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I have seen a picture of Don Flack in what looks like a black cashmere sweater, and my panties, they have combusted. So. Damn. Hot. I'll be occupied all morning with delicious, gooey, X-rated thoughts on how to remove that sweater.
I watched the season finale of The Closer last night. Thoughts in brief:
Bad, Brenda. I usually admire you tenacity, but that was stupid and thoughtless. When bombs are found inside a building, you leave. Immediately. You do not order your team to continue collecting evidence, and you most certainly do not return to the building after Det. Sanchez heroically throws you over his shoulder and carries your stubborn ass out. By returning, you endangered the life of the bomb squad officer who was sent to rescue you from yourself.
Oh, boy. Terrorist bomb plot. Wow. Never seen that before.
How can parents be so oblivious? How do you not know your son is building bombs and hoarding assault rifles in your house? My mother, with her creepy, psychic devil-mother powers, knew every time I had dirty thoughts in the shower, for Christ's sake. There's working hard to stay afloat, and then there's neglect and willful ignorance. Damn.
Anyone want to bet that a major bone of contention next season will be the parents' wrongful death suit against the LAPD? After all, there's no way their bomb-building loveykins would ever commit suicide in police custody to avoid the consequences of his evil plot. They know him so well. Oh, wait...
Pope, I love you most of the time, but you're stupid.
Fritz, I love you all the time.
Provenza is Flack+40. If G.W. Bailey wasn't signed to The Closer, I'd nominate him for Papa Flack.
Oh, Sanchez. Please don't die. I wasn't sure about you at first, but I've grown to love you because you're one of the few men willing to cry loudly and shamelessly on TV. In Provenza's awkward arms, no less. In an age of rugged manly men, seeing a man break so completely broke me. ~wibbles~ Since you didn't expire nobly and decently in the helicopter with a last rattling breath, I'm going to assume you survive.
"Y-you ran. You don't run, but you ran." ~howl~
I watched the season finale of The Closer last night. Thoughts in brief:
Bad, Brenda. I usually admire you tenacity, but that was stupid and thoughtless. When bombs are found inside a building, you leave. Immediately. You do not order your team to continue collecting evidence, and you most certainly do not return to the building after Det. Sanchez heroically throws you over his shoulder and carries your stubborn ass out. By returning, you endangered the life of the bomb squad officer who was sent to rescue you from yourself.
Oh, boy. Terrorist bomb plot. Wow. Never seen that before.
How can parents be so oblivious? How do you not know your son is building bombs and hoarding assault rifles in your house? My mother, with her creepy, psychic devil-mother powers, knew every time I had dirty thoughts in the shower, for Christ's sake. There's working hard to stay afloat, and then there's neglect and willful ignorance. Damn.
Anyone want to bet that a major bone of contention next season will be the parents' wrongful death suit against the LAPD? After all, there's no way their bomb-building loveykins would ever commit suicide in police custody to avoid the consequences of his evil plot. They know him so well. Oh, wait...
Pope, I love you most of the time, but you're stupid.
Fritz, I love you all the time.
Provenza is Flack+40. If G.W. Bailey wasn't signed to The Closer, I'd nominate him for Papa Flack.
Oh, Sanchez. Please don't die. I wasn't sure about you at first, but I've grown to love you because you're one of the few men willing to cry loudly and shamelessly on TV. In Provenza's awkward arms, no less. In an age of rugged manly men, seeing a man break so completely broke me. ~wibbles~ Since you didn't expire nobly and decently in the helicopter with a last rattling breath, I'm going to assume you survive.
"Y-you ran. You don't run, but you ran." ~howl~