I finished season 2 of The West Wing last night and oh, holy jesus. I was warned to have a little barf bag at the ready, but fuck me. I could practically visualize the writers stroking each other off while they watched the music crescendo against the most vomit-inducing, heavy-handed boatload of predictability I've seen in ages. The writers should all be forced to wear big black 'F's on their foreheads until they die, for "Foreshadowing Fuck Monster." Even more appalling, they left it as a cliffhanger? I've had bowel movements that were more suspenseful.
I'm told it will pick up.
The highlight of today is going to be moseying over to the restaurant supply store for a new blender. I'm actually quite excited. He will be the Chuck Norris of blenders and no one will fuck with him. And just cause he'll be stepping out for the first time in a new margarita tonight, doesn't mean I don't have higher purposes for him.
Well, rounded out the top four on the Netflix with Black Christmas, Maniac!, Critters, and Wolfen since the beau and I have some nights off coming up. Whores that they are, Netflix promised all day long "your next movie should ship today", then turned around and changed it to tomorrow. This isn't going to stop me from lying about when I returned stuff so they'll send something before the weekend hits. It's a vicious cycle.
And now to pick up Mouchette the Cat from the pseudo-vet over inside PetSmart. Apparently they want to knock out all his teeth, as they are rotten, and for some reason, gosh, I just don't trust them. But they are treating his ringworm, so I can't find them completely questionable. Just where it suits me. And of course I'm stubborn enough that Mouchette now has an appointment with his real vet back in Denton on Saturday. Poor Mouche.