Like They Came From a Malfunctioning Replicator

On a whim, I picked up some Dole frozen blueberries and strawberries as a snack. Well, I won't make that mistake again. The blueberries were passable, i.e., you wouldn't die if you ate them, but God, the strawberries were foul. I spat them out, rinsed with Listerine, and threw them away. I picked up some fresh, store-cut berries tonight. I hope they're better, because bad berries are so disappointing.

I still dream now and then of the food in New York and Vegas. Some of the best, freshest food I've ever had. If I ever become a wealthy old crone, I'm parking my scrawny ass in a suite at the MGM Grand and gorging myself at their buffets and restaurants. Give me a DVD player, an Internet connection, and a laptop, and I'd be happy. If I ever got bored, I could take in a show and drown my ennui in lobster with drawn butter, and strawberry shortcake for dessert.

Alas, it's back to my decidedly less decadent life of frozen dinners and chocolate Pop Tarts.

It's Jerry Springer With Swords and Sandals

Niobe, you worthless, useless bitch. So, after you cheat with your sister's husband and get your innocent daughter labeled a whore to protect your own dubious virtue, you have the audacity to then throw your sister's infertility in her face and blame her for her husband's philandering? Fuck you, you faithless, self-absorbed cunt. I'm glad Persephone cursed you and gladder still that Verona the Elder called you on your constant, empty threats. Who are you to talk about matches with "someone worth your station," you hypocritical skank? If Verona wants to marry the drover and live a happy, simple life, the least you can do is let her, since you were the one mooning about loneliness and happiness to justify porking your brother-in-law.

Inexplicably, the narrative desperately wants us to sympathize with her. Maybe I could have if she weren't dragging others into her mess and browbeating them into complicity in her deception about the baby's true parentage. You want to lie? Fine, but the minute the lie you need to save yourself requires sacrifice from others who didn't agree to help beforehand, you lose all claim to sympathy and the high road, and you certainly lose the right to wag your finger at the daughter you pressganged into your ridiculous arrangement and lecture her about how "proper Roman ladies" conduct themselves. I'm sorry, writers, but Niobe is not some delicate, wronged flower whose feeble attempts at rapprochement with Vorenus absolve her of responsibility or consequence for her previous piss-poor decisions. I'm not going to get all dewy-eyed because an oblivious Vorenus makes love to her.

I do, however, want a Titus Pullo of my very own. He's like a big, dumb friendly dog, and I love his friendship with stuffy Vorenus.

Methinks young Octavian has no interest in women, brothel visit or no.