur And Loathing

Episode Report Card
Aaron: B- | Grade It Now!
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Yiff-A-Dee Doo-Dah

Oh, and just in case you weren't paying close attention, the preceding scene contained the words "emetic," "mothball," "Manimal," "sober," "schmohawk," "ipecac," "civet," "pharaoh," "aphrodisiac," and "Warrick."

Hey, look! It's Brass! He leads Catherine into Rocky's home, which is dark and sort of messy, even though you'd think a raccoon would be pretty diligent about eating up any garbage that might get left lying around. Catherine notices a veritable gaze of stuffed raccoons on Rocky's bed, leading her to observe that "if you want to know what the man really is all about, check out his bedroom." Great. That means I'm all about unread books and allergy medications. No wonder I live alone. "Now this scares me," deadpans Brass. Heh. Catherine tries desperately to find some logic in the situation: "A man lives alone, has no relatives, no attachments…so he forms his own furry little family." Well, that seemed unnecessarily snarky. "Don't worry, Aaron," whispers my plush Lauren Ambrose Beanie Baby, "they just mock what they don't understand." Brass notices something called "PAFcon" on the guy's calendar, and realizes that whatever it is, it's still going on. A special super-duper TiVo freeze-frame reveals that the other entries on Rocky's calendar relate to the picking up and completion of "TPS forms," a show called Marsupial Madness (which airs Fridays at 8:00 on Channel 16, if you want to set a season pass), and a "virus scan" scheduled for the second business day of the month. Oh, great. For some reason I'm totally scared by the fact that this guy owns a computer. Probably because you just know his screen name is fuZZyluv2k and he spends all his non-con-attending waking hours composing torrid cross-over slash-fic about Bullwinkle and Simba from The Lion King.

And then the saucy, fair-haired commercials pressed him deep into their heaving alabaster bosom. "No!" cried the Olive Garden waitress. "We musn't!" "We must," whispered the strong, virile Pac-Life whale. "The electric touch of your grease-soaked fingers on my blowhole has thrown me into a passionate rage! Our love cannot be denied!"

PAFcon. The director starts off slow, with a couple of guys in plastic masks and a kid with a stuffed animal backpack, just so we can get our bearings. "The 'Plushies and Furries Convention,'" observes Gil. "And we're looking for a bright blue plushie. I think." They round the corner, and that's right about when things start getting weird. The room is filled with people in fuzzy animal costumes, including a Dalmatian chatting up a chipmunk, a duck who struts around like John Travolta in Staying Alive, and a donkey posing for a picture with a gorilla. "This is fascinating," gushes Gil. "A whole tribe of people who prefer to interact as fuzzy animals rather than human beings." "I think I'm having Hunter S. Thompson flashbacks," replies Catherine, before taking the actual punch line to that joke and wadding it up in a ball of Saran Wrap so that it'll still be fresh when they need it thirty-five minutes from now. ["I, meanwhile, think I'm having ER flashbacks. Way to keep it current, Zuiker." -- Sars] Gil goes on to pontificate at length about the plushie lifestyle, using terms like "Native American war dances" and "Jungian archetype," which only serves to make me use terms like "blah blah blah furcakes." Mmm. Furcakes. They spot a rather humorous sign announcing the day's schedule (which other TiVo users have already freeze-framed for you in the forums). After deciding that they should "divide and mingle," Gil announces his intention to take in a lecture.

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