Kill, Marry, Bang: 'Copper' Edition

Flashback Friday!

Because I used to watch Copper, the BBC America show with a ton of potential that rushed through its first few episodes, and proved itself to be just okay, and because [I gave myself such a long breather from laughing at Maguire's Tombs hair] I didn't know until four months later that it had been cancelled in September 2013, I've decided that every once in a while, on a Friday, if I can't bring myself to keep it quiet, I'll post about something that happened a while ago. Maybe someday I'll write a piece like this about The Adventures of Pete and Pete and call it "Marry, Steal Lunch Money, Hold Hands With" or something. Who knows. Please bear with me!

Kill: Elizabeth Morehouse. I’d absolutely hate for her husband, socialite/aspiring philanthropist Robert Morehouse to lose the one person who really holds a place in his heart and possibly close himself off for life, but Copper is a very mediocre show that wasted some of its best story lines in a desperate season one in which I found Elizabeth a little annoying, and now that the second season is over, I’m like, ‘Your opium addiction is interesting, dear, but – meh – it’s too late for me to connect,’, so I wouldn’t really mind killing her. Drugs would not be a good idea creatively, but maybe snapping her neck falling out of a carriage during a street riot would do the job, or she could receive her second Confederate death threat, only for the Southerner to succeed…or an artery could be severed by a decorative hat. Okay, sure, that last idea was weird, but it’s good to have options.

Marry: If Detective Andrew O’Brien weren’t already happily/tumultuously married, I’d saunter over after a long day of selling my mother’s delicious baked goods on a dirty street corner, and be like, “Hey, whassup, O’Brien? You’re cute and really tall and have a respectable job and our families probably have some similar stories about alcoholic immigrant family members who perpetuate the Irish stereotype, so how about we get busy ‘til death do we part, so my Pa doesn’t have to hear old maid jokes about me?”

Yeah, I’d totally be like that. And I’ve never wanted a big family, but imagine the creative birth control I’d have to secretly use after poppin’ out one or two babies who’d go on to be very tall personifications of Bruce Springsteen songs. 

Bang:  My ego could die happy if I were to hook up with an Irishman who wears amusing facial expressions and sideburns atop an awesome body, and Detective Francis Maguire would be my favorite such card to play. Aside from being an outdoors-y guy, Maguire is also a dysfunctional mess of a person who spits and has a cloudy glass eye from his old boxing days. He was once an amateur boxer, but now makes a living by being what his colleague O’Brien once described as “a murderous crooked cop”. 
I know how to pick 'em, ladies.

During the undercover scheme, his appearance is confusing; with greasy curls and bad clothes, he looks rather like a hobo, but after a brawl with a serial killer you see him with his shirt off, so he's a lean, ripped hobo. You're, like, admiring his body and simultaneously wondering if someone could strike a match on his head.
Speaking of a little flame, he seems like the kind of guy with whom you could smoke cigars and talk about childhood, getting nostalgic for times that you each worry might be the best years you ever have. Then hot sex would follow on a cheap mattress, and it would not end with passion or sleep but earnestness, your foreheads touching, gazes refusing to meet, even when you’re parting ways minutes later.

If you two hook up more than once, it won’t become a relationship or transform him into a stable person. It would take a hell of a lot for you to be the Bonnie to his unstable 1865 Clyde. You’d also have to compete, at least at first, with his one wandering eye, and throughout seasons one and two, the man falls fiercely into either love or obsession with four different women, and every coupling ends in death or deceit or deceit and death.

Maguire better be good at sex because he has no clue what he needs and is just terrible at decision-making.


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     A LETTER TO KEVIN RYAN, THE ACTOR WHO PLAYED MAGUIRE:  

       Hi! How are ya? First of all, good job making your character human and actually giving His Royal Ferociousness some redeemable qualities. Not every actor could do that.
       Second, if you're not committed to anything right now, feel free to contact me to make out. I know you read my blog, like, all the time, because who doesn't? But seriously. I want to take my already obnoxious Irish pride to another level. shannon@batshit.org