With the Funky-thon officially concluded, our narrative turns not to Summer sports, nor to band camp; neither to the Les-Cayla-Susan triangle. As “Crazy” Harry sits at Montoni’s counter abusing the free coffee, in the back of the pizza joint two co-workers pass like ships in the afternoon. Wally has traded in his ballcap for an olive drab schmatte, and carries a teetering stack of plates (a “lazy man’s load”, my Mom would say). Rachel, apparently desperately lonely and/or hot for Wally, responds to his offhand greeting as if it were a marriage proposal: “Yes? YES? SAY IT, Walter! Say the word, my soldier boy!” She is mortified when Wally orders her to stand down.
The good news here is that the nearly two-month long Funky-thon (if you go back to June 9 when DSH John ccouldn’t pay his rent) appears to be concluded at long last (except we will never know what happened to the other driver).
The bad news? Les in an apron. And “Crazy” Harry, “thinking”. Apparently the only postal worker Batiuk has ever known is a guy from Boston named Cliff Clavin. Of course, Cliff was able to make us laugh, while “Crazy’s” musings only serve to give us douche chills.
Could this storyline take any longer!? Theories about a possible time slip seem to be accurate, and it now looks like Funky has stepped back in time– how far is anyone’s guess, but from the lack of steam-trains, horse-drawn wagons and dinosaurs, it can’t be too long ago. Knowing Funky, he’s going to screw something up; or is this all building towards to Grand Finale, where he’s able to fix everything? At the speed the story is being told, Funky won’t even be reaching into his pocket for his spare set of keys until sometime in mid-August.
Funky seems to have bumped his head a bit harder than it first appeared last Sunday. By now, it’s clear something is going on.
1. Maybe he’s got a mild concussion and is having a pleasant little dream before waking up to his crashed PT Cruiser.
2. Maybe his brains are splattered all over the PT’s shrapnelized plastic dashboard and now even the most seasoned paramedics are puking their guts out on the side of the road as they try and collect what body parts they can.
In either case, he’s wandering around some sort of alternate version of Westview, perilously close to blundering into another time jump. Think Funky’s gut and balding head look bad now? What do you think another ten years would do to him? Do we really want to see Pete and Summer’s love child!?
Son of Stuck Funky 