truedetective_losangelespan

In this installment of Green Screen, we highlight the greenest parts of your favorite TV guilty pleasures (spoiler: There are a lot of them!).

Last week, we foolishly pondered aloud (to the internet): Would we, this week, be blessed enough to figure out what the hell is going on with True Detective? Friends, we are now well into the Monday of our discontent, dry-heaving through our True Detective hangover from the night prior, and we can categorically tell you that no, we do not know what the hell is going on with True Detective.

Reader support helps sustain our work. Donate today to keep our climate news free. All donations DOUBLED!

colinfarrelbreakdown

Grist thanks its sponsors. Become one.

What is there even to say that is Green Screen-y this week? Not much! Not a whole hell of a lot! This week, any discussion of farmland contamination or back-to-the-land aspiration has been pushed aside for simultaneously the Worst Scored and Least Sexy Orgy Of All Time! If I’m at an orgy (hello, fellas!), I do not want the soundtrack to be taken note for note from Sleeping Beauty!

Also, I obviously want to know: Do these ladies have, in addition to the best plastic surgeon in SoCal, access to comprehensive contraceptive care? Because, to be entirely realistic, if you’ve got a house full of corporate skeezes shelling out a few thousand clams for a night with high-class sex workers, condoms are probably not on the menu!

truedetective_grossparty

For those few still following along with the deeply-buried-at-this-point storyline of high-speed rail land development, you will be happy to know that Sad Riggs and Coke-Snortin’ Dad spent this episode embarking on the most boneheaded mission of the season, which is really saying something: Stake out the home office of the Orgy House and, on the slim chance that there’s a business transaction going on amidst all the free-for-all fucking, literally climb through the window to snag whatever documents might be changing hands.

Grist thanks its sponsors. Become one.

Against all odds, this actually worked out, and as a — presumably — wildly hungover Ray Velcoro speeds off into the Southern California night, his more studly partner breathily declares: “These contracts … there’s signatures aaalll over ’em!” SIGNATURES!!! Hold yourself together, Paul!

truedetective_pullout

Why are we still doing this? Check back with us next week to give meaning to our misguided but well-intentioned coverage.