"And since I have some experience turning a phrase, she's welcome to come bounce her ideas off me anytime…"

Well, I inferred that you would assume it, because you described shedding your previous avoidance as losing the chip on your shoulder. And even those who rant or dismiss the show using pseudo-Marxist critique wouldn't necessarily qualify as chipped shoulders to me — I think that reference to warped resentment should…

Yes, most TV shows are still about privileged lives, though we certainly have more selection now than ever before, with more acclaimed shows about characters of modest or impoverished means, like True Detective and Fargo. I'm sure Girls offers plenty of societal insights and fertile provocations, but I'm simply not…

Plus yours had ponies.

Or like an apple fighting an orange, the apple being a middle-aged meth kingpin and the orange being a fumbling post-adolescent. But in the end, they're both inert fruit, so trying to imagine them sparing is fucking stupid.

I'd argue that the combative premise itself is a "male masturbatory fantasy," a worthless pissing contest trying to vaguely quantify an episode's quality, and thereby pit shows against each other, thus easily accomplishing the feat of being more repulsive than Pitchfork's arbitrary decimal system…

Worst trailer I've seen since the one for Zach Braff's latest vanity project. And as if aping the Big Chill wasn't bad enough, apparently millennials are even more spoiled, self-absorbed, slutty navel-gazers than their boomer parents. Plus ineffectual, as the suicide case in the Big Chill got the job done. These kids…

Yeah, but isn't that why we have Girls, for those who want this sort of cringe-inducing portrayal of your fumbling twenties? Whatever— I'm 31 with a wife, 2 kids, a house and a mortgage, so not really the target demographic…

You'll be especially grateful for his inclusion towards the end when he pithily sums up most viewers' sentiments: "Hey, ya know what? Fuck y’all’s stupid-ass white people problems!!" [slams vintage door]

Yes, I was thinking of Childress as more of a demonic serial killer of the Lecter variety than the invulnerable psychopath Chigurh archetype which Malvo echoes. Childress was indeed pathetic in terms of living in a deliberately sickening hellhole, and vulnerable in terms of having no firepower, traps, or henchmen, and…

Call me crazy, but it seems increasingly ridiculous that we insist upon this Pitchfork-epitomized approach of ascribing increments of superiority to art that inherently defies any such quantification. The above dialogue could have been just as rich with a compare/contrast approach; arguing which is "better" sounds not…

Well fuck. A parody film within a parody film?! Somebody get this man the Brock Landers Prize for Meta-Cinematic Obscurity.

That's correct, when he visits his nephew, he and his gay spouse Mavis, who is actually a hyper-masculine Chinese man, are known as "Mant Jay and Uncle Mavis."

And the statuette is always the same dull copper bust of Twain; Woody will always prefer those gleaming yellow hairless Oscars.

I'm sure plenty will attend out of politeness wishing it was a roast.
Best case scenario: during the acceptance speech, Conan swings down on a curtain, slams chin boy to the ground, grabs the trophy, and runs off cackling.

Can you spot the missing "t," kids?

Actually, he looks most like Macaulay Culkin, whose schedule is unfortunately booked solid with doing drugs and pizza-themed covers of Velvet Underground songs…

This is all a hilarious misunderstanding. It's just that in 2003, the primary little button factory in China that supplied all of TGI Fridays' flair just totally fucking exploded, killing hundreds of people, and making it rain smoldering buttons as far as ten miles away. But it looks like it all worked out for the…

Well now, I don't hate anyone, but I do hate the sin of havin' the butt sex and whatnot, and I would say our fightin' men should keep their privates in their drawers and their drawers layin' alone in their own cots…the way Jesus would want his trained killing machines to behave.

Mr. Pants, we're now in the year 2014 — please call me a Liberal American with Mental Encumberances, or simply "LAME."