BLAGO

Honey, shut the fuck up. (Then, into phone) You hear what she said? Block them from selling Wrigley Field.

DEPUTY GOVERNOR (on phone)

Well you know, the Trib’s owner don’t control the editorials, now. But I would tell him, look, if you want to get your Cubs thing done get rid of this Tribune.

BLAGO’S WIFE

Gimme that there phone. (Grabs phone) Listen, fucker. That there guy who owns the Trib? He can just fire his writers anytime he wants. If the papers are hurting his business, he’ll do what it takes, ya see?

BLAGO

Gimme that back. (into phone) Okay so. You go get all these stupid editorials and then we’ll have John Harris or someone go down to that guy who owns the Trib and say, you know, “We’ve got some decisions to make now.” Someone should say, just fucking get rid of these people. They wanna be moving this stuff forward, it’s a political fuckin’ operation in there.

DEPUTY GOVERNOR

Sure, yeah, you know. You might wanna be sensitive about how you do that?

BLAGO

There’s nothing fucking sensitive about it. It’s straight forward. You say, we’re doing this stuff for you, we believe this is right for Illi-fucking-nois. So fire those fuckers, you fuck. So I have a professional assessment: Our recommendation is fire all those fucking people, get ‘em the fuck out of there and get us some editorial support. Johnny will call them up and tell them Wrigley’s gonna get derailed by their own editorial page.

November 3, 2008. BLAGO’s office. He is on the phone with chief-of-staff JOHN HARRIS.

BLAGO

What does this mean to them? Like 500 million?

HARRIS

To them? About a hundred mil. Maybe 150.

BLAGO

I thought it was worth like 500 million to ‘em.

HARRIS

Yeah but the whole thing is, they make out on the taxes. They give up the title to Wrigley Field, they don’t pay capital gains. Still, it’s only a hundred mil.

BLAGO

A hundred million is nothing to sneeze at. That’s still worth something, isn’t it? So what’d he say?

HARRIS

The Trib guy gets the message. He’s very sensitive to the issue.

BLAGO

Sensitive? My asshole is sensitive. I want these fuckers fucked.

HARRIS

You know how they are. He said there’ll be “certain corporate reorganizations and budget cuts coming” — between the lines, he’s going after that section.

BLAGO

Oh, that’s fantastic. Wow. Okay, keep our fingers crossed. You da man. I gotta call my fucking wife. I found a way to get her out of the house — get her on some charity boards from some fucker who might want Obama’s seat.

(BLAGO dials the phone.)

BLAGO

So that fucker in D.C. wants Obama’s seat if he wins tomorrow? (pauses) And I get what? (pauses) No. Okay, so here. Unless I get something real good for him, shit, I’ll just send myself, you know what I’m saying? (pauses) Playing? No. I’m going to keep this Senate option for me a real possibility, you know, and therefore I can drive a hard bargain. You hear what I’m saying. And if I don’t get what I want and I’m not satisfied with it, then I’ll just take the Senate seat myself. (pauses) I don’t give a shit about the Congress getting to 60! A Senate seat is a fucking valuable thing, you just don’t give it away for nothing. (pauses) What, you think I can get an ambassadorship for it? To fucking where — fucking Cambodia? Fuck Cambodia. It’s Europe or nothing.

(BLAGO hangs up, yells out the door.)

BLAGO

Johnnnnyyy!

(JOHN HARRIS comes simpering in.)

HARRIS

Yeah boss!

BLAGO

We’re having us an auction. The trick is, how do you conduct, indirectly, a negotiation for that seat? I’m like Jerry fucking Maguire here. “How much are you offering for your pal, Barack?” “How much do you want, Mr. X?” Don’t get me wrong — I’ll make the decision in good faith. But it’s not coming for free. It’s gotta be good stuff for the people of Illinois and good for me.

HARRIS

Yeah, boss!

BLAGO

It’s gotta be good or I could always take it.

HARRIS

Or, you know. What about the Secretary of the Energy? That pays good.

BLAGO

Awww yeah. Cabinet-level, baby. So why don’t we have you talk to Barack. Hey, what about the Red Cross? Does the President appoint that?

HARRIS

Uh, I dunno.

BLAGO

Well put it on the list, you fuck. And don’t forget my wife. There’s a play here, with these guys, with her. In Washington, or New York. Like, another 150 thou a year. Something. Go! Get fucking moving.

(JOHN HARRIS leaves. BLAGO, alone, stares at a portrait of himself on the wall.)

BLAGO

I’ve got this thing and it’s fucking golden. And I’m just not giving it up for fuckin’ nothing. I’m not gonna do it. And–and I can always use it. I can parachute me there. (pauses) Maybe Health and Human fucking Services!

 (The phone rings.)

BLAGO

What? (Pauses) Yeah honey. (Pauses) Yeah, I know you’ve got a real estate license. (Pauses) Yes honey. (Pauses) No, no, I do not fucking wanna be Governor for the next two years. These fuckers are telling me I have to suck it up and give motherfucking Obama his Senator pick. Fuck him. For nothing? Fuck him. I’ll put some douchebag in the Senate before I just fucking give that guy a fucking Senate seat and I don’t get anything. (Pauses) Yes dear. Sorry dear.

The next evening — election night. From the conference room outside BLAGO’s office, you can see the lights and hear the crowds in Grant Park seven blocks away. BLAGO is pacing. JOHN HARRIS is seated. OTHER MEN are smoking.

BLAGO

My decision in the days to come will be based on three criteria, gentlemen, in the following order of importance. Legal. Personal. Political.

HARRIS

Legal is the hardest one to satisfy.

BLAGO

My legal problems are easy to fix. All I have to do is move part-time to D.C. Hey-o, I’m a fucking Senator! Just like Hillary fucking Clinton. But here’s a better plan — if he wins. (He gestures out the window.) You call David Plouffe. You tell him, say, this has nothing to do with anything else we’re working on but the Governor wants to put together a 501(c)(4) and can you guys can help him, say, raise 10, 15 million. Easy. Everyone goes home happy. I want you to get the word in today.

SMOKING MAN

While it’s not said this is a play to put in play other things.

BLAGO

That’s fucking right. You gotta play to play. So meanwhile you — you go to our backup guy for the Senate seat. You tell him some of this stuff has gotta start happening now. We’ve had some problems getting the money in on time from him before. So, right now — and we gotta see it. You understand? Something tangible up front.

SMOKING MAN

Yeah, sure boss.

(The noise from outside becomes exponentially louder. Out the window, in a far-off projection screen in Grant Park, we can see a close-up of OPRAH WINFREY weeping.)

BLAGO

Fucking Oprah.

(We follow SMOKING MAN into the bathroom. He pauses, wipes sweat from his forehead. He ducks into a stall and sits on the closed toilet, unbuttons his shirt to check the microphone taped to his chest. As if from a million miles away, we can hear the echoes of BARACK OBAMA’s acceptance speech.)

“There is a motive to every mystery,” began one of Mary Alices usual  and appalling — voice-overs. “An answer to every question.” And “All you have to do is take a closer look.” And “Love, laughter, friendship and, sadly, secrets.” Sure, sure.

Mary Alice, it turns out, is actually named Angela — and, even before she found quiet, peaceful (ha ha) Wisteria Lane, she was, she says, leading “a life of quiet desperation.” She took out trash, made breakfasts for her husband, Paul, and worked in the evenings at a hospital. Wow, that is quiet and desperate! The mass of (wo)men, apparently, lead lives of little errands and casual consumption.

But we knew that, or we wouldnt be watching a network that literally cannot air programming for more than five minutes without a commercial break for Coors or Quiznos. FIVE MINUTES! Its disgusting and outrageous! Wont someone do something?

Anyway. This chick named Dierdre shows up; apparently Mary Alice knows her from when she worked at a drug clinic or something. Dierdres all cracked out, and needs money. “Youre using again, arent you!” says Mary Alice/Angela. Mary Alice opens the door to show her out, but Dierdre says, “Ill sell you my baby.”

Her husband is opposed, but Mary Alice gives him the hand — literally, “Stop in the Name of Love” style — and slowly closes the door.

First of all: what? Exactly how hard is it for a suburban white couple to get their hands on a baby — even one of those admittedly more expensive little white ones? Is that the crack whores old standby for cash — barge into any random persons house and grandly announce, “YOU MAY PURCHASE MY WOMBFRUIT!”?

Long story short: Zach, the troubled pseudo-foundling son of the suicide Mary Alice, had been named Dana by his mother Dierdre, which clears up some of the shows earlier misdirection about a dead baby girl in the family named Dana. (Or, as he puts it to Susan later, as he holds her hostage: “I never had a baby sister! Im Dana! They stole me and changed my name! Everyone lies to me!”)

But back then: “We were as happy as any family could be,” Mary Alice v.o.s. “Until one night, three years later, when there was a knock at our door. And I was desperate once again.” Mary Alice, perky with her kicky new name on Wisteria Lane, is chopping vegetables. There is talk of putting in a pool. But at the door, its Dierdre, the baby-selling junkie-whore! Over coffee — Hazelnut Belgian Cafi? Suisse Mocha? Havana Guano? Which International Coffee could it be? — “I spent a lot of my fathers money hunting you down,” says Dierdre. “I kept our little secret. As you can see, Ive gotten myself cleaned up.”

“You cant have him,” says Mary Alice. “If you think Im giving my baby to some junkie youre crazy.” Someone is called a self-righteous bitch. “LEMME SEE YOUR ARM,” says Mary Alice. (And this is where you start wishing one of the other Housewives were dead instead, because this Mary Alice chick is totally fun-nuts!) Paul throws Dierdre off the stairs. She beats him rather wanly with a poker. Mary Alice puts her hand over her mouth, in that time-honored “Housewives” gesture of shock and ethical transformation.

Having speedily discharged her day-to-day moral code, she picks up a knife and stabs Dierdre right in the gut. Hot! Paul comes to. Dierdre falls to the floor, gurgling. Pauls forehead is bloody, as if hed walked into a very tall hamburger. “Oh, Mary Alice, what did you do?” says Paul. (Five people had credit for the episodes script, this might be a good moment to mention.)

Upstairs, Mary Alice empties the toy chest. Zach — Dana — wakes up. “Mommy needs to borrow your toy chest,” says crazy Mary Alice. Later: “You said they were pouring the concrete for the pool tomorrow. Well put her in this.” Paul, always practical: “She wont fit!” “Well make her fit,” says Mary Alice. Seriously, bring us some Mary Alice back from the grave!

To satisfy their moral whatever-tude, they check Dierdre for track marks. There are none. But Zach is on the landing, looking down, and sees everything. They freeze in tableau. (Well, one of them is dead, but the two living ones freeze.)

And so Zach is disgruntled. His mommy killed his mommy!

Yes: hot mommy-on-mommy killing action. There is one thing about “Desperate Housewives”: It put women back on television — even if, in this case, one of them is a baby-coveting murderer and the other is a junkie mess. “Sex and the City,” the previous reigning ensemble chick show, wasnt actually about women, as it was clearly about gay men with vaginas. (Apart from sitcoms, not since “Melrose Place,” it seems — although one could argue for “Sisters” — have women ruled in this fashion.) But theres nothing homosexual about Mary Alice & Co. — theyre thin, pale shades of people, maybe, drifting in a green-lawned Hades — but at least theyre women.

There are other bits of womanly news from the finale. Alfre Woodard moves in, and wont allow neighbor and real estate agent and full-time slut Edie into the house. OH MY GOD, A TELEGRAPHED PLOT LINE FOR NEXT SEASON. (And poor Alfre. Well, whatever: ka-ching!) Bossy Lynette will go back to work. Slutty Gabriellas husband will go to jail. And poor icy Bree — shes weathered her marriage problems, and, just as her husband is having a Pacemaker installed, he kicks it.

Or does he? Here are predictions for Season 2 early plot turns:

1. Brees husband, Rex, died, we are sort-of shown, believing hed been poisoned with potassium by Bree. But instead, let us imagine that the death is a scam concocted by Rex and his doctor. Fairly early in Season 2, after chasing Bree for a bit, theyll figure out its the pharmacist who screwed with Rexs potassium — but not before we get at least three satisfying episodes of Marcia Cross as Bree eating a neighborhoods worth of scenery. Whoo! Let old crazy at it! Not since she snatched Jos baby on “Melrose Place” has Marcia really gotten to run amok.

2. Mike, Susans hot “plumber” boyfriend, who is also Dierdres former lover, and who spent this episode holding Zachs (adopted) father at gunpoint over the death of Dierdre, may in fact be Zachs father himself. Therell be a tense showdown in the premiere of the second season, in which Zach shoots Mike (Zach! I am your faaather!) — probably in the shoulder or the thigh — and then Mike is forced to reveal his Real True Self (hopefully while shirtless) to Susan, who will then go away for an episode and ponder whether she can really ever trust men, because, oh my god, wow, theyre all such, like, liars, you know? Which will be really boring, but manageable. (As long as Mike keeps his shirt off.)

At long last, the murderess Mary Alice narrates the end of the episode: “I not only watch, I cheer them on, these amazing women. I hope so much theyll find what theyre looking for. But I know not all of them will.”

Mike pulls up to his house, where Susan cowers, and where Zach is waiting to shoot him.

“Sadly, thats just not the way life works,” says Mary Alice. “Not everyone gets a happy ending.”

Mike parks.

Thoreaus quote about desperation continues, incidentally. He goes on to say: “A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind.”

“We were as happy as any family could be,” as Mary Alice says.

The point being, of course, that our amusements contain evidence of our very real despair. The popularity of “Desperate Housewives,” in fact, reeks of it.

Mike opens the door, and then he closes it.