Muffins
S3 E9: S.O.B.s
Arrested Development, 2003.
Let us gather now to remember a time in which the Bluths, America’s most misunderstood real estate dynasty, threw a fundraiser for themselves and almost fed their guests chicken boiled in its own bathwater.
The episode "S.O.B.s" (Save Our Bluths) begins with the subtle grace of a rhinoceros at a garden party: a bold announcer, a live ending, and a promise of death. It's network television at its most elegant and least subtle, a cry for help so naked it may as well be laminated.
Michael Bluth, our tortured anchor, pleads with the family to get jobs. In response, they suggest a party. Because what better way to solve a hundred-thousand-dollar legal crisis than with a live band of Richter quintuplets and chicken steeped in salmonella?
But the heart of the episode (and this is important) belongs to the Muffin Man.
Not a metaphor. Not a euphemism. A man. Who poisons. Muffins.
When George Sr. recalls the trauma of Lindsay’s progressive schooling, he doesn't reminisce, he retaliates. “You poison her, I’ll poison you,” he once told a teacher. And then, with the resolve of a man who hides behind surrogates and fake heart attacks, he did poison him. With muffins.
This subplot simmers beneath the surface until Rocky, Andy Richter’s morally flexible stunt double, reveals that Donnie Richter — the sensitive therapist twin — has been muffin-poisoned. Suspicions swirl. Was it Michael? George Sr.? The Muffin Man, that uncatchable flour-dusted specter from Why We Were Scared of the ’70s?
The fundraiser itself is a disaster. Lindsay’s chicken is poached in its own thaw water. G.O.B., now a full-time waiter and part-time flirt, serves it with flair and unresolved family trauma. A woman dies. On camera. Choking on a prosthetic thumb. But yet, it still counts as one of their better dinner parties.
And then, Michael gives a speech. Not to raise funds, but to confess: maybe the Bluths aren’t worth saving. They’re not likable. They’re not noble. They are, at best, occasionally employable. At worst, they are emotionally negligent poisoners with control issues and a knack for symbolic poultry.
But somehow, the crowd responds. Donations pour in. Perhaps honesty is the best fundraising strategy. Or perhaps they just really liked the gift bags. (Even if they included blue eyeliner, threats, and glitter-based respiratory illness.)
In the end we, the audience, are reminded of a fundamental truth: relatability is a moving target, but poison is forever.