Just when I think my little side-crush on Amy is going to fade, she busts out with "Eight drink Amy is an equestrian." And bam, just like that, I'm sending inappropriate things in the mail.

He's clearly about to inform the photographer that he's "riddled with AIDS."

Agreed that it's a choice of focus, which is—no pun intended—inevitable when you move from page to screen. John Irving, who wrote the screenplay adaptation of his own CIDER HOUSE RULES, famously argued with the producers for trying to keep too much of the book—the man understood the compromises required in adaptation.

All yours.

Amazing episode. Not in the colloquial sense of the word, which, like "awesome," has been watered down to the point of insipidity. "Amazing" in the sense that it creates a sense of being lost in something beyond one's ability to completely comprehend. Being amazed isn't an enjoyable experience—it's overwhelming past…

Atwood recently wrote a piece for the NYT in which she echoes Moss's sentiments. It all depends on what we mean when we say "a feminist novel." Do we mean "a novel written by a feminist that reflects the author's feminism?" Because, then, yeah, of course it is. Do we mean "a novel meant to propagate feminism"? Because…

I should preface this by saying that I love this show and I'm glad it's back and Chelsea Peretti is goddamned golden.

I will only accept this verdict when I see Brooke strapping on a jetpack.

Seconded. Every so often, I'll tell my wife: "I need to eat a pig's head." And off we go. Truly amazing, that dish.

Team Brooke, here, myself. But also someone who understands why Team Shirley exists.

You, Sir-Or-Madam, are possessed of a cold, black heart, and no doubt are the type of fellow-or-female who delights in the misfortune of frail orphans or tubercular puppies. I shake my head grimly, and bid you good day.

Dear Shirley:

And you were right so to do. Pound for pound (decibel for decibel?), I have never yelled "Bullshit" at a television set more than have throughout the entire BC section of that season. Truly, the crowning turd on the shit sundae that was the Texas catastrophe.

Aw, Sheldon. Here's what I'll say to make you feel better: the producers really, really knew how much we—the audience—love you. Like, just insanely, how much.

There's sort of a dark underpinning to this episode and what it implies for the series: that the closest we can come to friendship (or love) is to find someone who will passively enable our behavior, be it good or bad.

My enjoyment of this show—and these comments—is that they highlight the degree to which experience is subjective—two reasonable people can watch the same process (or eat the results) and come away with different conclusions.

Love the show, but the episode, and the season, didn't so much "end" as "stop."

Agreed that they're better off as friends—because if they become a couple, then that becomes the basis of their relationship, instead of a shared bonding over Sheila's condition, Dan's shitty parenting, the futility of school—all the things that make their interactions funny and interesting.

We all were, Timothy. We all were.

The notion of death turning us—those of us lucky enough to survive it (paradox? fuck it)—into the happiest version of ourselves is some serious semi-Buddhist shit. (Though not entirely Buddhist, because the undead still feel desires, which means they're never truly happy. Plus, you know, the killing and the eating of…