Last night I watched the season opener of Six Feet Under.
Note to Nate: Yo, Nate. She really was a manipulating Woodstock Wannabe, airhead. Get over it. And, oh yeah….In the future…birth control, Nate. Google it.
Note to Ruth (the mama): What the hell were you thinking? You married that guy George with less consideration than you would give to picking out a frozen dinner. The guy has con artist written all over him. Sheesh.
Note to Brenda: You and your nutbar brother should shop for a “twofer” with a shrink – preferably one who does not dispense medical advice from a hot tub.
Note to Joe (Brenda’s new neighbor who feeds the cats): RUN AWAY!!!!
Note to Claire: Lighten the f**k up. Have a beer. Buy a couple Beatles CDs, and while you’re listening, sit with Nate while he Googles “birth control.”
Note to Arthur Martin (the apprentice undertaker): If this gig craps out, please audition for a part in Deadwood. That show just lost an actor who managed to creep me out even more than you can, but you’re a close second. The town really needs an undertaker.
Note to Self: Have a Diet Dr. Pepper and chill, fer Chrisssake.