As I’m sure you know I spent four hours last night meditating on Don Draper’s fiance’s teeth. In retrospect, my time may have been better spent doing my ShakeWeight regiment or flossing, but then I wouldn’t have the following similes:
- Bitch’s teeth look like a rope bridge in the Amazon.
- Bitch’s teeth look like they were playing manhunt in a pitch dark basement.
- Bitch’s teeth look like God wore mittens on manufacturing day.
- Bitch’s teeth look like her Granpappy was a mako shark and her Granmammy was a female mako shark with terrible oral hygiene.
- Bitch’s teeth looks like she’d provide color-commentary at Wimbledon.
If you have any more please let me know. While my heart will always belong to Season 1’s effulgent Jewess, I am glad that Don Draper is falsely monogamous again. Scorned Miller Ph.D’s “you only like the beginning’s of things” verbal suplex will prove to be an augury, and Red’s baby will surf out on a wave of afterbirth sporting a bleach-white Casear and blackface, and Harry Crane will spend the entire next season rubbing his corduroy crotch to the thought of Peggy’s lesbian friend’s friend, and we will find out that the Draper family dog has been dead this whole time, but in my heart’s heart I hope the rest of the show consists of Draper cannonballs and spilt milkshakes. That won’t happen. I remember the flashback where Don tells his California Biddie that Birdie, “just makes him happy.” I remember. Still, Mad Men refuses to submit a smidgen of quality.
Bored to Death has had consecutively awesome episodes. Whereas episodes last season floated in an inconsequential aether of quirk, the underlying story-lines this season are creating a whole that may end up being at least twice the sum of its parts. Ted Danson’s performance is nothing less than virtuosic. Within the span of five minutes, he presented me with my first Bored to Death-inspired moment of poignancy before transitioning seamlessly into the age-old inquiry of what a police duck would say to a suicidal bear. I didn’t cry but I thought of the act of crying as something possible and potentially warranted by the show. I did laugh. I laughed without having to analyze whether I was being narcotized by the chloroform of zaniness and Schwartzmanlove. I enjoy it, thoroughly.
Same goes for Eastbound and Down.
On the other hand, I find Boardwalk Empire wholly and bafflingly lackluster. If you could let me know why, that’d be great.
O’s and X’s,
P.S. I recommended a new bevy of songs for you over on the muzak page. Tomorrow: my review of Enter the Void. That’s a movie, if you were wondering, which I’m sure you weren’t.
P.P.S. I hate you. You know why.