Ass-Headed Bottom: Okay, let's get one thing straight. I do not watch this show. I have never watched this show. I will never watch this show. I consider this show a show for rainbow-wig-wearin', Watership-Down-readin', Into-the-Wild-watchin', New-York-Yankees-rootin', special-needs-needin' girlymen. But... I saw fifteen minutes of this season's finale out of my peripheral vision, and I think it's important to post on it, for all our devoted readers who do not realize what is actually on television while Arrested Development is on your DVD player. This show is the 666 anti-Wire, atop the Whore of Babylon; this mofukker is the surest sign of the End of Days. I swear to you there is so much flea-market-cheap sentimentality packed into fifteen minutes of this show that it would turn Richardson's Pamela to weeping stone in indignation. I have never seen... I can never tell you what I... Help, it's turning me to sto... Slothrop: Now he's got a problem with bunnies. First, nature, now bunnies. Gracious readers of our humble rag, we have here an Ass who reads volumes of 16th century tales about fairies and queens and poofy skirts and outlandish wigs, and chides others for enjoying a good story about bunnies. You've turned into Rawls: you like your stats, you like it up the ass, and you wear fuzzy sweaters. Dr. Slothrop's prescription: Leave the bunnies alone. Read Into the Wild to counteract the pestilent ignorance which swarms about you. Grow a heart and rid thyself of peripheral vision.
Smart Boris: This weekend I return to Ukraine to gather evidence against Ass-Head. In three days he will understand: he is malaka, not the good one.
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