Hi everybody! Happy Thanksgiving! What are you doing reading this? Shouldn't you be hanging out with your families instead of reading an American Horror Story recap? Haha, kidding. People who watch this show don't have families. I'm sorry I wasn't here last week, I was on that plane with Rihanna, which was basically like being in Briarcliff.
Before we get started, I have to go out of order and get one thing out of the way. Remember when Lily Rabe did the "You Don't Own" me in an obvious homage to the great giallo horror film, The First Wives Club? Man oh man. Was that amazing or was that amazing? When we go around the table today and say what we're thankful for, I'm picking this! In fact, I'll still be humming it when I overhead my dad explaining to my grandmother what FX is and that I've been under a lot of stress lately.
Okay, let's get the boring present-day stuff out of the way. There was a 911 call from a mysterrrrrious strangeerrrr in the present day cold open, where everybody is comfortably dead except for poor Mrs. Channing Tatum. The mysterious stranger notes that he killed those teenagers, but not Adam Levine. Here's an exchange I like to imagine happened right after.
Dispatcher: Wait, but is Adam Levine dead?
Mysterious Caller: Yes, but it wasn't ME who--
Dispatcher: As long as Adam Levine is extra dead. BRB Tim Horton's break.
Back to the past! I want to talk about the little girl with braids. OK, actually I want to talk about ALL little girls with two braids. Here's an easy guide. Little girl with blonde braids: not dangerous (see: Heidi, Cindy Brady, various Von Trapps). Little girl with red braids: not dangerous (see: Pippi Longstocking, Anne of Green Gables. Possible exception Wendy's.) Little girl with brown hair: murderers.
Jenny is great though, no? I love a bad seed and this one has potensh. Anyhow, now Sister Mary Eunice has a pal and confidante.
Elsewhere, Thredson is explaining his origin story to Lana. I know. A monster explaining how it got to be that way to a journalist: it's that Vanity Fair profile of Gwyneth Paltrow all over again. His whole deal is that he has abandonment issues and that's why he kills. Okay, one, we all have abandonment issues. Drink a bottle of two-buck chuck and listen to "Ooh Child," don't wear a mask made of skin and menace lesbians. Two, how bad can the foster care system be if you know how to make croque monsieur?
Thredson tells Sarah Paulson he wants her to be his new mother. ("GET IN LINE!" - everyone.) She eventually plays along to avoid being murdered, and he delivers the dialogue of the Episode/Decade: "Baby needs colostrum." I haven't read any of Neal Strauss's books but I'm pretty sure this is his line. He breast feeds from her and it's creepier than adult braces.
In other origin stories: the friendship between the Monsignor and Dr. Arden finally gets some explicatin'. The monsignor attempts to put Shelly out of her misery, Metallica video style. This forces him to give Arden a surprise performance evaluation. This whole time, he's supposed to have been working on an "immune booster," you see. And this is how Emergen-C was invented.
The monsignor decides that Sister Jude knows too much and should probably go, so he sends her to a school for girls in Pittsburgh. She's like, "Nooooooo, not Pittsburgh!" and he's like, "It's actually pretty up and coming and they have really good sandwiches!" Kidding that does not happen.
Instead, she's is juuuuust about to get hard evidence that Arden used to be SS with the help of a nazi hunter named Mr. Goodman (this is also the name of the Constance's lawyer in season one. This is the kind of information I have in my head instead of math.) Unfortunately, Sister Mary Satan is team Arden and stabs Mr. Goodman, which he manages to relate to Sister Jude just before he eats it. She takes it well.
Just one question before we go. If that is indeed Dr. Thredson doing the killings in the future, isn't he like, really old? I mean, theoretically he could still be messing up teens for doing reenactments in his murder hospital, but that is some Gran Torino shit.
OK! Go glut yourselves on nutmeg enriched foods. I hope you all have a nice day with your loved ones from whom you horrifyingly breast-feed. I love you all.