The Word, Series 3, Episode 7, 11/12/92

The Word – S3E7 (11 Dec 1992): “Pump Up the Puppies & Wake the ’60s”

Tonight’s episode proves television can do anything: grow breasts, time-travel, and give away Marky Mark’s underpants in under an hour. We open with Uncanny Alliance – “I Got My Education” (a PSA you can dance to), while the studio insists the show is “not racist anymore, just right-on,” which is what racists always say before they form a panel.

On the sofa, Amanda Donohoe swans in, kisses a ring (not that one), and calmly explains she walked away from £22k a week on L.A. Law because the writers forgot how to write her. She reminisces about Castaway (Oliver Reed: great tattoo, selective memory) and Adam Ant (life coach in eyeliner), then unveils her NBC movie trilogy: a tough female lead who can outthink a perp and keep her shirt on—progress!

Cut to our science corner, where a Floridian hypnotist promises to “pump up those puppies” in 15 minutes by increasing blood flow. Ten volunteers get measured, mesmerized, and medically… encouraged. The claimed record? Seven inches in Orlando, which is also what theme parks promise.

We then swerve into heartbreakingly surreal: Annie Shapiro, a real-life Rip Van Winkle who slept for 30 years, wakes up asking for I Love Lucy and gets Reagan, Madonna, and the Cold War credits instead. Her husband kept vigil the entire time, because apparently chivalry didn’t die—it just did a very long night shift.

Tim Roth pops in to “talk turkey,” i.e., brood with charisma and say things that sound better in a pub. Kevin Costner is billed as “Hollywood’s favorite son,” which makes him the national trust of beige, and we’re told he’s here in spirit, if not in person. Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy close the loop with a lyrical audit of hypocrisy, in case you thought the hypnotist had cornered the market.

Prizes include Marky Mark’s pants, dignity not included. Results may vary; side effects may include larger chests, smaller illusions, and the sudden realization that the only thing more unbelievable than breast hypnosis is leaving L.A. Law money on the table—unless you’re Amanda Donohoe, in which case: fair play.