For those of you who tuned in last Sunday for another shiteous episode of the True
LIARSBlood, you’ll know that Alan Ball and his gang of life-ruining writer monkeys continue to make a mockery of our Sunday nights. What. the. tits. Seriously. I cannot take this anymore. I writhe in agony when I think about how terrible this show has become. Jason starts a lame brawl in a fairy clubhouse of trannies and circus folk. Shit looked like the Pussycat dolls in clown gettups, but lacking in the choreography department. Then there’s Tara with her continued outfit misfortune. 1. Please get Staked. 2. Nice t-shirt. Looked WAY better on Sookeh post-Maenard bite. Hmm what else, oh the guy from Felicity and Terry go on a weird PTSD roadtrip that nobody cares about.
Literally the only – and I do mean ONLY fleeting 3-5 minutes of glory were when Alcide and Sookie M.O.D.H on Gran’s stinky couch. And that Bill and Eric got to peep like the badass voyeurs they are and look all jealous and smoldering. In the words of Melissa Ethridge, come to my window.
But back to Alcide. Holy wolfnuts is he jacked. I’ll take two tickets to the gun show and a backstage pass to the Packmaster’s layer of fury. Rmmor has it he’s porking Demi Moore is real life. What a waste. Why would Joe Manganiello want to make humpities on that washed up piece of paint-huffing plastic? I can see it now, a couple whippits and a reenactment of Moore’s “little bird” dance scene from Striptease. Um I’m sorry but someone with that kind of Italian Stallion blue collar Strong Island name should be posted up at Molly Maguire’s in a pair of workboots scamming for dental hygenist single moms smoking Newports, def not motar-boating Ashton’s sloppy seconds.
Speaking of Manganiello in costumes, let’s begin talking about Magic Mike, a topic that will probably dominate this godforsaken blog till the end of time. Last night I celebrated the birth of our nation at the 11pm showing of the greatest film since Casablanca, equipt with 2 smuggled-in Mike’s Hard Lemonades (pun intended). As much as Channing’s “My Pony” scene will likely haunt my dreams for years to come, I have to give the Silver medal to our very own Mr. Herveaux.
Homeboy rocked the Swedish dingus enlarger pump like a champ. His fireman getup literally made me consider going home and turning my flat iron on and accidentally/on purpose fogetting about it so that I’d have some legitimate flames to extinguish. Maybe it was the axe-throwing, maybe it was the Boogie Nights-esq sense of shame, but Alcide’s stock is on the damn rise, y’all. If Alan Ball decides to stop mentally water-boarding me on Sunday, hopefully he’ll allow that Wolfy piece of man meat to throw on some Timbs and a tool belt, fix Sookie’s drain or roof, shoot Tara in the face, and then throw that terrible excuse for a Drunk Sookie over his shoulder and head for the flatbed of a Chevy pickup. AMERICA!