Episode 810-819

Marian and Jenny have sex, make up, fight, have sex, fight, and make up. (Oy, dizzy now!) Apparently somewhere in there, Marian found the time to downgrade into a stereotypical possessive macho Turk and Jenny into a simpering meek little woman who needs to be guarded closely like a prized possession. Excuse us while we pick the threads of cliché out of our teeth.

Meanwhile at the Orange Wheely Cart of Evil, big bad Greta goes on and on and on about her Evil Plan of Evil. Be glad we spared you that, although we're sad we didn't have room for the nutbrained part of the Evil Plan where she actually CARRIES A SPARE DEAD BODY WITH SOME OF HER TEETH IN IT wherever she goes, just in case she needs to fake her own death. As you do. (And don't get us started on the handy access to the sewers smack below the Orange Wheely Cart of Evil, and the fact that the police are apparently rendered temporarily blind while people climb in and out of that perfectly visible hole.)

Also, bad news for Mike: Lena may be channeling Lois Lane, but Mike's Superman impersonation needs some work on the invincibility front. Meaning: R.I.P., Mike Hartwig. We'll miss your callousness, frequent absences at major sporting events, and that clever way you tricked us into liking you with your occasional sparkles. Occasionally.

We knew the aftermath of Mike's death would bring the Woe, and we weren't wrong. Good god, there were FACES and EXPRESSIONS and LEANING, and no matter what our opinions of his bipolar asshattery/sparkle, we admit we shed a tear or three for Herr Hartwig.

Nonetheless. Deniz, it's not unworrying that your first instinct is still to dissemble. Especially so *badly*. Really, keeping Roman away from the arena when the competition was in the arena? Do you see the flaw in this plan? We know you had his best interests at heart, so you do get a cookie for that. But wouldn't it have been better for everyone if you'd gently broken the news in private? And then indulged in some on-screen comfort sex?

And Roman? If you don't get your arse back on that ice (woobieness notwithstanding) and ACE those qualifications, we're personally going to hold a séance to bring back Mike's ghost for some motivational arse-kicking.

As you've probably noticed by now, it takes a lot to render us speechless. Especially when there's so much to say about how Roman and Deniz support and communicate with each other (and yes, shock Stella with their candor because this ain't your pink fluffy clouds relationship here). And when there's smacking to bestow on anyone who thought the Gay Games reps wouldn't be pleased as punch to watch Deniz pose for hours. And when there are cookies to shower down on cameramen and lighting geniuses and whomever paid enough attention to detail to program Roman's phone with today's date. So much awesomesauce all around!

But sorry, we can't say any of that because we've been rendered temporarily speechless, clinging to the boards of the Steinkamp ice rink with our breath caught in our throats, helplessly enthralled with one of the loveliest skating routines ever (yeah, yeah, we're biased, whatever). Heartbroken-yet-determined grace beats snark, hands down.

Instead, we leave you with the (as ever, apt) lyrics to the song used in Roman and Deniz's routine, "Exogenesis: Symphony Part 2" by Muse:

Rise above the crowds,
And wade through toxic clouds,
Breach the outer sphere,
The edge of all our fears,
Rest with you,
We are counting on you,
It's up to you

Spread our codes to the stars,
You must rescue us all,
Spread our codes to the stars,
You must rescue us all,
Tell us, tell us your final wish
Now we know you can never return,
Tell us, tell us your final wish
We will tell it to the world

Grief Management 101, Ingo... don't scream at your wife when for a change she's not being meddlesome at all. :-( At least there are pretty men handy to comfort her. *cuddles for Roman and Ben*

Later on, we have awkward funeral planning a la Zadek: "Let's have a barbecue!" Okay, now... we know this puts us firmly in the tacky corner of the couch with Deniz-he-of-the-inappropriate-questions, but... splodey!Mike? Barbecue? Is anyone else getting a bad bad visual from that?

Friends, we are gathered here today to remember Mike Hartwig with extra-spicy sausages (did some of those ashes get accidentally scattered on the grill?), mournful Johnny Cash songs, and indelicately abridged emails. Lars, c'mon over and join us at the inappropriate table, there's plenty of room. Bring vodka bottle. (Deniz, love, could you scooch over a wee bit, we need to get Dr. Axel Schwarz in here too. And hand over those nude shots of Oliver -- yeah, we know he sent Roman more than that heartfelt letter.)

Yes, we're going to hell. And Ingo is making us feel bad. This is how we deal with grief, 'kay?

Roman is old! How old is he, you might ask (and so many of you have)? After exhaustive research, we have determined that: he is in his mid-20s (very diplomatic, Marian), that he isn't 18 anymore (helpful as always, L'Arse), and that even Dennis G. has no idea (dude!). Therefore we have taken it upon ourselves to declare that Roman is 27 (going on 28). And we will answer all inquiries about his age with this number until Show makes it canon. (Now don't make us give him a birthdate too, okay?)

But despite Roman's advanced decrepitude, seems nobody can stop touching him. We approve.

Gay Boys With Issues are back with a vengeance... not that they were ever gone, but keep your pink wibble blanket handy for this one: There's blood, guilt, anger, angsty angsty angst, woobie song montages (TM), and well-intentioned mindgames backfiring massively. Dark deeds are pondered, heartstrings are tugged, Dr. Schwarz's arse is begging to be kicked, Roman is rocking the gloomy despair and... NOW HANG ON JUST A WEE MINUTE! There's a BANDAID but there's NO COUCH SEX. Writers, hallo?? You know we're hardcore but even we need the "c" part of h/c sometimes :(

*dons sexy lawyer suits* Mr. Wild, it has come to our attention that you may be in violation of the terms of your contract. The fine print specifically states that you must wear MaleFunction attire at all public events. Your objection that swimwear might get chilly on the ice is not relevant. Furthermore, you and Mr. Öztürk are in grave danger of violating your onscreen contractually obligated making-out clause. Our clients are willing to be flexible for the Gay Games, but they would remind you that you have an obligation to your viewing public, and that furthermore, swimwear is modelled in its best light when draped over your boyfriend's lap. If you require clarification, we're sure our viewers will be happy to provide detailed guidance.

PS: What's a "şıpız", you ask? Oh, you poor ignorant fools. A şıpız is a widely known Turkish expression particularly common among Turkish immigrants that means OH FINE, WE HAVE NO SODDING CLUE, OKAY?? To figure out this damn word, please picture us as the Scoobies, pouring over giant tomes in the Magic Shop, trying to find ANY trace of information about a very elusive demon. Things have gotten so desperate that Giles has taken off his glasses and is mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, Spike is delivering taunts about how we can't find the bloody demon because no one's ever survived an encounter for long enough to write a book about it, Xander has snuck off into the stacks for a nap, and Buffy just wants something to kill.

In conclusion, after shaking Google translator to within an inch of its life, pressganging our friends at large, and consulting several Turkish native speakers who are as flummoxed as us (but helpfully provided an approximate transcription), we think Sam Eisenstein is just being mean and making up shit. We poke our tongues out in his general direction.