Author: JennyTrout

This posted on YouTube some time in the night, but I was in a Benadryl stupor and didn’t post it to the blog. This week, on Roadhouse, we discuss bad days and how to cope with them:

You’re not having deja vu, this is cross-posted to The Boss blog, as well.

Are you tired of waiting for chapter by chapter updates? Wanna read the entire novel right now? Well, it’s your lucky day, because from now until May 11th, you can register to win the uncorrected proof of The Boss. The winner will get to know what happens to Sophie and Neil before anyone else. That’s some pretty big incentive.

I’m going to tell you where to go and how to win, but first, I have to share something that blew me away this morning. I logged in to blogger to make this post, and this is what I found:

Over a hundred thousand views? That’s unbelievable! Thank you so much to everyone who has tweeted, facebooked, blogged, or just outright badgered your friends into reading.

So, now you want to know how to win the full version of The Boss. Over the past weeks, people have been fan-casting Neil in the comments section of each chapter. We want you to go to That’s What I’m Talking About and tell us what real-life person you’re imagining as Neil Elwood. And of course, enter the Rafflecopter giveaway. Follow the instructions and you can earn up to 5 entries per day!

Writing Neil and Sophie’s story has been the most fun I’ve ever had writing. Your reception of this project has been overwhelming. Thank you so much for reading, and I’ll see you next week with chapter fifteen!

Hey guys! Last night, I posted chapter fourteen of The Boss early, because someone pointed out how shitty is was that they were getting snow in the midwestern United States. I took pity on them, because for freaking ONCE, Michigan is getting some actually awesome weather right now. So, you can find chapter fourteen here.

This Saturday, you’re also going to be able to enter to win the entire uncorrected .pdf proof of The Boss. As in, you’d get to read the ending ahead of everyone else. So, tune in on Saturday for the link to that contest.

Also, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten the Buffy recap up. I’m struggling with some hell combo of allergies and the common cold, on top of adjusting to my new seizure medication. It’s like being on a roller coaster except for it’s no fun and there’s more nausea. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Keep on rockin’ in the free world, and as always, you guys are the absolute best.

One of my tweeps, who will remain anonymous so I don’t accidentally impact her livelihood, managed to get her hands on a copy of E.L. James’s soulless cash grab writing journal, and took pictures to share with all of you:

I assume the key is a metaphor for unlocking the secrets of blatantly ripping off another author’s work and making crazy mad bank on it.

But what does it look like inside?

Isn’t that just the most precious advice from a fanfic writer? Shake off the bullshit and you find the core of the sentiment: “I didn’t write it for you, I wrote it for myself and I don’t care if you like it!” Spend any time at all perusing the reviews at FanFiction.net and you’ll find this same statement over and over from immature authors responding to even the mildest forms of criticism. I can only assume further pages of Inner Goddess share wisdom like, “I had to write it for school, I don’t care what you think!” and “Don’t like, don’t read!”

So, a fool and his money, I guess is what I’m getting at here.

Thing The First: My grandparents brought over a box of those pre-made Rice Krispies treats for the kids. You know, I remember a time when my grandparent bought ME those pre-made Rice Krispies treats, but whatever. I bitterly digress.

Jenny: “Trust me, you don’t get it because you’ve never read Pride and Prejudice, but that is a sick burn.”

Joe: “Oooh, yeah. Girl burn.”

And yes, “girl burn” was said in admiration.

Before we get started, some links!

Sean sent this article about how the Khaleesi might be Ana in the 50 Shades movie. Oh jeez.

Second, check out this video Katharine Coldiron shared with us, in which Ron Charles discusses why E.L. James was named, quite rightly, publishing person of the year.

Then last night, when I was done watching videos of people popping ingrown hairs and cleaning their ear wax out and all that other weird shit I watch on youtube, I watched this video of Stephen King talking about 50 Shades of Grey. This link will start the video at 48:20, which is where he addresses 50 Shades, but if you’ve got an hour to kill and you’re into writing, it’s really worth watching the whole Q & A, because he’s fucking brilliant and super laid back.

Okay, so when we last left everybody in this clusterfuck, Elliot had just proposed to Kate.

The attention of the entire restaurant is trained on Kate and Elliot, waiting with bated breath as one. The anticipation is unbearable. Silence stretches like a taut rubber band. The atmosphere is oppressive, apprehensive, and yet hopeful.

It’s only oppressive to Ana because, as stated, Kate is the center of attention and not her.

Jeez- he could have asked her privately.

Wait, what was that?

Jeez- he could have asked her privately.

Is that… wait. Guys. GUYS.

…

………..

……………..

I THINK E.L. JAMES GOT SOMETHING RIGHT!

Oh fuck, that’s right. Even though Ana apparently understands that a private proposal is less embarrassing and exerts a lot less pressure on the person being proposed to, these books are still a steaming pile of shit. I guess it’s a good thing I stopped my celebration before posting Liza Minnelli singing “New York, New York,” or David Hasselhoff singing “I’ve Been Looking For Freedom” atop the crumbling Berlin Wall or some shit like that. Because that level of enthusiasm would have been embarrassing.

So, of course Kate says yes, and Elliot gives her the ring he picked out with Gia, which Ana finally gets even though it was telegraphed super fucking hard all through the last chapter.

Christian orders champagne to celebrate and tells Kate:

“I hope you are as happy in your marriage as I am in mine.”

That’s rude.

Mia wants to go clubbing like, right now.

“I think we should ask Elliot and Kate what they’d like to do.”

As one, we turn expectantly to them. Elliot shrugs and Kate turns puce. Her carnal intent toward her fiance is so clear I nearly spit four-hundred-dollar champagne all over the table.

Notice how when Ana is embarrassed about sex stuff, she flushes or blushes, but if Kate is embarrassed, she turns puce, a red-brown color named after, I shit you not, flea droppings. Because Ana can be the only pretty girl in the room.

Zax is the most exclusive nightclub in Aspen- or so says Mia.

It’s so exclusive, even the Aspen Chamber of Commerce has no clue it exists. You know, I’ve never worried that something I wrote might influence tourism or send vacationers to a place that doesn’t exist. Because that sounds like crazy talk. Even E.L. James didn’t expect her book to become such a success, because no one honestly does. This strikes me as just insanely funny; people are so slavishly devoted to these shitty books that they’re trying to track down the most exclusive fictional nightclub in Aspen… if it’s so exclusive, how do they think they’re getting in?

I glance at my watch- eleven thirty in the evening, and I’m feeling fuzzy. The two glasses of champagne and several glasses of Pouilly-Fume during our meal are starting to have an effect, and I’m grateful Christian has his arm around me.

I get that Ana is a big league alcoholic now, but I’m highly doubting that at an increased altitude she’s “fuzzy” and not black-out unconscious after all of that.

“Mr. Grey, welcome back,” says a very attractive, leggy blonde in black satin hot pants, matching sleeveless shirt, and a little red bow tie. She smiles broadly, revealing perfect all-American teeth between scarlet lips that match her bow tie.

I like how “all-American” is totally a positive thing in this book, while “European” is used as an insult. It doesn’t give insight into how an American character thinks, so much as it gives insight into how a non-American author thinks an American character should think. 

A young man dressed entirely in black, fortunately not satin, smiles as he offers to take my coat. His dark eyes are warm and inviting. I am the only one wearing a coat- Christian insisted I take Mia’s trench coat to cover my behind- so Max has to deal only with me.

See, he let her make her own choice with regards to the dress. She just has to wear a fucking trench coat all night, in August.

“Nice coat,” he says, gazing at me intently.

He’s not flirting, Ana, he’s wondering why you’re wearing a coat in August when it’s clearly so warm that no one else is doing so.

Beside me, Christian bristles and fixes Max with a back-off-now glare. He reddens and quickly hands Christian my coat check ticket.

You can tell the author is really skilled if the only way she can show the romantic connection between two characters is by having them be constantly jealous of people they will never, ever see again and will never have to interact with in day-to-day life.

Ana once again refers to a woman as what she’s wearing:

Miss Satin Hot Pants flutters her eyelashes at my husband, flicks her long blonde hair, and sashays through the entryway. I tighten my grip around Christian, and he gazes down at me questioningly for a moment, then smirks as we follow Miss Satin Hot Pants into the bar.

What, is this woman going to literally rip him from your arms? “I touched him last, he’s mine now!” Jesus. And when will these two idiots get that people who are waiters and waitresses at bars, nightclubs, restaurants, etc. are usually flirting for a bigger tip? It’s not because they have a genuine interest in their customers. Flirting just loosens up some wallets and you have to make that money somehow.

They go into the nightclub, which Ana describes but I really don’t give a shit. The only thing that bothered me was:

The floor and walls vibrate with the music pulsing from the dance floor behind the bar, and lights are whirling and flashing on and off. In my heady state, I idly think it’s an epileptic’s nightmare.

I’m just super offended by that, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I have seizures, myself, and I get annoyed with other people who don’t decide what will/will not cause seizures. Usually, because it’s all the same jokes about flashing lights or Japanese tv. But I could be oversensitive because of all the other stuff I hate in these books.

They go to a booth, where I can give you some writing advice:

Kate and Elliot sit back on the soft velvet seating, hand in hand. They look so happy, their features soft and radiant in the glow from the tea lights flickering in crystal holders on the low table.

Word repetition is a bear for every single writer. In fact, if you ever meet a writer who says they don’t have an issue with accidental word repetition, throw holy water on them because they’re a gremlin in disguise. Every writer struggles with this. Here’s how you get rid of word rep like the one I emphasized above. See the first usage? Name a time when velvet has been, I don’t know, sharp or hard as iron. Right. So, if Kate and Elliot just sit back on the velvet seating, we know already that velvet is soft. The first use is unnecessary.

Kate shows Ana her ring, and Christian says he’s picking up the tab for the entire table, despite everyone’s objections. And Ana thinks:

I gaze at him lovingly. My Fifty Shades… always in control.

The obsessive need to control other people isn’t a lovable quality. I’m going to guess that his brother has caught on to Christian’s habit of using his money to control other people, and that’s why he doesn’t want Christian to buy the drinks.

But whatever.

Ana has issues with the waitress, too:

“Thank you, sir. Coming right up.” Miss Hot Pants Number Two gives him a gracious smile, but he’s spared the fluttering of eyelashes, though her cheeks redden a little. 

I’m sure Christian is super relieved to not have a beautiful waitress flirt with him. Because he’s so not-at-all-shallow and totally doesn’t get off on other people having a good opinion of him to the point that he’s buried his actual personality beneath glass-and-steel office buildings and apartments and lavish excess in public. I also feel compelled to point out that once again, the woman who “flushes” or “blushes” over a hundred times in the first book alone is critical of another woman doing the same thing when meeting a famous person in real life.

I shake my head in resignation. He’s mine, girlfriend.

Okay, enough. Just fucking enough with this whole jealousy bullshit. It’s stupid and appeals only to jealous people who base their entire self-worth on whether or not someone else wants what they have. To the rest of us, who have realistic amounts of self-esteem and shit? It just looks petty and immature.

Then, there is a whole fucking chunk of page devoted to Ana once again pointing out to Christian that women find him attractive, and Christian once again pretending that he’s never noticed, and then both of them deciding that neither of them have anything to be jealous about. THEN WHY DID YOU JUST WASTE MY TIME?

Christian gives Ana water to drink:

“Here,” Christian hands me a glass of water. “Drink this.”

I frown at him and see, rather than hear, his sigh.

He doesn’t say, “I don’t want our obvious and overly telegraphed baby to be born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome,” though.

“Three glasses of white wine at dinner and two of champagne, after a strawberry daiquiri and two glasses of Frascati at lunchtime. Drink. Now, Ana.”

I call bullshit. TRIUMPHANTLY, I CALL BULLSHIT. Here’s the thing about Colorado: if you’re not from there, it tries to murder you the second you get there. I’ve been to Colorado ONE TIME. It was for a sales conference for Harlequin. Now, I drank a lot at the time. Like, “lie on the form you fill out at the doctor’s office when it asks how much you regularly drink” kind of a lot. I had ONE drink in Colorado Springs, a rum and coke, a drink that I regularly had four or five of a night, and it laid me OUT. Like, staggering, can’t talk kind of laid out. Because I didn’t know about altitude. I also got altitude sickness and was almost strangled to death by my own lymph nodes. I do not buy that Ana could drink that much after being in Aspen for a day and not be in the fucking hospital.

Taking  the glass of water, I down it in a most unladylike manner to register my protest at being told what to do…again. I wipe my hand across the back of my mouth.

Give that last sentence a minute. You’re right, Ana, it is pretty “unladylike” to jam your whole hand into your mouth in public.

The women hit the dance floor, where Ana realizes, hey, she actually really likes dancing:

Why did I spend the first twenty years of my life not doing this? I chose reading over dancing. Jane Austen didn’t have great music to move to and Thomas Hardy… jeez, he’d have felt guilty as sin that he wasn’t dancing with his first wife. I giggle at the thought.

Ana, if you’d ever read any novels by Jane Austen, you would know that Austen herself didn’t have a bad opinion of dancing. In fact, dancing was a pastime that women of her class would have endeavored to be good at, because music and dance were such an important part of culture. And yes, Jane Austen had plenty of “great music” in her time; she lived during what is known as the classical period, a time in music when composers like, you know, Mozart and Haydn and Beethoven and Bach and Gluck were writing music. Sure, their works pale in comparison to Britney Spears’s “Toxic,” but I guess what I’m trying to say is, shut the fuck up, Ana. You aren’t as smart as you think you are.

Oh, also? In Pride and Prejudice Austen wrote: “To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.” So, no, she was not of the opinion that one could either dance or read. If Ana were any character in any Austen book, I’d say she was Mary Bennet.

It’s Christian. He has given me this confidence in my body and how I can move it.

Well, I’m glad your knight in shining armor rode up to rescue you from such a dull life of reading.

This theme of “Christian knows my body better than me” drives me absolutely bonkers. Maybe if you didn’t buy into the patriarchal myth of virtue and virginity being tied to a woman’s worth, you’d be more confident about your body. Now, I get it, we’re all a product of the culture we’re raised in, but Ana is supposed to be this brilliant genius, and she hasn’t figured out she has bodily autonomy yet? Hell, I can’t reliably follow the plot of The Following, for Christ’s sake, and even I know that my accomplishments aren’t all creditable to my husband and his influence over me.

Suddenly, there are two hands on my hips. I grin. Christian has joined me. I wiggle, and his hands move to my behind and squeeze, then back to my hips.

I open my eyes. And Mia is gaping at me in horror. Shit… Am I that bad? I reach down to hold Christian’s hands. They’re hairy. Fuck! They’re not his. I whirl around and towering over me is a blond giant with more teeth than is natural and a leering smile to showcase them.

Ana screams and slaps him, then reinforces the rape culture that got her ass groped in the first place:

I thrust my uninjured hand in front of his face, spreading my fingers to show him my rings.

“I’m married, you asshole!”

Yeah, you show him, Ana. He can’t just sexually assault you! You’re not some kind of whore who’s free for the taking! Someone OWNS you!

The fact that someone probably uses that specific scene to defend Ana as a strong female character makes me want to pry out my teeth with a rusty carving fork.

So, Christian sees the whole thing and comes over and punches the guy, and of course the guy backs right off because Christian is so scary and fierce and manly and intimidating, and Ana is afraid that he’ll literally kill the guy because he’s so angry. Because that’s LOVE, you guys. Your husband being willing to commit murder with his hands on your behalf is ROMANTIC. I guess I just don’t understand the appeal of a violent man, but whatever.

I rub my palm, trying to dispel the sting, and bring my hands down to his chest. My hand is throbbing. I have never slapped anyone before. What possessed me? Touching me wasn’t the worst crime against humanity. Was it?

No, but I feel like if someone puts their hands on me in a way I don’t want them to, they should be prepared for me to put my hands on them in a way they might not like, either. Men decry this as a double standard, “If we’re not allowed to hit women, why are women allowed to hit men?” Well, the simple answer there is, “Some men don’t understand any other language, and you have to do what you have to do as a woman to prevent yourself from being fucking assaulted.”

Ana, has a different take:

Yet deep down I know why I hit him. It’s because I instinctively knew how Christian would react to seeing some stranger pawing me. I knew he’d lose his precious self-control. And the thought that some stupid nobody could derail my husband, my love, well, it makes me mad. Really mad.

So, ladies, remember: it’s not okay to hit someone to stop them groping your ass cheeks in public, but it’s totally justifiable if you’re doing it so your explosively violent husband can save face and not be bested by “some stupid nobody.”

For some reason, they haven’t been thrown out of the bar for fighting, so Ana asks Christian to dance with her:

“Dance with me.” He’s still mad. “Dance. Christian, please.” I take his hands. Christian glares after the guy, but I start to move against him, weaving myself around him.

Pronoun confusion, Ana. You’re moving against the guy, weaving yourself around him.

Oh… Christian can move, really move.

No shit? Because we haven’t read that in EVERY SINGLE GODDAMNED SEX SCENE IN THIS SERIES SO FAR.

He makes me graceful, that’s his skill. He makes me sexy, because that’s what he is. He makes me feel loved, because in spite of his fifty shades, he has a wealth of love to give. 

Usually, I’d be like, “No, the good parts of your personality don’t come from other people, they come from you and I’d wish you’d see that,” but there are no good parts of Ana’s personality to defend. She’s just… there. Sucking up space and being awful, like the human embodiment of a tax audit.

They go back to the table, and I assume someone somewhere in the editing process gave E.L. the note, “Hey, they would have gotten kicked out of a club for fighting like that,” because Ana thinks:

I’m vaguely surprised we haven’t been thrown out.

Because that’s how lazy authors handle their edits, folks. “Gosh, this unexplainable thing happened. Huh. How weird. Moving along.”

They get ready to leave, and at the coat check Kate and Ana discuss what happened on the dance floor:

“He’s rather hot-headed, isn’t he?” Kate adds dryly, staring at Christian as he collects my coat.

I snort and smile. “You could say that.”

“I think you handle him well.”

That’s not praise. No one should have to “handle” their spouse because their temper is so explosive they might get into legal trouble for beating on someone. The only “handling” that situation requires is the insistance that the violent person seek treatment and make substantial changes.

Ana falls asleep in the car, and Christian wakes her up when they get home. Then he takes her inside and takes her shoes off for her, because she’s a sleepy toddler who just got to Grandma’s house:

“I had delightful visions of these around my ears,” he murmurs, staring down wistfully at my shoes.

I have delightful visions of them around your ears, too, Christian. With the heels jammed into your ear canals, spearing through your worthless brain.

Hey, speaking of violent impulses, Jenny. Jesus.

Christian takes Ana upstairs, where he removes her makeup for her, because as we have already established, she’s a fucking child who can’t care for herself.

“Ah. There’s the woman I married,” he says after a few wipes.

“You don’t like makeup?”

“I like it well enough, but I prefer what’s beneath it.”

I hate that guys feel like they can tell women whether or not to wear makeup. Hey, newsflash? We’re not wearing it to impress you. Okay, some of us are. But lots of us wear it because it’s fun. Or it makes us feel good to wear it. Why do so many men think women want to hear that they look better without makeup, that it’s some kind of compliment to criticize our appearance or give us permission to not use makeup? That’s gross, guys. It’s gross.

“Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning.” He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck.

“You were so mad,” I murmur.

“Yes. I was.”

“At me?”

“No. Not at you.” He kisses my shoulder. “For once.”

I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress.

It’s progress that her husband doesn’t hold her responsible for the bad actions of another person. Yes, truly, I see what everyone was saying about Christian getting SOOOOO MUUUUUUCH BEEEETTTTEEEEERRRR in the third book. What was I thinking? Clearly, this is a bastion of feminism and empowerment for women.

But even though Ana wants to have sex with Christian, he won’t. Because she’s drunk (that’s never stopped him before, in fact, he used to get her drunk to get her to consent), because she’s tired (even though she’s insisting she’s not), because of the altitude (didn’t bother him in the bathroom earlier). She’s being punished, regardless of the “progress” he’s made. He won’t sleep with her, because she wore slutty makeup and a slutty dress and some other man touched her. Even though he doesn’t tell her this, it’s pretty fucking transparent; he’s ready to ravish her at a moment’s notice, until she expresses confidence in her sexuality and her body. Instead, he’s going to go work, while on vacation, because that’s something he can control.

“Close your eyes. When I come back to bed, I’ll expect you to be asleep.” It’s a threat, a command… it’s Christian.

Swoon, ladies. Swooooooon.

I grin widely, the word progress running around my brain as I drift.

And if you couldn’t tell from the fact that she’s falling asleep, the chapter is over.

There are fads and shit we don’t understand. We sit in the haunted gazebo and talk about all the fads and trends we don’t understand.

Chapter thirteen of The Boss is up! You can read it here.

And, if the gods be merciful, Roadhouse will be up tonight.

In every generation there is a chosen one. She alone drink her coffee before it’s cool and end up with a mouth like the tattered red velvet curtain of a haunted theatre. She will also recap every episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer with an eye to the following themes:

1. Sex is the real villain of the Buffy The Vampire Slayer universe.
2. Giles is totally in love with Buffy.
3. Joyce is a fucking terrible parent.
4. Willow’s magic is utterly useless (this one won’t be an issue until season 2, when she gets a chance to become a witch)
5. Xander is a textbook Nice Guy.
6. The show isn’t as feminist as people claim.
7. All the monsters look like wieners.
8. If ambivalence to possible danger were an Olympic sport, Team Sunnydale would take the gold.
9. Angel is a dick.
10. Harmony is the strongest female character on the show.
11. Team sports are portrayed in an extremely negative light.
12. Some of this shit is racist as fuck.

WARNING: Some people have mentioned they’re watching along with me, and that’s awesome, but I’ve seen the entire series already and I’ll probably mention things that happen in later seasons. So… you know, take that under consideration, if you’re a person who can’t enjoy something if you know future details about it.


This episode opens in Cartona, Italy in the early thirteenth century. A green demony dude gets a young Scott Baio impersonator on his knees, so right away you’re thinking, “Wait… is this the right show? Did I accidentally put on some really weird porn?”

No, you’re fine. The demon tells (in subtitles, in case you can’t understand poorly accented Italian) Chachi (who inexplicably has Joanie’s haircut) that all he wants is his love. Chachi tells the demon no troubles, I totally love you, and the demon kills him. Isn’t that just like a demon? They get what they want and then they’re just done with you.

A very passionate monk with a great big book starts talking about how Moloch the Corruptor is walking the earth again, seducing people to their deaths. The monks do a spell and trap the demon in a book that conveniently has his picture right on the cover. So you know some monk was like, tirelessly working on that all night.

Jenny: “Scan it, Rupert. That’s… scan it.”

Giles: “Of course.”

Jenny: “Oh, I know our ways are strange to you, but soon you will join us in the twentieth century. With three whole years to spare!”

Die-hard Buffy fans who are a thousand years old, like I am, will remember Jenny Calendar better as “Pearl,” one of Prince’s character concept dancers from his Diamonds and Pearls album. She’s not just on the cover, but in at least three videos that I can remember:

Giles: “I’m just going to stay and clean up a little. I’ll be back in the middle ages.”

Jenny: “Did you ever leave?”

So, you know they’re going to do it, right?

Jenny Calendar is kind of an important character in terms of evening out the creepiness of an adult man hanging out with teens all the time. If Giles has a hot lady teacher to be interested in (even if he doesn’t realize he’s into her yet), and that hot lady teacher has a similarly close relationship with her own band of misfit students, they form a unit unto themselves that seems a lot less weird, because their primary relationships aren’t with, you know. Students.

Willow is hard at work using all the blistering technology 1997 can provide to scan in the book containing Moloch.

Buffy: “She certainly looks perky.”

Xander: “Yeah, color in the cheeks, bounce in the step. I don’t like it. It’s not healthy.“

Xander: “What, I can’t have information sometimes?”

Giles: “It’s just somewhat unprecedented.”

We already know that Giles has a pretty low opinion of teenage boys, from what he said about them in “The Pack.” But what is it about Xander, specifically, that Giles doesn’t like? I’ve watched this show a thousand times, but I can’t figure it out. Unless it’s that Giles can recognize the “Nice Guy” aura radiating from Xander.

Buffy and Xander want to go to CRD, break in, and have a look around, and Giles is warning them against taking such action when Ms. Calendar comes into the library. She accuses Giles of not checking to make sure the new database is working, and he snaps that he was too busy cleaning up the mess she left. Then she notices Buffy and Xander standing there and says:

Jenny: “You guys here again? You kids really dig the library, don’t you?”

And she makes this face:

So at least ONE teacher in Sunnydale thinks that maybe these kids spend too much time with their grownup man friend.

Over in the computer lab, Willow is inexplicably talking out loud as she types messages to Malcolm. He tells her that Buffy only causes trouble, and that’s why she got kicked out of her old school… but Willow doesn’t remember ever telling him about Buffy being kicked out. When she questions him further, Malcolm replies that it was on Buffy’s permanent record, then says Willow must have told him. Uneasy, Willow signs out and leaves the lab.

Back in the library, Jenny and Rupert are fighting like Sam and Diane:

Jenny: “You’re a snob.”

Giles: “I am no such thing.”

Jenny: “Oh, you are a big snob. You think that knowledge should be kept in these carefully guarded repositories where only a handful of white guys can get at it.” 

Giles: “Nonsense! I simply don’t adhere to a knee-jerk assumption that because something is new, it’s better.”

Giles is terrified of the internet and its power to manipulate people. He says “musty old books” have more to say than webpages, and Jenny picks up the Moloch book, which is now blank, owing to the fact that the demon has been scanned into the computer. When she points out that it doesn’t have a lot to say, and Giles realizes what it is, he can’t wait to get her out of there:

Giles: “Well, it’s been so nice talking to you.”

Jenny: “We were fighting.”

Giles: “Must do it again sometime. Bye now.”

In the courtyard, the school nurse is freaking because penicillin allergy wasn’t on a kid’s chart. WTF is a school nurse doing prescribing antibiotics, anyway? Dave catches Buffy and says that Willow was looking for her in the girl’s locker room. Buffy knows something is up. Dave knows that Buffy knows something is up. Shit is about to go down.

Fritz is in the girl’s locker room, waiting for Buffy. He starts the shower, and Buffy, thinking it’s Willow in there, heads in that direction. She sees the shower on and nobody using it, mutters about droughts, and goes to turn it off, overlooking this:

Dave has apparently had a change of heart over the whole murder thing, and warns Buffy just as the water hits the exposed ends of the cable, and she’s blasted out, relatively unharmed.

In the computer lab, Dave is having a meltdown. He tells the computer that he can’t kill Buffy, and the computer tells him that all he wants is his love. So, any viewer who hasn’t figured it out by now knows it’s Moloch in there, and we’re all on the same page. Note how they never hit us over the head with the whole, “It’s that demon” thing? This a good episode for “Show, Don’t Tell.” Dave knows that what he’s being asked to do isn’t right. He continues to refuse, and Moloch starts writing his suicide letter, as Fritz stands creepily in the shadows behind Dave.

Xander: “Are we overreacting? He’s in a computer, what can he do?”

Buffy: “You mean besides convince a perfectly nice kid to try and kill me? I don’t know. How about mess up all the medical equipment in the world?”

Giles: “Randomize traffic signals?”

Buffy: “Access launch codes for our nuclear missiles?”

Giles: “Destroy the world’s economy?”

Buffy: “I think I pretty much capped it with that ‘nuclear missile’ thing.”

Giles: “Alright, yours was best.”

Banter! I love it. Convinced, Xander asks what they can do about Moloch. Buffy says they should find Willow, since she’s probably talking to Moloch at that very moment. She goes to the computer lab. Despite the fact that it’s empty, all the computers turn on when she walks in. And then she finds Dave:

Jenny: “Come on, there have been portents for days. I mean, power surges, online shutdowns… you should see the bones I’ve been casting. I knew this would happen sooner or later. I mean, it’s probably a mischief demon, you know, like Kelkor or-“

Giles interrupts her to tell her that it’s Moloch, and when she totally knows who that is, Giles grills her on where she got her knowledge. Jenny gives him a dressing down for his snobbery, insisting that magic exists in cyberspace just as much as in the real world. Jenny is a “technopagan,” and she’s willing to help Giles cast the binding ritual. Buffy calls from CRD to tell Giles about Willow being kidnapped, and asks him to hurry.

Willow wakes up inside CRD, and she finally gets to meet Malcolm face-to-face:

Giles: “The smell. 

Jenny: “Computers don’t smell, Rupert.”

Giles: “I know. Smell is the most powerful trigger to the memory there is. A certain flower or a whiff of smoke can bring up experiences long forgotten. Books smell must and- and rich. The knowledge gained from a computer is-it… it has no texture, no, no context. It’s there and then it’s gone. If it’s to last, then the getting of knowledge should be tangible. It should be, um… smelly.”

Oh, and he looks like this while he’s talking about how fucking much he loves books:

Pardon me. There are some things I need to do. ALONE.

Jenny makes a crack about him being old-fashioned, and he makes a joke about her earring and how it’s like “dangling a corkscrew” from her ear. Then she says that’s not where she dangles it from. Wait, so how did she lose it in the library? Girl has been spending too much time with Prince.

 In the courtyard, Xander asks if they’re all going to go to The Bronze, but Willow is still really upset that the only boy who have ever liked her turned out to be a demon robot. Buffy and Xander try to console her over the fact that Buffy fell for a vampire and Xander almost had sex with a giant praying mantis. Then they all laugh over the fact that they’re doomed to never have a satisfying romantic relationship.

WARNING: This is going to get real. Real real. So I’m putting it behind a jump. If you don’t want to hear graphic details about my sex life, this isn’t the post for you. And needless to say, adults only.