potatoradio

Muahhh ahhh ahhhh..... Your score is 5/6 correct, which, by normal standards, is a respectable "B-". Plus, you get extra credit for cracking me up with the plot twist that Jack might actually render someone unconscious with his Deep Thoughts as They Pertain to How Great I Am torture. On a normal scale, this would be a pass. But we're talking about Must Watch America Gettin' Feely with It Show here, so I'm afraid I can accept nothing less than a perfect, ten-box Kleenex score and proof of your pre-ordering the complete set of "Jack: How His Mother's Uterus Wept and then Killed Itself Because It Would Never Again Give Birth to Jack" DVDs as proof that you pass for a true human being. Otherwise, you will be graded a heartless, hopeless case who will be flunked and sent over the summer to reconditioning camp where you will be retrained via continual exposure to Jack in tightie whities. I'm pulling for you, dang it. We will graduate one way or the other... but yes, you have to watch the show. ;) The game of Real or Snark is intended to be played before watching the show - it provides a sort of forecast for unpopular op posters so they have an idea of how much wine and advil they'll need to offset the clichés and sap and make the most of a snark watch. Apparently, the next ep is all about how Toby became the Man He Is Today. Since I believe Toby is one of the more disliked characters on the show, methinks the writers have worked super hard on a sob story for him involving the trauma of not being allowed to eat a pound of Sugar Babies when he lost the Pac Man championship* at the local arcade and then he told his father to get lost and not come back unless he could be as perfect a dad as Jack Pearson. Tobe Babe's father said, "who the hell is Jack Pearson?" And Toby's mom sobbed, "that's the whole problem! You don't even know who the most perfect man ever born IS!" So that's why Toby is Misery Kate's patsy - because, hey, at least he's got an 'in' with the dead saint killed too soon by the crock pot smoke monster...OK, OK, I'm getting ahead of myself and I'm going to fail my own real or snark test if I don't buckle down and do this hatewatch properly. *I am not mocking the pain of someone taking your high score at a video game. I am still pissed at the little dweeb who stole my Frogger high score just because HE got a lucky break and the stupid machine didn't realize that he had TOTALLY STEPPED ON THE ALLIGATOR'S MOUTH and should have DIED RIGHT THERE....deep breath...deep breath...Jack is still dead...

I'm very glad to hear a few people get a laugh out of my hatewatch ramblings - I'm really not a raging yogurt bitch in real life who was raised by a wolf and a wire monkey, but I've been hurt before - my scared little heart once made itself vulnerable to a show called 'Parenthood' and, gasp, I fell for it for a few episodes. And then, it changed. It went all the way to FunkyTown Cheesey Awful Bad and made a mockery of me. I was just barely ready to take a chance again with TiU and then, WHAM: suddenly I'm told not only must I love the show, I'll NEVER RECOVER from the feelzcrying Olympics. Hell hath no fury like a woman told how to feel and what to think, so vengeance is mine.... Was watching Shark Tank. I love me some Barbara Corcoran and Mark Cuban. Wife walked by and asked why I wasn't getting kicked in the feelz. Oh. Thanks, honey. I almost forgot that I'm supposed to care about what makes Jack JACK. I'd rather re-read the Things They Carried because I"m far more interested in what made Tim O'Brien Tim O'Brien or any of the books from the Burns series or even the True Story of How Spackle is Made, but I am not going to choose wisely, am I? *slowly, slowly lifts remote and changes channel...* Jack is walking around in fatigues. Yay - we're playing army! Now THAT’S some powerful nostalgia feelz right there. Remember when we were kids and threw our Barbie dolls into trees so that GI Joe would rescue them as he humped around the heliotrope? Gawd, the tears are falling in my wine just thinking about it….Ooops. My bad. This Is Vietnam, For Real. Change of plans. Never mind sipping wine and weeping over the memory of how I melted my friend’s bag of army men because I lined them up on a charcoal grill like kebobs (next to the burgers while friend’s dad was not tending the grill) and then got a serious arse whupping from my friend’s mom because it used to take a village to get all the children spanked when they got too close to fire or traffic….nope, let’s just get the drinking game on. Every time Jack uses his Super Saint powers to heal the sick or save the world: drink, motherfucker, drink. (I’m sorry, I’m probably going to pass out very shortly here….) First up for Jack is the idiot who says he’s going to be going home in 90 days to play baseball. You dumb ass. Everyone knows that the second you say that in war drama, you’re going to die. Jack is so super good and special he got promoted to sarge right away. He bounces a quarter off his sheets and then turns it into a WIlly Wonka style everlasting gobstopper that can feed a soldier for weeks AND deliver a dose of morphine AND regrow all the foliage destroyed by Agent Orange once the soldier spits on it. Jack fearlessly follows the poor guy assigned to scope out the trail for booby traps. He finds one and away we go with the gunfire. So, who’s Jack gonna save now? 90-day guy? Squirrel? Is Nicky around here somewhere? Now there’s a football. My goodness, will you look at those men having a gay old time in Vietnam? I’m so confused. I’m an ignorant Gen-Xer. I’m like, shouldn’t those soldiers totally be shooting stuff all the time? Is it, like, extra tubular ironic that they’re enjoying themselves right before they die? Jesus. Save a soldier and eat a cliche, show. Note on that football: as we will see because of the herky jerky trips in the time machine, this is from Nicky’s room. Nicky is for sure gonna die here, so Jack gets a little annoyed at ‘his men’ when he sees them playing with the damn thing instead of holding it in the holy reverence it is due. But hey, he’s Jack, so he says, “hey, fellas, how about we do some work and then relax.” These soldiers know a pain in the ass do-gooder when they see one. A Bad Man nicknamed “Townie” throws that football to hit Jack right in the kisser. No, Townie the Bad Man does no such thing, much to my disappointment. Fuck you, Townie. You suck. I honestly am going to screw up the chronology here, because I am so bored at this point that I’m Googling the song lyrics playing because, for once, I actually kinda like the music. Plus, all the JACK IS AMAZEBALLS anvils are making my brain not work so good anymore. Anyway, at some point after the football, a Vietnamese boy and his mom approach Jack and Townie the Bad Man with a fish. The boy offers Jack the fish and his mom starts to say, please don’t do that, he’ll ruin it by dumping k-ration ketchup on it, but Townie is having none of this precious innocence. Townie is a Bad Man. Townie grabs the fish, throws it to the ground and machine guns it until everyone is covered in scales and blood and fish guts. Thanks a lot, Townie. Jack says, ‘hey, Townie…’ but Townie is no longer just Bad; he’s unhinged, man. He’s been waiting to lose his shit ever since the opening credits, so he grabs the woman and starts to drag her away, but Jack says “Townie...stop.” And Townie strips naked and goes running into the neighborhood Applebee’s for fish-n-chips. Bye, Townie the Bad Man. The woman approaches Jack and puts her hands on his face and her eyes say, ‘please god, let me get this gig over with so I can move on to some damn Shakespeare in the park.’ She doesn’t say anything because if she spoke, that would ruin the burst of flash forward where we see Kate the Pill do the EXACT same gesture with her dad! These clever, clever connections…. At some point, 90-day guy loses his foot because of course he does. He’s lying on the ground and he says to Jack, ‘hey, buddy, could you hand me my foot?’ And Jack waves the medic away because nevermind, Jack’s on this, and he re-attaches the guy’s foot and the guy goes on to become a football player because Jack says he likes football better than baseball anyway and who else is gonna give Jack, in a flashforward shazam, his Superbowl ring? OK, actually, the guy does cradle the foot and then asks Jack the burning question of the day: ‘why are you not scared?’ That’s totally what we’re all dying to know. Anyway, 90-Days throws his foot into the brush and puts his hands around Jack’s face and sings, ‘no-one can find the rewind button, boy, so cradle your head in [my] hands ...aaaaand breathe…..just breathe….’ His voice is a little rougher than Anna Nalick’s and Jack is breathing just fine because he’s not scared, but 90-Day did just throw his own foot away, so no judgment here. Meanwhile, form of a FLASHFORWARD and, whaddya know, this is where Jack learned to put HIS hands on Randall’s face and calm him down. Lots of hands touching hands touching me touching you, Sweet Caroline and I’m too drunk and stumbling from anvils to know what’s snark and what’s real anymore, so go with what you like. Anyway, Jack gets a chance to change company and the actual officer is the lucky recipient of a Pearson-ing*. No, officer, the military doesn’t tell Jack Pearson where he’ll be stationed. Jack Pearson tells the military. Military says, “oh, OK, I didn’t realize you had a brother nearby who didn’t want to be here. Didn’t realize the specialness of your situation, sir. We have several hundred thousand nineteen-year-olds running around this place, so you’ll forgive us for not understanding that your brother is more important than the rest of these grunts who didn’t make it to Canada.” So, we’ve come full circle in these eternal ten minutes. Back to the opening shot of someone with washboard abs (ladies - that’s for you. War and devastation are not without their sexy moments, too!). Here comes Jack and voila, brothers are reunited. Now they can bitch about their dad while playing football, just as it oughta be. Until Townie returns from the jungle carrying another fish and beats them upside the head with it while screaming, ‘stupid teevee! Be more subtle!!’** Dear god, we’re not even close to done. Hang on, because it’s time for the herky jerky time travel! Wheeeeee!!!!!! Please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times…we’re going back to a little ditty, about Jack and Nicky...two American kids growing up in an ABC after school special. See Jack’s mom. She has a black eye. This is because Jack’s dad is a Very Bad Man. And they’re poor. They can’t even afford a garage. When Jack’s dad comes home, he parks his Studebaker right on the street and I’m expecting him to backhand both kids as he walks darkly up the steps, but he tells them, ‘pick up your toys.’ Not even, ‘git off my lawn’ or ‘don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about.’ Lame. And not an unreasonable request, actually, but HE IS A VERY BAD MAN. And, to follow that up, Jack is Superman, ya’ll. There ya have it. His own brother says so. Jack, is this because you’re secretly running around in tights and a cape and playing ‘x-ray vision’ on the next door neighbor’s housewife? I really, really hope so...nope. No dice. Sigh. ALL ABOARD THE FEELY TIME MACHINE!!! *Glass rattling/bone shaking ride* Wait, what’s this, you say? Here’s the Very Bad Man except he’s...NORMAL? He’s looking forward to another kid and, zounds, he doesn’t drink?? What is happening with the world? Stephen King needs a writing credit on this for stating ‘hey, even serial killers help old ladies cross the street sometimes.’ TIME MACHINE!! *rev rev rev* Long ago and far away, there was primordial ooze. And in this ooze was a real boy scout amoeba named Jack who said unto his fellow microbes: ‘fellas? Let’s be good to our wives and daughters and start an evolution.’ And that is how humankind came to be. Thousands of years later, when Jack stares into a swamp in Vietnam, he sees his old amoeba girlfriend’s descendants, the ones who tried to launch singing careers, and he puts his hands around their little microbial faces and...dies. Oh, wait, no, that’s later….sorry…. TIME MACHINE!! WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS WITH YOUR NARRATIVE, BE SURE TO INCLUDES LOTS OF FLASH FORWARDS AND BACKWARDS AND SIDEWAYS UNTIL YOUR VIEWER NO LONGER BOTHERS READING THE CHYRON .Jack and Nicky go to a bar to watch the draft on t.v. And, because even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes, that’s one moment where, yep, the show got me. I was stunned. I Googled, because I could not believe that I was watching a real-life Hunger Games re-enactment. My God. That really fucking happened. I am shocked all over again by the never-ending horrific details to this time period. But then, because show, we must remember that this about JACK and doesn’t he look tasty, ladies (and any gents so inclined), in his tighty whities? The tragedy of white men with pumped up abs and biceps going to die, amirite? Anyway, doc says Jack is superman, too, and he probably got his heart condition as a side effect of the radiation from his halo, so too bad, but he’s in tippy top shape to go find his Clark Kent overseas. TIME MACHINE!!!! *SCREEEEEEEECHHHHH* The nurse tells Jack’s mom that 18 is a lucky number. She is a demon from the future of irony. Oh, wait...wait for it...here comes Normal Dad! Why, he’s even playing with Jack, which will make the transition to Very Bad Guy all the more heartwrenching, but I don’t think he actually does kill anyone and mom eventually gets out to enjoy coffeecake with a friend, so it’s all good, but meanwhile….hark...I hear footsteps….don’t look now, kids but it’s BAD MOOD GRANDPA! Grandpa wandered down to the hospital and is pissed that Nicky won’t be born on the 19th. Why he’s pissed, I don’t know, but I think he might unzip his skin and burst out as an abusive lizard and whip Normal Dad with his tail (a girl can dream). There is an ominousness to Bad Mood Grandpa and he’s hitting the flask hard because...well, you know by now that alcohol is the universal sign of evil characters and lazy writers.I’m surprised he doesn’t pinch the nurse’s ass or ask for a cigar, but he gets tired of sitting there and goes home because apparently grandma is holding supper for him (at 11 or so at night) and he cannot handle sitting around waiting for this fucked up kid who can’t even be borned on the right day. So, home he goes and grandma probably poisoned his supper because Bad Mood Drunk Grandpa is Probably Not So Good and must be the reason Normal Dad changes into Very Bad Guy. But that’s its own Very Special Episode and involves cousin Oliver and will be coming up as the season cliffhanger. Once Nicky is born, Normal Dad points out all the babies born on that day who will grow up to….well, not exactly live their dreams. Which makes me feel really, really sorry for Kevin, Kate and Randall. Because, we saw THEM as babies and who knew they’d grow up to struggle with such tragic lives? Sorry, babies, some of you will die in a war and some of you will grow up to be fat, misunderstood or anxious. TIME MACHINE!!! NO, WE ARE NOT STOPPING FOR A POTTY BREAK! YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE THAT BACK IN YOUR CRIB!!!! Nicky is running to Canada to escape the draft. Now, I’m not entirely sure why Nicky is such a mopey sad sack, but he is and even before the draft he was complaining about never amounting to anything and why me and why can’t I be Jack and so I’m cheering him on to the Great White North where he will finally stop spinning in phone booths hoping to turn into superman, but hint: thanks to the show opening in Vietnam baring his abs, I know that ain’t happening. Nicky does go on about wishing he could start from the end and work backwards (and the props crew groans because they are SPENT from all this time machine driving) and isn’t that a song by Coldplay or a Ron Howard movie? Anyway, Nicky bails on the Canada plan, apparently, because Jack wakes up and finds him gone and the time machine is playing ‘oh, superman where are you now’ from Genesis and….oh, thank you, gods of Olympus, that’s a wrap and I can rest my weary head and maybe go get some fish and chips. By the way, I am chalking up that writing credit to Tim O’Brien as the writers/producers asking him, ‘um...we read your book...can we maybe copy a little from you and maybe you can check our work and see if we made this ‘Vietnam-y’ enough?’ *™ Laurakaye, I think, who first made “Pearson” a verb. **™ Homer Simpson. What I wouldn’t give to watch Jack try to Pearson the town of Springfield.

Ha! I wonder if NBC realizes that if they went with this description instead of 'most feeliest feelies ever felt while watching a greasy-haired guy pontificate' that the show might actually be interesting? Nah... Oh, and , the way you handle Jones, @laurakaye, is to walk right out of math class because girls can’t do math, ha ha, and you go to car mechanic class instead and show ‘em how you’ve learned to wipe down an engine from watching Jack Pearson do it. I am disappointed to hear there is no more water cooler talk. Perhaps you’re too much of a rock guitar for their jazz band? You know what really caps off an awesome day of being treated like a big old slimy puked up hairball by your pet’s vet clinic because you’re fifteen minutes late?* Coming home to find your pet still has mats and a few long nails and you’ve been charged for a curious “time/labor” item that you’ve never seen before. You know your evening’s going to be fan-fucking-tastic as you chase your cat around to get just…one….more….nail as your cat acts like you’re cutting off her leg without anesthesia and gazes at you with wild, ‘why, Mom, WHY’ eyes. Punches me right in the feelz. But, wait… What is this delight on the Comcast On Demand menu? Why, it’s a fresh, all-new, MUST SEE hour of Pearson for a Day! Hate watching therapy – activate! This is Rebecca’s mom. She practically wears a beehive hairdo and calls her husband ‘Ward’ and somehow doesn’t need to take the edge off her Pleasantville life with a few valium. I’m shocked, SHOCKED, to see that in the fifties, women were largely dependent on men. I know. It was a helluva thing for me to learn, too….I never knew… Rebecca burns her bra and starts a union and her first song is “I am Woman, Hear me Roar.” Er….wait…no, that’s just the feminist movement that cleared the way for Rebecca to pursue a singing career with a day job and without a dude around to demand his dinner. Much like “Alice”, but I guess “Stow it, Dingy!” isn’t a very poignant kick in the feelz. Anyway, viva la resistance, watch Rebecca walk out of home ec and into shop class! Oh, if Susan B. Anthony could see her now. Rebecca is rewarded for her girl power by….meeting a guy! I’m gonna need a lotta wine to stomach this cutesy retro shit and an icepack for the anvil that landed on my head. ATTENTION: SEXISM IS BAD!!!!! VERY BAD!!!!! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!!! (But don’t forget to land that guy, gals). Merciful Zeus, we time warp and gone are women who freshen up the children and prepare a highball to please their weary husbands exhausted from martini lunches and smoking at the office. Now, Rebecca finds her shop savior boy, all grown up with a curly, gross moustache and Howdy Doody demeanor, on her doorstep with flowers. It’s totally sweet that he shows up like that, years later, and proclaims that he can’t seem to forget her (her Windsong stays on his mind). It’s not creepy or desperate at all, but worse than that, Jack (THE Jack…you know, the PTSD buzzkill who’s too cheap to buy an umbrella and insists that it’s not raining that hard) sees them together and drives away! Oh, NOES! And you thought irony was dead. Or you thought, ‘I’ve seen more clever plot twists on Three’s Company.’ Depends on how bad your mood is and how much wine you’ve had. Me, I’m kinda wondering if Milo’s had some work done because he looks an awful lot like Bob Sagat’s long-haired, greasy, long lost brother. But anyway, in a super keen neato way, it all works out because Jack goes home and discovers that, after all these years, he’s had enough of his dad beating on his mom, so he just up and moves her out. She’s a little concerned about not having a coffeecake for her arrival, but other than that, no worries. ATTENTION: WIFE BEATING IS BAD AND ONLY JACK PEARSON CAN SAVE YOU!!!!!!! I have zero clue where Rebecca even is, but she’s in some kitchen talking to some woman about her singing career and that she wants to move to L.A. because Joni Mitchell. Joni writes a new song that day called ‘Oh, HELL no.’ with the single, ‘you can’t touch this range, little princess.’ Anyway, here comes Howdy Doody to mansplain that Rebecca needs to go to New York instead because he actually has a connection to someone. Yes, that’s actually a better prospect than just being in the same city as Joni Mitchell, but ATTENTION: THIS GUY WILL DESTROY REBECCA’S LIFE! RED ALERT! RED ALERT! So off Rebecca goes to the store to buy some champagne to celebrate and of course there is only ONE store in the area that sells both champagne and coffeecakes and, what a coinkydink that both the battered women’s house and the nice Pleasantville home are in the same area. And, oh be still my heart, she sees Jack. She asks, straight out of a poor man’s S.E. Hinton novel, what he’s “doing in this part of town.” ATTENTION: JACK IS FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS!!! He’s supposed to be a Journey or Springsteen song, but he’s really more like REO Speedwagon, the College Years. Rebecca starts thinking, ‘oh my god, these dopes are my choices? For THIS, I walked out of home ec?’ Anyway, like most people do when they’re shopping, especially when one’s abused mom is cowering beside the coffeecakes, they start talking dreams. Jack says he doesn’t have dreams except for making sure his mom is OK and raising a family and having his feet washed and turning water to wine and he just wants to teach the world to sing and buy it banana pudding ice cream. Rebecca’s eyes gleam with the prospect of a fixer-upper boyfriend and who wouldn’t melt when someone, the second time you meet them, goes all hang dog about how messed up their life is? Hawt. Rebecca decides to adopt a puppy and head to L.A. on her own and…nevermind. She disappears when Jack turns around to, oh, sweet sorrow, maybe reach out with his tremulous little heart. So Jack buys his mom a coffeecake and a VHS of the Burning Bed and says, ‘Farah Fawcett wouldn’t have had to do all that if she’d had me in her life.’ I want coffeecake now. But first, let’s watch Rebecca talk to Howdy Doody’s mother in the kitchen (a woman’s place, get it?) about how she just has a ‘feeling’ about that greasy guy who’s all mysterious about ‘Nam and is such a saint he dares not have dreams for himself. Of course, Howdy Doody’s mom is still zonked on Miltown and placidly nods as Rebecca says her son is just kinda a boob. She (vaguely) remembers meeting her own kind husband and what a relief it was to meet a kind man after her dad told her no science for you, woman! Now, I’m thinking Howdy Doody is creepy and all, but he does seem polite, so I’m not sure why his mom is throwing him under the bus and encouraging Rebecca to go with emotional trainwreck Jack, but maybe that’s because we all know kindness isn’t exciting and doesn’t give you “feelings.” So, buncha stuff, and Rebecca watches Jack roll up his sleeves to WASH THE DISHES. She swoons. She has the vapors. She nearly passes out at the sight of a man soaping up the dinner plates. Seriously, isn’t this the goddamned 60s or 70s by now? Has she just been released from her own version of the Truman Show? For a change, instead of an anvil, a chyron crawls across the screen: JACK IS GOOD. JACK IS NOT SEXIST. YAY, BUBBLES! HE’S GOING TO GO TO L.A. WITH REBECCA AND NEVERMIND MOM JUST OUT OF AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP SHE’S ALL GOOD NOW. And that’s the end of the backstory that wasn’t nearly ready for primetime, but whatever. Ladies, the show brought us Milo holding a dishrag. What more could you possibly want? Oh, you’re curious about the self-absorbed twue wuv spawn? Okay then. Randall At first, I think Beth is legit playing Mystery Science Theatre as she narrates exactly what Randall will do about his outburst with Kate. Except she’s not kidding. No, Randall hops on a plane to go apologize to Kate in person because he asked her why in hell adoption isn’t good enough for her and she got pouty and god knows, when Kate gets pouty, the universe has some ‘splainin to do, so off Randall goes spending money on a last minute flight to say ‘sorry’ before Kate possibly dies under the knife. She’s mollified a bit and Randall and Tobe Babe have a Man Talk about their Emotions. They thump chests and say Real Men Cry. Rock on, bros. Then, before he can say, ‘I’m going to go build Beth a SheShed’, he gets a call and apparently the evil councilman hasn’t lived up to his word and the poor people still don’t have light and now someone’s gone and beaten up the girl we met, I think, one ep ago? In any case, Randall is now in a different hospital, by her bedside (the magic of buying last minute plane tickets on one income!) and the woman who told him he’s an idiot in the last ep now tells him he needs to do something. Oh, lady, you shouldn’t have. God help us all because now Randall wants to run for office and replace that shithead who obviously likes to torture the poor. Randall adopts everyone from William’s own complex, runs for President and solves Beth’s new unemployment problem by appointing her director of HUD. He’s Jack like that, you know… Beth gets fired and has a visit from St. William who talks about bass players as unsung heroes and I really want to explain to him that in this show, there is no such thing as an unsung hero. These people won’t ever shut the fuck up about Jack or, for that matter, William, so you’re no bass player, William. You’re the annoying smoke people try to ignore and wave away as they listen to music. Kevin Rah! Kevin’s movie is a success! Everyone cries and claps and someone says they’ve cancelled the Oscars for the year because obviously Kevin wins and who cares about the Oscars when an NPR goddess wants to interview you? Anyway, Zoe is still around and they’re knocking boots. If you think it sounds exciting reading that, just try watching the damn show. You won’t believe how you, too, can get the same effect of Valium without paying for a prescription! But no worries – Kevin now has a flashback to playing with a grenade in a toy store and having Jack divebomb him and throw him through the window screaming ‘fuck off, Charlie!’ This makes Kevin curious about what exactly went on over there in Vietnam. Those of us who have read a history book or two or at least watched ‘Platoon’ have some idea, but no, surely Jack has an extraordinary story to tell, so lucky us, we get to go along for this ride. Get your Vietnam cliché drinking game ready for next week, folks…as the promo so ominously said, ‘Next week…find out what makes Jack…Jack.” Oh fer crying out loud, show, this isn’t the backstory of Batman or anything, but you go on with your average white guy worship. Kate Are you unhappy with your weight? Are you a whining, complaining sourpuss daddy’s girl who makes everyone feel miserable except some deluded guy who’s going to go insane anyway? Does the universe never give you a break and have you been a jagged little pill of a teenager stuck in a grown ass modern day woman’s body? Well, girl, set down the KFC because there’s something better! Anesthesia! Just count back from ten and suddenly you’ll be in a room with your teenaged self, your childhood self, and your daddy will come with ice cream! You don’t even have to be mortified at how you’ve been acting because that’s not the point! The point is, there’s ice cream in dreams now! Just a few minutes of weird-smelling gas and your problems are solved! And it’s all yours for the low low price of $20,000! And you wake up with all the babies you ever wanted! Plus, act now and we’ll include a scene of your doctor telling you sternly to wake up, which is the magic cure that apparently Grey’s Anatomy never knew about, damn you, Dr. Yang. The doc’s words work like a charm because for someone who had trouble coming out of anesthesia, Kate was pretty chipper and alert. The times I’ve come out of anesthesia I’ve been a total drooling, confused heap of WTF, but then, le sigh, I am not a Pearson. You’d think, after such a transformative experience (which I am quite jealous of, I admit, having gone under anesthesia twice and never once remembering a single dead relative or friend giving me a shout out), she’ll stop trying to be Hope the Mope from thirtysomething and actually turn into a reasonable adult, but….this is us. The universe will disappoint little Katie Girl again, I’m afraid, and this time, no funny gas and TobeBabe catatonic from sudden Prozac withdrawal. Next week is extra feelz credit for watching a Very Serious Show about a War that Hurt a Lot of People. Including Jack's brother, the saxophonist in alpha company's jazz band that played songs to the people of Vietnam and handed out American flags for them to wave. If there is a single note of an emo guitar playing "Born in the USA," I am not responsible for what happens to my teevee. *In the eleven years that I’ve taken our pets to that clinic, I have been late exactly one other time because I am quite aware that a clinic’s schedule is held together by duct tape and a prayer and one latecomer can screw up an entire day. I walked in apologizing and the clinic receptionist just gave me a filthy look and I felt about as tall as a maggot on poop. If only Jack Pearson were there to give a good what-for about how this appointment NEEDS to happen and not only will the tech stay well past his shift, it will be done for free. Oh, if only I could take St. William’s advice and learn to be a humble, noble bass player in a jazz band. Why is life so fucking hard?

Hi! Sorry I’m late and I hope my seat at this table is still here. I had to take remedial feelz class and go to Pearson worship over the summer. Was watching a live hellscape on the teevee (aka, the news) and thought, wait a minute. You think you have it bad right now? What about Kate Pearson? She’s fat and self-pitying. Or Kevin? The alcoholic actor nobody takes seriously? Or Randall, who can’t bear being perfect? If you’re going to watch insufferable people complain, wouldn’t you rather have an emo guitar riffing along? So, OK, I hit the On Demand and watched both episodes and haven’t felt so underwhelmed since I drank my first can of Jolt cola. Expected to be up all night, watching MTV and solving geometry proofs like a Pythagorus himself and instead fell asleep reading a Caitlin series (which, by the way, was a far superior work of art about pretty pouting people who just can’t scratch that hard to reach existential itch) But, I didn’t go through remedial feelz camp for nothing, so… If you think you have problems, read on. Get a load of: Kate She just got married and hugged her mom, too, but it isn’t long before she discovers another reason that the universe just hates her. The shower curtain has denied her a pregnancy once before and she will be avenged. She and Tobe get their repro parts tested – Tobe is handed a stack of girly mags and sent to the bathroom (seriously, guys, if it’s true that you can get off in a plastic cup shut in a hospital bathroom with beat up centerfold shots while people wait for you…wow, I’m super jealous. I can’t even pee when I know people are waiting). Anyway, she and Tobe Babe visit a fertility doctor who says (in the teevee doctor’s office because this totally wouldn’t happen while Kate was in a gown) “uh-uh. I prefer patients who won’t die on a table.” Surprisingly, Jack Pearson does not bust down the door and say, “I have nine dollars. For nine dollars, doc, you’re gonna make my little girl pregnant and happy.” Oh, sorry. Wrong story line. Anyway, Kate braves her own party, where she is served a platter of carrots tied up in a ribbon, which is totally the Pinterest envy of all the web. How will they cut that thing? Why isn’t it frosted with low-fat yogurt dip? I am fascinated by this….oh, goddamn it, never mind, here comes the great Pearson howl at the universe moment. Madison shrinks away in terror as Kate blabs to her nearest and dearest friends (?) that she and Tobe Babe can’t have a Babe. She asks,” When do I get a break? When does the universe finally give me a break?” Universe says: “Please be patient. Your call is important to us. I am currently trying to resolve the situation in the Darfur region and bird flu and plantar warts, but, hey, let me put all that aside because I’ve been so very mean to Jack Pearson’s little Morissette pill…” Tobe Babe makes a heroic gesture and dumps his anti depressants down the toilet. That’ll show his sperm, damn it. Why taper sensibly when you can turn yourself into an instant, immobilized lump of doom who doesn’t want sex, period? Anyway the good doctor has a chat with Kate’s insurance company, which tells the doctor she’s crazy for not taking in that cool $20,000 or so off of a desperate patient. And be sure, doc, that you bring them BACK to the office at five so that you can charge an extra $100 for a visit. And, voila, the universe gives Kate Pearson a break! Now if only the show universe would give the viewers a break, too. Anyway, this is the perfect situation to show that Rebecca, again, is a piece of shit parent. She says she’s worried about Kate going through such a risky procedure with such a high chance of failure (because we all know how Kate takes failure square on the chin and moves along). There’s a flashback to Kate eating poptarts like popcorn and saying she’s gained 25 pounds. In a moment of rare, do the right thing, Rebecca eats a poptart, too, and says, ‘you’ve been through a rough time. Don’t worry about your weight.’ Oh my god! She’s human! But….wait….no, no, she’s sorry about that. What she should have said was, “you’re right, you pig, now go stuff your face with a salad. My god.” Sigh. Anyway, Rebecca sucks and TobeBabe storms out and then doesn’t show up at Kevin’s big movie and the universe has forgotten, yet again, about Kate Pearson. Kevin Is in a movie. Is “knocking boots” (totally a saying a hip, wise ass woman would say) with Zoe, the cousin who, Beth warns, will ‘chew him up.’ I’m wondering when we get the emo guitar version of “Maneater,” but we don’t. Kevin has a flashback to drinking a beer at an empty football stadium, then wandering into an empty school auditorium, where he decides that he wants to act. (again, I want to go to a school where I can wander around after hours drinking beer, but I’m not a Pearson, so….). At his premiere, he asks Randall why nobody takes him seriously. Randall says he doesn’t know because he can’t do anything right, either. Randall’s probably jealous because Kevin is in a movie about Vietnam, which we all know contains a tragic Jack Pearson story and therefore that’s the only reason anyone ever talks about it, but all Randall got was a visit to the Vietnam Memorial. Sucks for Randall. Anyway, Kevin , it’s not that nobody takes you seriously. It’s that you’re boring as fuck and I take being bored very seriously. Randall How many Pearsons does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One, but he requires an entire apartment complex of good-hearted, poor people gazing at him and two dead dads smiling upon him. Randall chases down a councilman at the barber shop and says he has two dead dads, one of whom is Saint William who will rain bad poetry down from the heavens if you’re not careful. Also, Randall takes Deja on a trip down memory lane and tells her he gets her while Deja cringes and dreams of raising more plants in the dark. Escape the madness through science, Deja. It can happen for you. Also, there’s a mysterious fast forward to Tess and randall “going to see her”. This is the show trying desperately to keep us watching. It’s promising one of those great reveals, but I have a sneaking feeling that maybe the “her” is Zoe, who told Beth to stop trying to make “knocking boots” happen again and is now dead. Greasy McFeely and Rebecca Go to a carnival. It rains. Jack can’t afford an umbrella*, though I’m honest to god shocked that he didn’t walk up to random umbrella person and demand one because he’s Jack Pearson and he has to keep his girl dry (oh, dear….well, Jack, many girls will remain dry around you in any kind of weather, but…sorry, sorry, couldn’t help myself). Rebecca says the ‘way he looks at her’ is what melts her heart. Must have been same for Christie Brinkley when she looked at Billy Joel, except Jack has an extra special smokiness to his eyes (courtesy of PTSD). So, really, they should be playing “Uptown Girl” instead of any Springsteen, but young, stupid, love, I guess. Next: it’s Jack in Vietnam! Let me guess: (rainy, dark jungle scene) Rat-a-tat-tat “FALL BACK!” Jack: “No! I’m going to save Private Ryan and stop Nazism and order a code red!” Because, you know, all those other Vietnam movies, television specials and books? They can’t hold a candle to the tragedy that is Jack Pearson losing his brother. Oh, and also, there were some shots of the Steelers and Harris in particular, who also, I guess, grew up in a family that didn’t have all the advantages. Maybe he’s Zoe’s dad? Or Jack Pearson meets him in Vietnam? Rest assured, the show paid a lot for those shots, so they wouldn’t possibly use them as a red herring or lazy plot device…. *No, there was not an emo guitar riff on the "Umbrella - ella - ella" song, either. Though that would have been impressive and the only thing besides the crown rack of carrot that wasn't underwhelming. Noted that the music was distinctly more bluesy and less invasively emo. Spicy, this music design is... *Waves at @laurakaye. How was your summer? Who do you have for homeroom? Also, are your coworkers at the water cooler still enthralled with this show or have they moved on to "A Million Little Things," the ABC version of the great (mostly) white rich whiners, this time with suicide?

Dear Co-worker: I heard you blabbing about asking everyone on our team for a $20 donation for some work-sponsored-charity-auction thingie. Fine. Can do with minimal irritation as long as it doesn't become a habit. Why, then, when you sent the email with the official ask, did you up the donation to $50? I don't know what kind of coin you rake in over there, but to me, a $30 increase isn't about charity anymore. Oh, and don't bother my cold-hearted self with pleas about 'it's for children! Think of the children! Don't you want to help children!" Cos, sorry, not an auto-heartstring tugging word to me. Also, you know, $30 buys at least two big boxes of premium cat food AND a large premium coffee to drink on the way home PLUS a good tip for the barista. You will take my money and thank me without a word about which President's face is on it. Dear Self-Important-Long-Titled-Corner Office-Dwelling-Hotheaded-Patronizing-Fucktard Who Thinks He's God's Gift to the Workplace: OK. I will try to explain this in bullet points to you. Please try not to interrupt me after my first word, though, k? Wait until the beep to flip the filmstrip: 1. Accessing data directly from a database is not your god-given right, nor is it easy peasy to do. 2. You can access data from (gasp) this handy tool called an INTERFACE, which is set up specifically so your head doesn't explode trying to decipher a data dictionary. 3. You no likee the data from the interface? MmmmmK, you're extra, but whatever, we have this lovely person called a (say it with me) DATABASE/REPORTS developer who can whip up a nice custom report just for you, Your Specialness. He's a guy, so you'll probably like it better anyway. He likely won't mention to you that you can get the exact same data from that interface thing, but he sure as hell will ask me why in fuck he's creating a report for something that could be pulled from, oh, I don't know...the INTERFACE. We will laugh at you, so whatever. 4. Oh, so a bigger-wig with a bigger office, bigger car, bigger ding a ling, etc. asked you for a presentation tomorrow? And you want to know why we can't just tappety tap on a keyboard like Penelope does in every episode of Criminal Minds and, voila! Accurate, clean, perfectly laid out, tested, approved, fresh, color-coded, unimpeachable data served up hot? OK, let's try again: 1. No, I cannot simply give you the password to access the database and you should not want to work for a place that would allow that. 2. Also, you don't need to. Big Wang asked you for something you could pull in two seconds yourself. Oh, you don't want to? Why? No, don't fucking ask me again how to get access to the database. TELL ME WHY YOU CAN'T PULL THIS SIMPLE REQUEST YOURSELF? Ohhhhh....you "shouldn't have to get too involved in the data itself." Like the rest of us great unwashed peons, eh? Then why the fuck do you want to access the database? Because you feel manly and worth your pay grade joining a table? Get the fuck out. Seriously, jump out of a window. 3. WHAT? WHAT?!!?! "If the data is so complex that only IT people can work with it, we need a new system." 4. (This is me smiling as excellent stabbing fantasies drift through my brain). "The data for Big Wang's request seems straightforward. Would you like to see how to pull it?" (The data. I'm presuming this fuck is well-acquainted with pulling big wangs not his own). 5. "If I can log in to the interface, why can't I log into the database?" 6. I soooooo need a drink...."It isn't my decision. Please speak with my director." Who will tell you to fill out a form and have no idea what to do. Yay! 7. "So we have this crazy expensive system with data so complex that nobody can use it? I mean, I could put Big Wang's data myself in a Power Point. I know how to get it. My question is: how do we get trained on accessing the database, joins, definitions, queries and all of that? I know how to write queries. I've gone to Oracle conferences and given them an earful on how bad their structure is. We just need you or someone else to show us a bit about the database." 8. Oh, well, why didn't you SAY so? You're clearly a logical, humble sort. You're the big dingleberry in finance who doesn't have a clue how payments, adjustments or charges are even entered, so I'm sure looking at a bunch of tables will make perfect sense to you. And that lovely DBA/developer I mentioned will do backflips when he hears that he's expected to teach the entire finance team the ins and outs of working with a database that he's spent, hmmmmm, YEARS working with. That's IF the director actually gets off his duff and, instead of floating a form, decides to THINK about, say, security or performance or any other RISK he'd like to investigate before handing out database passwords to someone because their title is big and they seem like OK people. 9. I hear Oracle has job openings. I bet they'd love to have such an excellent go-getter like you on their team! Go on, now... And I get to travel with this fuck for two days next week. On a budget airline without a checked bag so I can't pack booze. Well, whatever, I needed an actual bumblefuck in real life to study for a novel, so I may as well get paid to study one of the prime ones...

Oh my god, would you and a few more New Yorkers please visit us here in the heartland and 'splain this concept? Not hard, folks. Just like an elevator. It's not a standoff. you aren't knockers at a slaughterhouse. Get.Out.Of.The.Way. I can't even.

Ha ha!! I'm fascinated by sleepwalking. Does he have his eyes open or shut? Can you talk to him or try to guide him back to bed? Although, I suppose, 4am is not ideal for studying. Sleepwalking is probably way more interesting when you don't live with someone who does it! :) Speaking of change and cashier peeves - I guess it's proper or normal to do this, but I hate it when cashiers hand me back my receipt on top of my bills and then dump change in my hand. Now I have to put the change in change pocket, bills in the billfold and the receipt somewhere else because I don't want it with my bills. This really shouldn't be so hard, but I'm a disorganized mess and rarely without at least three things to keep track of (purse, water bottle, ipod: minimum). Add an open wallet to that AND the pressure of people behind me ready to mow me down with their carts or trying to shove their way to my spot? Not pretty. And sometimes, I'm a right arsehole about taking my time to get myself together. goddess help me when the time comes and I need to keep track of a cane or walker, too. Please just ask whether I want the receipt with me or in the bag - like when I pay with a credit card? Why is it automatic to hand a receipt over with a stack of bills and not after you've signed for a credit card authorization? Give us left-brained screw ups a break once in a while, k? Attention, people boarding a train. I know, trains are still pretty new here, but you should know better than, when a train is clearly crowded, to get on and then stand right smack in front of the door because, duh, you've got your spot. Squish and push your way in a bit, please. I know, it sucks. I'm a touch claustrophobic myself and I almost vomited the other morning when the person next to me held her egg salad sandwich right under my nose and started licking it up like cat. But ya gotta everyone on the d*mn train.

Hey, belated thanks to everyone who shared my peeve about last minute standing plan changes and who offered insight - greatly appreciated. For anyone keeping score at home, I emailed the group and said that the weather (which, um, didn't amount to jack squat - THANKS hysterical meteorologists desperately seeking more clicks) looked OK but why didn't we push back a half an hour just to get the worst out of the way. Other members quickly chimed in and gave the thumbs up, so NM did, in fact, show up, ready to go. Our group does have a Rebel Leader, but said leader has been having family issues and so our group has been a bit in flux anyway, so I'll simmer down about NM for now and, if NM keeps it up in the upcoming months when Rebel Leader returns, I'll mention something to Rebel Leader. The whole rescheduling snafu did kind of take over my headspace, but that's on me - anyway, appreciate the chance to come here and vent. Was the best part of the whole thing. :) Anyway, I'm a dirty dishes stacker because I think it looks messier to leave them all strewn on the counter. But I see your point about rinsing. I'm always nervous about helping clear when I'm at someone else's home because I want to be polite, but I also know some people don't appreciate anyone else mucking in their garbage disposal. I'm going to watch my MIL next time I'm there to see how she stacks or doesn't before I help. She's not someone who appreciates "help" that makes more work for her. Godspeed, @VIXENSTUD. Anything I can do make admin life easier I want to put on my list. I feel really badly for admins at my workplace because people don't respect that they're supposed to be assigned to certain people. Anyone and everyone constantly asks for their help - especially for last minute emergencies. Once, I was in a meeting with some asshole bigwig and another person's admin assistant came up to the meeting with a sandwich for him because asshole couldn't order his own damn lunch or stuff a powerbar down his gullet for his packed day of sitting in meetings, pissing and moaning about how dumb everyone is. Anyway, my peeve is when people comment about my lunch. If I carry a plate of salad back from the kitchen, I am besieged with "oooh! Salad! That looks so healthy." or "oh, that looks impressive." If I heat something up, I hear, "That smells so good! What is it?" I carry hella baggage about my eating habits and have no small amount of body shame, so I never take these comments as friendly and just want to throw said salad or delicious smelling leftover at the person's face. Shut the hell up and go get your own lunch so you can keep your eyes on your own plate. Goddamn. And lunch meetings - dear god. Crammed around a table stuck listening to slurping swallowing smacking in stereo and listening to people try to talk around giant mouthfuls of food and spitting like an accidental watermelon seed contest? Fuck. that. shit. And since I've stumbled onto an eating rant - dear coworkers: if you walk over to my desk and see me take a bite of my none of your business lunch, please kindly wait until I swallow before asking me your question. Better yet, notice that I'm eating and tell me you'll come back in a bit, giving me time to, you know, chew? Please don't stand there and say, "oh, I'm sorry...that looked like a really good mouthful, too," or "Oh, I'm interrupting what looks like a really good lunch," and then watch me. It's creepy. It's annoying. Yes, I know, I am not normal. Please let me try to keep that to myself, k?

I belong to a group of people who get together once a month to do X (not X-rated anything). All of us have busy lives, but we're in this group because we take X seriously, so it takes a while when we meet to iron out the next meeting date. Anyway, once date is set, unless someone gets sick or the apocalypse strikes...we show up. New member has, several times now, asked to reschedule on the day we're supposed to meet. Now, new member is never participating in X when she wants to reschedule, so it's just the rest of us who are counting on participating who bear the irritation and delayed gratification. New member is a far more 'fly by seat of pants' person and, if caught unprepared for X or isn't in the mood or, today's episode, the weather will likely be lousy for an hour or two during transit time...well, NM thinks nothing of emailing and saying, 'hey, how about we reschedule? I'm just having such a crazy week/bad day/hangnail/etc.' Today, I am participating in X. I prepared for X and have been waiting with great anticipation (seriously, this isn't X-rated). Weather says we will likely get horrific t-storms at just the time we'd all be driving to meet. NM had emailed a week ago to confirm the date. Then, we get an email first thing today saying "oh, gosh....severe weather...let's keep an eye out...not saying to cancel, but let's definitely think about it..." Me: "I'm in if we're talking t-storms. Hail or tornadoes....not so much." Rest of the members: "OK, how about we check in around 5 when we're all likely to be driving? If Zeus isn't up there throwing down pestilence and smiting folks, let's do it." NM; (an hour later): "Can we check in sooner than that?" Another member: "OK. How about 3?" NM: "Would anyone be on board with cancelling and rescheduling for a less stressful day?" Me: "Would prefer not to, because rescheduling is hard, but if we have to, could we keep it to the same week? I'm only open Tuesday, but if that works, I'm game." NM: "Tuesday works for me!" Rest of members: *assorted yays/nays to Tuesday* Me: "OK, let's check in at 5 and see what the weather looks like and who all can get there." NM: *crickets* Had NM emailed and said, "hey, sorry, I probably don't want to chance driving tonight, but I'll do what I can so that those participating in X will get my support." Wouldn't even be griping if NM had done that. /begin whine But nooooooooo, we're all supposed to consider rescheduling when I'm, honestly, thinking NM is just looking for an excuse to bail on tonight and I'm getting pissed off. NM is the only person who ever asks for the entire group to reschedule instead of just saying no and owning that decision, though NM has also done that. It just makes me think that NM doesn't really take our group seriously or doesn't understand that continually fucking up the schedule on a whim is just plain disrespectful. I feel badly for thinking this way and I don't think NM is a horrid person or anything, but by god, I cannot understand and barely tolerate a mentality that takes commitment only as seriously as it is convenient. I can't help how seriously NM takes the group, but I know it infuriates me when she does this, because I have missed group exactly twice: wedding and funeral, respectively. I don't want a gold star and I'm not about to start deciding who is missing group for the "wrong reasons," but crikey, own your decisions and if you can't participate, just say so. /end whine I'm sorely tempted to write back, "oh, for fuck's sake, just don't watch 'Twister' today, buckle your seatbelt, and drive in some goddamned hail and blinding rain. It'll toughen you up, buttercup," but I'll just shake my cane at the universe and get back to screaming 'you kids don't know ANYTHING about responsibility...'

Oh. *blink* *blink* I've never had a kind thing to say about the six-month assault of pumpkin spice, but if it means I discover drool-worthy possibilities like these ^^^^?? I'm in -I mean, I'm off the Starbucks. This drip brew woman has been missing OUT....

KeeeerrrrrrrrrrSPLAT goes that ending. Jess the "food novelist" should have walked out in protest. That's as bad an ending as if they'd all woken up from a dream. Hey, FN, how's about you just pass out the participation ribbons and announce that the prize is that all of them get to be studio audience members on an episode of Beat Bobby Flay? Yay! Everyone wins! Except those of us stuck in teevee land wondering where all the chef talent has gone, but whatever, we don't count... Anyway, cheers to the two fakey McFake "winners" who will now have some camera time stuffing their maw, scanning their food magnetic poetry kit, and announcing, "what a succulent and charred bolus you've given me to roll around on my tongue." Yep. Winner! Though I will say I will give Jess a slight nod for keeping a game face when presented with an oily, burned "colly-flower" and trying to sex it up. That takes some kind of desperate camera-fucking gene. I bet the rats in Madagascar would eat that up, though...

Ha - like a perky version of Delicious Dish. Wheee!! Schweaty Balls! Yay! Oh, look - the South is rising again.... Aaaaaand, the award for Biggest Debbie Downer Pain the Arse goes to....Amy! Congratulations, girl. You're a rare treat who can make things like living in Hawaii and eating cheese with wine for dinner sound like experiences to be endured and suffered instead of cherished*. "Don't be jealous...I've brought you Hawaii on a plate." Bitch, please. Park yourself here in the midwest and talk to me about how I can find fresh fish caught daily that I can eat raw served with pineapple I pick from my yard. Sit down. Go away. May the lighted vagina swallow you, then spit you back out, proclaiming, on national TV, "ew. Smells like dorianfruit. And sour." Er, Jess? If you're so good with words, you should be better at picking ones that get more bang for the buck. Piquant? Sure, I know what it means, and it may be a perfect word, but it conveys nothing. And your delivery is about as exciting as a dietitian explaining which vitamins and minerals come with which foods. Your words should excite you more than that. And now, Adam and model-face with abs kick off the "Giada's cleavage" therapy. Nobody gets out of "Star" without a proper show of awe for The Apparition that is Giada. Bow down to the cleavage and teeth, boys. Sexual orientation and single status need not be considered. Now get that starry eyed look on your face and interesting fold in your jeans or it will get the rhhhhiiiiiiicohhhhhhtaaaaaa bath... I'd like the firehouse guy much more if I didn't think a win for him would mean yet another travel, shove food in my face, belch catchphrase snore of a show. *Yes, I know, Hawaii is not a simplistic paradise or utopia, but of all places you could live, I just can't with this whining privileged bullshit. How about a little gratitude so the mass unwashed don't want to throw you in a Greeley slaughterhouse or stuff you down a Gary smokestack?

I adore you for mentioning this. Also, I'm old school. I don't know what the f*ck a "food novel" is. Is the main character a noodle that has an epiphany about which sauce suits it? Him? Her? How do you sex a noodle? Does the reader breathlessly follow the noodle down the GI tract and witness its clash with stomach acid and the great cilia of intestine? Maybe she means "food porn" and can't say that on a PG-13 show? So, I had to look. You're likely not wrong, @eyechart.

Seconded. Add to this the increasingly virulent paranoia about "fake news" and it's far too easy for people (at least ones I know who voted 45 in 2016) to disbelieve anything they don't agree with or threatens to question their assumptions. M.J. isn't hard core news, but it can be a kind of fun gossipy D.C. Mean Girls table (or those who want their seat back even though they dared wear a vest or sweatpants on Monday). I catch it now and again just to be sure normalizing the current admin's "agenda" isn't happening on a regular basis. Kind of my bellwether. If the gossipy D.C. crowd goes all in, the beltway dam is done broke. Meanwhile, I see Confessore and Peters are wearing matching polka dot ties. Cute. Confessore looks hella tired, which must be because he's used to rising at 9am or so (why, yes, I hate myself for knowing this). Is it me or was Peters doing a full-on shoulder shimmy the whole time he talked? Also, did he get fresh veneers or something? He's bordering on Giada de Laurentis Jack-o-Lantern territory. Joe...oh lord...never go without your glasses and at least one night's sleep before appearing on camera. It freaks me out when I can't even tell the color of someone's eyes under all the puffy face.

Ah-ha. Thanks for that insider info. Makes sense. I can understand the presumption that a cheering, lively crowd that's more like a concert than traditional production would make for better teevee. Actually...they could have really taken crowd mentality to a whole new level of breaking the fourth wall. Probably a bridge too far, though. Same. My secular mindset immediately picked up on hero worship and groupthink themes. It makes it all the more interesting, to me, to hear what those with religious beliefs think about it and how it affects them (or not).

I saw a production of JCSS on stage last year for the first time - my wife is the real JCSS soundtrack obsessed fan (as in, I believe she wore out the albums in that brown hardcover). I like to watch different interpretations of characters and, for the most part, if you plunk me a theatre seat with the newly allowed glass of wine? I'll watch paint dry happily. So, I watched with my wife, who is a far harsher critic than I am (something about being obsessed with a soundtrack as a kid that really makes you bare your teeth at anyone who dares try a revival!). I loved Caiaphas and Annas, despite the odd (to me) scarab beetle/jawa costuming. And Pilate, I thought, was fantastic until he lost his voice toward the end. I love me an actor who can bring a minor character to life and pique my interest. The production I saw had cast a woman in the role of Herod, and she was so fantastic I'm afraid I'm spoiled for any other Herod. I had high expectations of Cooper, though, that weren't realized, though he did make me laugh out loud. My likely unpopular opinion is that I was not in the least wowed by SB's performance as MM. The first time I heard that song, I choked up before the first line was finished. It's a song that should gut punch you before you even know what's happening. SB sang it very prettily. It was lovely, sure, but I heard nothing behind it. My wife said (lots of time for commentary with the....ah...generous....commercial breaks), "Nope." And then, after a few minutes, she said, "Alicia Keys. That's who should have been up there." Also, note to the audience: singing isn't the Olympics. You don't need to scream and 'woot woot U.S.A.' every time someone hits a "glory note" (snaps to the poster who mentioned that term! Hee!). It's distracting. Drink your wine and shutty, please. git off my lawn, too. But it was enjoyable watch. And I will probably watch another one if they do a musical I'm not likely to see onstage or one that I remember from high school productions (hello, orchestra pit!). "Finian's Rainbow" anyone? "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat?" Or, if they did "Wicked" or "Rent," I'd be in.

Oh, dear god. It's come to this? The cereal market is so saturated they're using a fifth grade "intro to your womanhood" sex ed attack? Will boxes of Special K now come with a toy in the box? Like a plastic uterus with insertable fetus? Or gummi boobs? Cannot. Facepalm. Hard. Enough. Be gone, Special K, you hellhound of the cereal aisle. Don't forget to emerge from your she-shed every once in a while, @NinjaPenguins. Your hub/wife/sig other will have spilled motor oil on the kitchen floor and will be standing agape at the fridge. You will need to ask, "babe? What are you doing?" as you grab your Brawny and put things right. If you're not there, "Babe" may steal your naughtiest chocolate plastic bit filled peach cream pie dreamsicle Yoplait. What good is your she-shed then?

O'rly? You think you can escape your last kick in the feelz for the season? You march yourself over to your couch and FEEL THE FEELZ, young lady. And don't even think about cheating by scanning your phone or doing housework or watching paint dry or picking your toes. You're only cheating yourself. As extra credit, please prepare a report on the roundtable/circlejerk that is the producers/actors feeling all up over themselves about how they all gave major mcfeely* performances. But I'll give you the cheatsheet anyway because I want you to be prepared for your water cooler encounters: 1. I'm pretty sure that was the plan. I think she said, "I know it's weird that I'm wearing dad's t-shirt." I may be mistaken. Maybe she was going to step into the sleeves and wear it as a super totes adobs one-sie? 2. Did a total double take, but I'm pretty sure that yes, this was stated. Now, maybe Katie Gurl, in addition to showing a flash of adulting, was also showing a bit of sarcasm, but that would be waaaaaay too complex to give a character on this show TWO new aspects to their personality. 3. Oh, no, I made up the Jack in the freezer glass. The reality was boring, that's why. Standard rapid fire flashbacks of daddy dates. But...the banana pudding ice cream is all too real and just as stupid sounding on the teevee as it is in print. But then, I never liked Jello Pudding Pops because their texture was weird to me. *In no way did I mean to imply that the kindly mailman from Fred Roger's neighborhood has been Pearsoned (and, yeah, kudos to the poster who verbed that name...I can't find it to quote it, but dang I laughed my arse off).

My Big Fat Amazeballs Special Snowflake Princess Wedding…Oops. I mean, Dream of My Parents’s Wedding Oh, my. Kate admits she’s weird. Shiver me timbers. Character development. Actually, Kate, you’re not weird. You’re an emotionally constipated, dime a dozen, daddy’s girl whose main emotional trauma (particularly becoming at the age of thirtysomething, may I add) is finding someone to replace daddy and ply you with compliments about how special and great you are. Most people are good with lighting a memorial candle at a wedding for the dearly departed, but you’re going to get all Bridezilla about wearing your dad’s old t-shirt under your lace dress? Oh, you Pearsons. You’re a special bunch of insufferable, aren’t you? Paging Madison, stat. Someone needs to talk Princess Katie Gurl off the memory ledge again. Wearing a sweat-stained old t-shirt (probably grease stained, too, from all that random car fixin’) under a custom made ivory gown? No, honey, that’s not weird. That’s deranged. Also, a perfectly avoidable fashion felony. Madison did not haul you into an exclusive gown shop so you could embarrass yourself like this. Oh! Miguel! He speaks! Way to go, Red Fighter #5. Rebecca is worried that she’ll do something wrong at Kate’s wedding. Like, wear a dress. Or smile. Or breathe. Or show up. Because she clearly should have died in the fire instead of St. Greasy. My kingdom for Miguel to say, “yeah, tough noogies for her, then. How about you and I go to that Secrets resort we always see advertised on the teevee? We can throw each other in the hottub in our formal wear and smile coyly when people ask us how the fucking…excuse me…how the ‘vacation’ was. I could really use a ‘vacation,’ honey. “ Nope. Away they go to the big day. Sigh. Kate dreams of her parents’ wedding/vow renewal. At first, I thought, holy shit, are the writers coming off their saccharine feelzies high and introducing a disturbing “I wanna marry my daddy” fantasy? This is NBC, writers, that shit needs to go to HBO, but god love ya for the sign of life. I seriously paused dusting for two secs to do a double take. False alarm. Just St. Greasy saying his Hallmark Card script with soft lighting that still manages to make me want to scrub my hands when I look at his hair. In case you missed it (and if you did, I want your secret), the Jack is PERFECT anvil has fallen. Again. Find your ibuprofen or other drug of choice. So, anyway, poor old Tobebabe (you know, whatshisface, the groom?) is in the car with his parents and is about to throw himself through the windshield because he didn’t pack Greasy’s shirt along with the sexy underwear, cuff links, and serenity prayer (he’s not in AA, but he will need that serenity prayer to get through the rest of his life). Tobebabe…you have failed the mission of making Princess Kate Happy…you are a terrible, terrible, bad man. St. Greasy’s will fulminate hairballs from hell upon you for all eternity. It’s mentioned at some point that Greasy’s urn is going to be…parked by the guest book? Did I fucking hear that correctly? If I showed up to a wedding and saw a goddamned urn by the guestbook, I’d say, ‘oh, I didn’t realize this was a renewal of St. Greasy’s funeral. My bad.’ Was it going to be wearing a Steelers jersey under a tux for god’s sake? Is Kate going to dance with it? I mean, sure, have your dream day, Princess, but shouldn't Tobebabe have a say in whether he wants a celebration or a Weekend at Bernie's reboot? Beth’s cousin is introduced. She seems normal. And pleasant. She has yet to spend time with the cult of Pearson, I guess. In a lesson in “how not to write dialogue,” Randall and Beth relay that Tater Tot’s mom has signed over all rights and said Tater Tot is now presumably a permanent member of the Pearson’s club of special but somehow, she’s changed for the worse. Huh. Whoda thunk it? I can’t blame her for turning sullen and hating her life. Living in a car seems a small price to pay for avoiding the Pearsons, but Randall’s on a quest to be perfect like Greasy, so come on, Tater Tot, turn that frown upside down and play some music for your plants. It’ll drown out the Gilmore Girls redux that is the conversation between Beth and Randall, at least. Tobebabe tells Kate to please not “runaway bride” him. I think, like Aqua Man, he’s secretly sending her telepathic messages that scream, in that special underwater way, “Run, damn it, because I can’t! I only get one heart attack per season!” His telepathy works. Sort of. As least, his parents heard his cry for help. They try to talk some sense into this guy. His parents seem like normal people, though I think we’re supposed to hate them. They tell him that life propping up a poopybutt like Princess Kate may not be the rose garden he’s been dreaming of. They say Kate seems a bit…imbalanced. Ya hear that, Kate? You were never even close to weird territory. Tobebabe gets all White Knight-y, though, and says he’s crazy in love with Kate Pearson (what’s not to love?) and his parents can just go blow and join that heavenly place called Pearson Free Zone. I'd take that deal, parents, but, unlike his future wife, you actually care about Tobebabe. /Greek chorus-robotvoice/ "I am so moved by Toby’s love for Kate Pearson I can hardly stand it. His parents are bad. HE LOVES HER. It is so believable and earned"/end-chorus-robot-voice/ But, oh noes! Princess Kate has run away! Jinkies! Oh, no. For real. This poor, poor ice cream shop worker. Run, dude. You’re the designated “random stranger to be caught in a firehose of stinking Pearson soliloquy.” You see that guitar tuning up? That’s for you, buddy. Princess Kate: “Do you….have…banana pudding ice cream?” Me: “Ew!” Guitar: *sad chord* Me: “Gahhh!!!!!!!!” *dusts table with vigor* Unsuspecting Random Stranger: “No, but we have a lovely coconut banana gelato.” Me: “Ew!” Princess Kate: “Oh…it’s just that….my dad….” *lightning bolt/St. Greasy’s face appears in the freezer glass* ….well, it was our tradition...” Guitar: *sad chord.* *sad chord* *warbly emo voice croaks out a Very Special version of Billy Ocean’s, ‘Get Outta My Dreams…Get Into My Car.’ Me: “Run, Mr. Ice Cream Man! Run!” Kate: “It’s OK. Thank you.” Me: *jaw drops. Duster drops, too* Guitar: *abrupt minor cord* “Wait…what?” It happened, folks. Little Katie Gurl had an Adulting Moment. I know. Take a breath. Take several. I can’t believe it, either. And lookee!!! There she goes with the urn! Wedding guests won’t be required to pick up a handful of ashes and recite their favorite memory of St. Greasy after all! What. Is. HAPPENING?! Oh, well, lest we forget: Chrissy wants in on the Emmys, too. She tells the ground that she needs to make room for her HUSBAND by saying goodbye to her DAD, proving that Tobebabe’s parents aren’t exactly the clueless hateful ninnies they’re cracked up to be. Chrissy and Mandy compete for an Emmy with a slobbering “no, you’re amazing” cryfest right before the wedding that’s somehow supposed to resolve the years of “wrong parent burned up” hostility. Kevin makes the toast all about him and his glass of CLUB SODA, thank you. Because Justin, too, wants an Emmy. Damn weddings and their Emmy-audition toasts. Randall says a line about the people you’re with making your future and I actually kind of like that line. Two seasons of show and I’ve appreciated one line. That’s a real winning feelz ratio. But, dum dum DUM…despite Princess Kate’s baby step toward adulting, fair is foul and foul is fair in the world of flash forwards. Turns out Tobebabe’s parents were right – Tobebabe is miserable and hiding under the covers despite his love for the amazing Kate Pearson. Oh, Tobebabe. We tried to warn you. Kevin is going to Vietnam with Beth’s cousin because…he’s lost his necklace again and is going to Saigon to find it this time? Will he take a nip of the complimentary booze on his way over? Yeah, I don’t care, either. Meanwhile, in the present....Deja is having none of this wedding without banana pudding ice cream. Despite Beth’s cousin trying to get her to see the folly of young disillusionment, Deja is indeed having a bad hair day. She finds a…crowbar? Jack’s old baseball bat (oh, wait…there ‘s the ‘old’! Clever, clever, writers)? I don’t know, but she finds a weapon of destruction somewhere and…well, I don’t know if St. Greasy sees this, but I see her smashing a car. Uh oh. St. Greasy isn’t here to pop the hood and fix that, Deja. Oh, well, it gives the guitar an excuse to resume the sadz version of “She Bop.” Yo, Rocky! She’s going to kill everyone to death if you don’t fly down and earn your wings by making her see that being a member of the Pearson Cult isn’t a fate worse than…well, good luck. And…that’s the season finale, folks. That means one thing: we’re free for the WHOLE SUMMER from emo guitar slop, Very Special Lessons in Love, yuk-yuk sessions with the non-Pearsons at a cantina bar near you, greasy locks of Mr. Perfect, Randall’s juices, Kate’s sulking, Kevin’s attention seeking, Rebecca’s life of shame for daring to open her eyes and the non-existent Red Fighter #5. Jack rules; Rebecca drools. Be kind to all the random strangers you meet in your life, please, and unplug your Crock Pots. I’d better see all of you unpopular snarks back here next season. Be cool but don’t freeze. I'm gonna miss you guys!

The line that will stay with me: Hader as Mooch saying "I'm the fidget spinner of the White House." Hilarious and scarily accurate. Except for WU, I was kinda bored, which was really disappointing and will teach me to get my expectations up. I like Hader - his personality and humor remind me of the goofy/geeky style of Carrey and Ackroyd, and I have a real soft spot for that so I forgive a lot, but I wasn't laughing as hard as I thought I would be. Though I will say, I am not a "shipper" at all, so it was always so weird that I found myself "shipping" Seth and Stefon and had a moment of "oh, they got together and that kind of ruined it." So I sort of hoped for a Colin (who has a similarly reserved personality) and a Stefon flirtation, but of course...there's no upsetting that ship! I'm also not a huge fan of breaking as comedy. A little goes a long way. After a while, it just starts to seem like I've stumbled across a bunch of friends giggling at an inside joke and not a show. The californians can never happen again, thanks. An open, honest Pete Davidson is a treasure. It's hard to be both empathetic and funny and he's really found his stride.

This show makes me miss my best friend from high school so much. We spent our summers reading the Sweet Valley and Sunfire and Caitlin series YA first-base romance novels and writing snark in the margins. We traded who got to read/snark first and it was the most amazing, stunning summer I spent laughing my head off reading my friend’s snark in response to the trials of the Wakefield twins. If we were friends today, I would tell her she has to watch this show and we could reunite over our unkind and unfeeling ridicule. But damn, she had to be a real alcoholic (not play one on teevee) and flush her life down the toilet at the ripe old age of twenty while I was struggling to rebuild my own life. So, WTF, show? I should be such an easy target for your anvils and your hamfisted feelzies, but instead I’m nostalgic for mocking the perfect size six blonde twins with aquamarine eyes, like the ocean. But, whatever, there’s no going home again and all that, so let’s just get this over with. “This Big, Amazing, Beautiful Life.” The Hallmark Very Special Magnetic Poetry (Title Edition) strikes again. I've read more engaging, insightful titles on bathroom stalls and on highway overpasses. That was just cruel, @Winston9-DT3. After reading that, I so wanted Ramsay to show up at the jambalaya fiasco and shout, ‘you think you’ll win the coveted, stunning, most amazing Master Chef Junior trophy with canned tomatoes and no water? C’mere, you! The rice is rawwwwrrrr! Raaarrrrrrrr, Deja! Damn. Damn.” Actually, any reality star with some serious intervention bluster would be a welcome reality check for the big Wonderful Amazing Pearsons. Is Jon Taffer available? Anthony Melchiorri? Marcus Lemonis? I can’t stand Dr. Phil, but I wouldn’t necessarily turn off the teevee if he were to have the writers and producers responsible for this fuckery on his show for a bit of downhome, ‘no, really, you ain’t all that; I am,’ wisdom. Sigh. ‘Tis not to be. The Hidden Threat to Poor Children: Can Openers from the 1800s Lookit. Babies being born. It’s the most amazing, biggest, Pampers commercial ever! Or is it a stunning March of Dimes promotion? Nope, it’s just lemonade, folks. Pain leads to love leads to enlightenment and sacrifice that only mothers know. Sweat on, ladies of childbirthin’ scenes. Oh, god. We’re only two minutes in and I have a headache from the anvils. Oh, no they didn’t! Pam Grier! Whoo! She did her level best to save the L-Word, but, as I learned watching Kathy Bates in Titanic, even the big, vibrant, Oscar-level personality and talent can’t save a sinking ship. Nonetheless, I have a tiny sprig of hope in my cold little heart. OK, where were we? Oh, right. Birthing montage. With a random shot of William looking sadly at a collection of pill bottles. And Mel from the car lot and fan dude from the hardware store. And Tobe-babe’s brother being born and his mom saying, ‘goddamn it, one was all I could handle!’ So, anyway, childbirthin’, like taxes, death and eye boogers, is a great equalizer and brings humanity together under one emo guitar riff. Awwwwwww….. So the story this week is about Deja, who is just like all the other babies except her mom is thinking ‘shit, I don’t I want this,’ but you don’t argue with Pam Grier when she hands you a baby and tells you to grow up. If I lived with Pam Grier, I wouldn’t complain too much, but Shauna isn’t exactly feeling it. She would have been in college if she didn’t have to read Good night, Moon” and stock the cupboards with canned tomatoes. Apparently, she hasn’t heard of Phoenix or Trump University. She could have gotten a degree in Office Spacing for Dummies in no time. Well, who can blame her, then, for drowning her sorrows or whatever it is she does is to escape this hard life. Is it drinking or is she on to the street recipes that involve spoons? Writers, could you take a sec from your seventh grade guitar sadz to clarify this? Anyway, when Grier asked Deja what she wanted to read, I so hoped Deja would say, Flowers in the Attic or The Stand or Let the Dead Bury The Dead (special edition: for the love of God, please let the dead be dead at least). Alas, no. Time for humanity montage #2. All babies grow up having Goodnight, Moon read to them. Lookit all the kids. Except William. He’s feeding a cat and then drinking himself to sleep. William is so sad. And, notice, no picture of Saint Jack and his brother being read to. This is why Jack hates entire bedtime rituals- including baths and hair washing. They remind him that he never said goodnight, moon with his dad. For the record, I never had goodnight moon read to me, either, so I’m quite pleased to finally get to hear it. Sounds much better written than this shit, I tell you what. Oh, crap. They killed off Pam Grier already? Way to waste the talent, show. Anyway, now the shit’s going to hit the fan. We’re going to see every scrap of Deja’s background, perhaps including the origin of the nickname ‘tater tot’ and the man who hit her with the magazine. Deja decides, all on her own, even without an old white doctor imparting his wisdom, to make something like lemonade on her mom’s birthday. Rather, something like jambalaya. Grandma’s recipe, including instructions to use the can opener from the family farm circa 1890, back before all the sissies starting crying about ergonomics and safety and whatnot and we all know crank can openers cost a pretty penny. Or at least $2.99. If Shauna had gone to college, she’d know that, but oh well. Falling foreshadowing anvil alert (thank you, writers). The water is due to be cut off if not paid. DON DON DON! This is another fact of human existence (though, oddly, they didn’t have a moment to mirror this when the Pearsons lost their water, too, but Saint Jack dug his own well and piped in fresh spring Pittsburgh water that was later proven to cure birth defects and poverty). So…DON DON DON…No water when the inevitable happens and Deja slices her hand with the can opener. Again with the kitchen appliance trauma, show? Oh, wait. The Pearsons house caught fire. Deja's house has no water at precisely the moment she needs it most (because most people would be clued in when they tried to brush their teeth or take a shower in the morning, but...). Ooooh. That's brilliant, writers. Fire and water. Yin and Yang. Aries and Pisces. Day and Night. Ya'll do know that binary thinking is a bit old school? Off to the hospital and the most aggressive social worker ever. I don’t work in social services, but seriously, one accident and you’re taken from your home? My God. No wonder it’s stressful being a parent. Please stand by: incoming Very Important Connection to the Pearsons. Look: Deja and her mom are reunited. So are Kate and Rebecca. It's totally appropriate and shows so much empathy and isn’t tone deaf at all to say that there’s no racial, socioeconomic or other barrier that can’t be cured by equating it with a Pearson scenario. No more white guilt. We all face the same trials in life. Besides, nobody has it as bad as Kate, so shut up and learn some irony, Deja. Here’s a random shot of William laughing. See? Like the song, “Joy and Pain.” Sunshine and rain. Big beautiful amazing clichés. By the way, if you’re finding this lacking a plot or a bit confusing, I’m sorry, but this had about as much tension as a freefalling elevator and as much coherence as a Saturday Night Live junior high black box theatre skit. I can only do so much. OK, so despite her aggressiveness, the social worker is an idiot and puts Deja in a foster home with an old dude who really hits the kids instead of leaving them alone to drown in the butter churn out back. Good going, social worker. Anyway, this guy is not the Magazine Beater. These scenes do introduce the spunky Raven, though, who could seriously perk up this droll story, but that would mean giving the interesting character screentime instead of yet another montage of drinking, Pearson style. See? Everybody Hurts. Anyway, Deja clues in the social worker and now Deja is back with her mom and Raven is…where the minor characters go to hibernate until their death scene. Mark my words: Raven’s death will be a Very Special two-part miniseries interspersed with Tobe-babe’s rise to Dungeon Master. Because we’re all connected like that. Deja’s in dance class. Oooh! Is this going to be like a Dance Moms episode? Is Shauna going to go all Kristi or Jill on the teacher? Is Abby Lee Miller a guest star, too? Oh, good, the shitty social worker again. Somebody must have died with that GUN they introduced earlier. Chekov says, don’t bring a damn gun into the story unless you intend to shoot it. So, the bad news boyfriend shot Shauna and then himself? Oh. No, no shots fired or anything like that. Guess there was no time to build a montage of Shauna’s mother giving birth and Pam Grier picking tomatoes for canning. Shauna goes away and comes back and now Deja presents something she made in school. Wait, how old is this girl? Covering a shoebox with stickers? Oh, look, everyone counts money. Cue the ABBA song: Money, Money, Money. Or, if you like, Calloway’s I Want Money. I can’t believe how connected I feel to people right now. So, now, of course, it all makes sense why Deja has to live with the Pearsons and how it all comes together in one big fat happy ending with corny old Hot Dad. Except…why the fuck can’t Hot Dad be a freaking normal person and sit next to Deja instead of kneeling beside the bed and leaning on it? God, Randall, are you TRYING to scare the fuck out of this girl? Also, “what are you thinking?” is a terrible thing to ask a teen. You don’t want to know. Oh, except that that’s Deja’s cue for wise 'tween wisdom: Everyone goes to sleep at night. This makes Randall want to cry. It’s amazing. This amazing life. Everyone goes to sleep at night. Except, no, honey, some people are just waking up to go to work at night and some people are insomniacs and some people don’t go to sleep as much as pass out, but if you mean that nobody can be conscious 24-7 unless it’s forced, like in torture, then yeah, bang on! OK, so, the story’s going to start now, right? Wait. WHAT? That’s IT? Oh my god, is there an anti-Emmy for most egregious filler episode? Because this wins. Hands down. Now I'm not going to sleep at night because I'm too busy downloading the O'Jays song For the Love of Money because something must drown out the Very Important Guitar music I've been tortured with. God, Francine Pascal - I'm so sorry I ever snarked on you. You write masterpieces compared to this. You really do. Is the Dairi Burger open? Because I want in.

That's a rhetorical, correct? I mean, have you seen other characters (besides the ones in Parenthood) who seem more like antagonists than protagonists? And not fun, evil antagonists. I mean, 'dear god, these people SUCK. Is this the episode where slot machines land on their heads to shut them up? A nice craps stick in the tender parts? Please, let this be the episode that they discover Jack isn't dead at all but couldn't stand them anymore and had to flee to Vegas and hide out as an Elvis impersonator. Please? Nope. Vegas Baby. Or, The House of Pearson Always Wins Except with Crock Pot Cooking Deja shows up to ask for just $89 so she can stay warm and maybe have a whole potato for dinner. She asks with the biggest saddest eyes since the Olsen twins on Full House asked if they were in big trouble. Still, I consider the possibility that maybe she’s running a scam on old Hot Dad and is going to guilt him into a credit card and a one-way ticket to somewhere more fun, like Siberia. That would be interesting. But then I remember what show this is. Nevermind. (They do have two other daughters, but…well, boring.) Anyway, Beth is all, ‘sad, but it’s Vegas, baby!’ and Randall can’t believe what a monster he’s married. The woman just fronted you money and time to buy a broken down apartment complex so you could get your juices flowing, but a Pearson’s every feeling and thought must be taken as though Moses himself was speaking. Beth, you heretic. This trip won’t end well for her. Oh, they’re going to Vegas because apparently Tobebabe and Little Miss Sunshine Kate are having their bachelor and bachelorette parties there. Never knew either was a gambler or drawn to the desert or even had a hankering to see M&Ms world, but I’m sure the writers are capable of drawing out the setting theme. Madison is suddenly Kate’s bestie and is trying to plan the whole thing and she seems like fun, if a bit shallow and self-centered, so of course she gets on Tobebabe’s last nerve. Because he has zero friends and wouldn't know fun if it sprang naked and buttered from a hot tub of popcorn. Oh, it's because he played D&D as a kid. Oh. Well, if it’s a bachelor party involving shopping at the Pawn Stars’ shop for retro D&D outfits? This could be fun. Oh. It isn’t. Tobe-babe’s just whining. Madison, you’re in danger girl, but god love ya for trying. When you’re a newly recovering alcoholic, apparently, it’s not enough to ask a hotel ahead of time to clear the minibar. Not if you’re a Pearson. The poor housekeeper is stuck with Kevin’s diatribe about how he’s the only one ever to get sober and face down a mini bar at the hotel. This is the hotel’s fault. Also, they should have known to paper the walls with photos of St. jack and drape necklaces from the ceiling like streamers. That would suit the mood better. A hundred dollars? Fuck you, cheapskate, no minibar costs $100. The Skyy alone costs $85, you sulking has been. Pony up. Quiz: you are at your bachelorette party. You see your sister in law and brother arguing about one of them being heartless (in front of the striptease stage, no less). If you are a character we are remotely supposed to care about, do you: A: Say, ‘hey knock it off and check out Doze Nutz!” B: Drink more with fun Madison and shake your head at those old married sillies as you slurp a melted Snickers out of a diaper. C: Call out, ‘hey, Beth! Wanna play D&D with the DJ and Mr. LoveNibbles after the show?’ D: Throw your drink on both of them and say, ‘it’s my party. I’ll cry if I want to, but you two need to check yourselves. We’re in Vegas. Not that that matters, but…” If you’re Kate (such a doll), you do none of the above. No, you decide this is the perfect time to whine about how your brother chooses his wife over you. *needlescratch* Uh, Kate? Randall is a pain in the ass. You don’t want him to choose you (which, just…ew…). So, Kate then goes to apologize to Beth (whoo! Adulting!) but then immediately turns the apology into yet another pity party for herself. “You’re perfect…I’m not…I feel bad…”So Beth says, “Yeah, I am perfect. Now get out of my room so I can finish this mini bar and what came from Kevin’s.’ No, alas, Beth does not say that. Beth must tell Princess Kate why she isn’t perfect so Kate can feel better about herself. Tobe-babe, you should look up your brother and forgo trying to marry this sad sack of self pitying doom. Maybe he and Madison could hook up and buy a house and you guys could play D&D for the rest of your lives. Doesn’t that sound more appealing at this point? But no. Tobebabe wants brothers to replace the one he sent out to find the Evil Sorcerer in the Dark Forest! He thinks the Pearsons are so cool! They’re like, Luke and Han! And he’s just a Jar Jar understudy. Look at them go, walking down Vegas, espousing their inner demons to all the streetwalkers and hustlers just waiting to hear these sob stories. And, oh fer cute! Tobebabe gets to give advice to the Pearson boys! Call of Cthulu has NOTHING on this bliss. Randall leaves Beth a heart shaped box of candies to make up for calling her heartless. She’s thrilled. She needs a sugar high to get through the rest of her life. But she gets Deja instead. Though I feel a bit sorry for Deja. It has to be a bit creepy to wake up in your mom’s car and find people peering in at you like you’re the very sushi they want to see rolled and placed in front of them. Sobriety isn’t really helping Kevin. He calls Ron Howard in a fit just as when he was drunk to demand to know why he was cut and to tell Ron he made a mistake. Oh, yeah, you tell him, Kevin. Ron laughs, collects his cameo millions, and tells Kevin of course he’s the best thing about the picture. Because no Pearson ever really pays a consequence. That’s called “not raising the stakes” and “sitcom land.” Why bother with sobriety when you are actually more interesting drunk? Next week: well, comcraptastic cut off the previews on On Demand. OK, then. Next week: a montage of Deja’s second cousin and Madison’s fifth birthday party. Also, Kate asks the supermarket clerk why she’s so perfect. Kevin calls up Barry Jenkins and tells him Moonlight II needs Kevin Pearson. Miguel appears and looks sad. Montage to “Hounddog.” Guitar, emo version.

What does it say about me that I look past the peek a boo, slip a nip cleavage and, instead, wonder why Graham has fashioned a jacket out of the wallpaper? Never mind, I don't want to know what that says. I remember the Volt/Yukon Cornelius/Crazy Jen season as a depressing parade of self-involved douchebags with a few exceptions. Talented douchebags, yes, but ye gads, the egos done stunk up my living room. For the record, I think Eli was worse than Izabella for the jag-off prize. Izabella was immature and kinda dumb. Eli was fucking mean. A bitter, gnarled up dude who just never got over the world not throwing open its arms for him and his wonderfulness. Robin was not exactly a treasure, I'm sure, but Eli struck me as one of those bandwagon bullies who happily plays wingman to anyone tearing someone else down. Anyway, I guess this is not the season for Top Toast. I thought for sure Carrie was getting the Colicchio-Brooke edit. She'll be back on All Stars before you can say, "how about toast?"

Right? Especially when Russian skaters (at least they used to) train by taking ballet classes. Wasted effort. And I agree with you that not only is an arm-over-head jump hard to do technically, it is damn hard to make it look anything but awkward and uncomfortable. I will sign any petition to ban Carmen, Swan Lake, Moulin Rouge and Hallelujah. My ears can't take it and I don't like wasting good wine throwing it at the teevee.

Dang, Lipinski. Way to bring the mean girl for Kostner's skate. I know art is dead to figure skating, but saying, after Kostner skated, "that's a lovely program...for a show." Yeeowwwwch. I get it. Artistry was never your strong suit. But it's not a good look for you to get all Regina George on a skater who has different strengths, even if those strengths are no longer the "it" thing. The Russian skaters waste money on choreography. Why bother when it's pretty much a checklist? Skate, spin, jump with hands over head, spin. Game the system, spit the formula. I miss the days when artistry could bolster a score enough to overcome a mechanical jump fest, but then that's what happens when a sport gets an inferiority complex and tries to shore up its objectivity. So, is it only OK for men to splat on an attempted quad and still score higher than a clean program? If a woman attempts a triple and splats, she's dead to the competition but a man splats and he's the next genie in a bottle? I can't keep this bullshit straight.