On Watching the Pilot for Revolution and Electing Not to Continue

It's not that I need my science fiction to be realistic.
I'd never object to a pizza shaped like Long Island.

Our salty old bitch Matthew's nowhere to be found--
That must be his sister manning the till.
Their skin's translucence gave it away.
Unearthly youth gone all ashen, doughy, drooped.

It's not that I object to a really editorial look, Windex clean in its vision. (Does

  Tracie Martyn have something in a Windex?)
I'd never shoo a low flush toilet, a witchy herbalist, or a fluffer.

Grind them all into the logarithm!

But regimental wrist brands and crossbows and an extended martial arts sequence
in which a lone guy once again defeats multitudes?
Oh, lord. Punctures (resembling those which might be caused by a mop handle)
Formed the main problem
With the Smithsonian folding screen, which was 
damaged through the canvas layers
And had been previously dismounted.
  >> She's gorgeous, but can she act?
    >> She's tres jolie, but...
      >> What now?
        >> Maybe J. J. Abrams is a hack who thinks he's Spielberg who is a hack.

Some dusty calculator wheezes back to life and I'm meant to go all aflutter?
I'd have clipped and sealed my vasa deferentia ages ago.

Note: The above includes a long quotation from The History, Technology, and Care of Folding Screens: Case Studies of the Conservation Treatment of Western and Oriental Screens by Dianne Lee van der Reyden.

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