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Thank you, TPTB, for turning Flack into a superficial jerkwad whose only criterion for a suitable companion is physical attractiveness. I mean, sure, every guy wants Aphrodite in a Vera Wang, but Flack always struck me as a man who had no patience with rich airheads. Yet there he is, panting after a woman whose reaction to a robbery is excitement and glee that her life and his have been endangered.
There are no damn words. Actually, there are but Top41 would hit me if I used them. Repeatedly. With a loaded sock.
So allow me to write these words in lieu of my true feelings:
HATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATE. RAGE! A pox upon thee, TPTB, and your masturbatory obsession with beauty. From Hell's heart I spit at thee, and Khan and I are here roasting marshmallows and pig entrails. Unequivocal, epic Hammer of FAIL. Not just any hammer, mind you, not the honest hammer of the Amish workman. Nay, nay. The John Holmes hammer of unrelenting and eternal FAIL. Dammit, dammit. Dammit.
Charming, I realize. But trust me when I say that I'm a step away from writing such erudite statements as, "I PEE on YOU ALL."
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but a video clip is better still, so feast your eyes on He Who Motherfucking Kills.
That? That's me, complete with the wild hair, crazed eyes, and tiny, tiny spear of hate.
I've had it six feet beyond my limit with your persistence in stupidity and slavish devotion to all that is shallow. I'm still trying to figure out if Devon can manage the logistics of breathing and farting at the same time. After all, the poor thing is obviously oxygen-starved.
~Deep breath~
All right. Setting aside my blind, frothing rage, the case itself was monumentally stupid, a vapid excuse to throw as many Bond cliches onto the screen as possible in forty-four minutes. I didn't give a rip about any of the victims in this case. Nor did I care for the eventual killer. This case was so slapdash and weak that not even the one-case format could save it.
The Mac subplot was actually more interesting than the main case, and after Sinclair's reaming of Flack for the high-speed chase, mayhap the assignment later in the season is as much punishment as necessity. Too bad the Mac subplot-you know, the one with substance-was buried under the smoldering dungheap of high-tech gadgets and flash and bash CSI:Miami storyline rejects.
F--- God, what a turd. I want my hour back, you soulless cretins.
I'm going to stop now before my pretty hate machine explodes from overuse.
There are no damn words. Actually, there are but Top41 would hit me if I used them. Repeatedly. With a loaded sock.
So allow me to write these words in lieu of my true feelings:
HATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATE. RAGE! A pox upon thee, TPTB, and your masturbatory obsession with beauty. From Hell's heart I spit at thee, and Khan and I are here roasting marshmallows and pig entrails. Unequivocal, epic Hammer of FAIL. Not just any hammer, mind you, not the honest hammer of the Amish workman. Nay, nay. The John Holmes hammer of unrelenting and eternal FAIL. Dammit, dammit. Dammit.
Charming, I realize. But trust me when I say that I'm a step away from writing such erudite statements as, "I PEE on YOU ALL."
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but a video clip is better still, so feast your eyes on He Who Motherfucking Kills.
That? That's me, complete with the wild hair, crazed eyes, and tiny, tiny spear of hate.
I've had it six feet beyond my limit with your persistence in stupidity and slavish devotion to all that is shallow. I'm still trying to figure out if Devon can manage the logistics of breathing and farting at the same time. After all, the poor thing is obviously oxygen-starved.
~Deep breath~
All right. Setting aside my blind, frothing rage, the case itself was monumentally stupid, a vapid excuse to throw as many Bond cliches onto the screen as possible in forty-four minutes. I didn't give a rip about any of the victims in this case. Nor did I care for the eventual killer. This case was so slapdash and weak that not even the one-case format could save it.
The Mac subplot was actually more interesting than the main case, and after Sinclair's reaming of Flack for the high-speed chase, mayhap the assignment later in the season is as much punishment as necessity. Too bad the Mac subplot-you know, the one with substance-was buried under the smoldering dungheap of high-tech gadgets and flash and bash CSI:Miami storyline rejects.
F--- God, what a turd. I want my hour back, you soulless cretins.
I'm going to stop now before my pretty hate machine explodes from overuse.