The Vultures Are Circling

Newspaper wadding was duly acquired, and the package will begin its overseas journey tomorrow.

Criminal Minds hasn't just gone downhill, it's plummeted from the cliff and is wallowing in the mire. Tripplehorn has zero chemistry with anyone but Gubler, and the dialogue and purportedly erudite thought processes of these elite profilers are atrocious. To leap from erotomanic to unsub with a twisted superhero fantasy based solely on the level of overkill in the murders was patently ludicrous. It makes me think that the writers are simply fumbling in their grab bag of psychological theories and terminology and pasting whatever falls out into the script with the hope that the fans will accept it because hey, group of highly-skilled profilers with a family vibe.

J.J. has no business being a profiler. I know it was the carrot to mollify A.J. Cook after the network treated her so shoddily and then had to go crawling back, but it adds nothing to the show, especially since Blake is clearly the writers' favorite new toy. Perhaps they should have either elevated J.J. to profiler status or filled Prentiss' seat at the table, but not both, because right now, it's a game of doling out lines to everyone like cookies at snack time and making sure no one gets too many. The cases are thin, and the acting is lackluster. If this trend continues, this might be my last season of Criminal Minds.

And I give zero fucks about the team's stalker.