Let's face it, Mary Shannon has some of the best lines of any TV character on television these days.
Okay, what about my Probe? Exactly what image is that supposed to transfer? Because all I'm getting is a paper dress, metal stirrups, and legs akimbo. Exactly what was the thought process behind that marketing coup? Say, Bob, what's a metaphor for an invasive, somewhat humiliating procedure, because we really need something to compete with the Chevy Speculum.
The care and feeding of career criminals like Frankie Nuts is a dicey proposition at best. On any given day, I get to play mother, father, best friend, priest, rabbi, marriage counselor, and yes unfortunately occasionally homicide detective which is why I find myself driving my misogynist metaphor across the desert with a busted air conditioner to hunt down the murderer of the son of my murderer witness. No backup. No plan to speak of. No alternative. Also, Frankie Jr. got killed on my watch. That just pisses me off.
Before you hear it from someone else, I smacked an indian's johnson with a bar of soap today.
The Federal Witness Protection Program is the most secretive organization in all of law enforcement. We do not talk about what we do. Not to friends, not to family, not even to other U.S. Marshals. Which is why my mother, my sister, and even my boyfriend, who by the way isn't really my boyfriend, all think I'm a glorified messenger with a gun. And why Marshall and I work on the roof of the Sunshine Building, while the rest of the U.S. Marshals reside in the Pete Domenici Federal Courthouse, with their mahogany desks, crystal chandeliers and butlers.
We all live in hiding. In one way or another, each of us conceals pieces of ourselves from the rest of the world. Some people hide because their lives depend on it, others because they don't like being seen. And then there are the special cases, the ones who hide because... because... because they just want someone to care enough to look for them.
How many times a week do people tell you you suck?
Yeah, but don't let the PJs fool you. That's one bad-ass law man.
"Happily ever after", the big lie. Those three insidious words, repeated again and again, promising myself and a gazillion other little girls that some day, sure as the sunset, a man prettier than ourselves would sweep us away. To live our lives forever and a day. Blah blah, blah. Never once mentioning the years of quiet desperation that surely followed. Which is why I pray with all my soul that whoever invented the lethal mantra "happily ever after" died penniless, face down in the gutter, with cats gnawing on his ears.
Now then, I want you to understand something. This program is an opportunity very few people get. A shot at fresh start; a do-over of your entire life, but it only works if you make the decision to be a better human being than you've been and allow the possibility of something greater for yourself. And as impossible as it may seem, I've seen even bigger scumbags than you do just that and make it stick.
Because I'm talking to you. Oh my God. You can't look at me. Marshall, for God's sake. It's not like I'm naked.