I mean, who would've noticed another madman around here?

As we all know despite my posturing to the contrary, I am phased quite notably by drastic endings.
For an example I recommend my thoughts on Brokeback Mountain.
I get choked up at the simply profound. That event that is written and performed with the goal of being intense but for reasons personal to the individual has particular effect. Another well trod example, I can make myself cry on cue simply by thinking about the scene in It's a Wonderful Life when George is begging "Get me back to my wife and kids." My sister, an actress of some skill, can not make herself cry with the readiness I can simply by thinking about that scene.
It's actually a rather useful tool. Should one find herself pulled over for speeding or in the midst of some other police-type interrogation. Don't look at me that way, we do what we must when we must.
As I was saying. There are certain thing that rarely fail to make me go all soft. Jody and the Kid by Kris Kristofferson is well known to leave me crying like a bitch and I would prefer if Guitar Town wasn't played when I'm in my cups. You see, it's all a matter of perspective. I imagine most people would find Jody and the Kid to cause some stirring of emotion but few people find themselves pulled over to the side of the road sobbing into a Wendy's napkin at lyrics such as "Gotta keep rockin' while I still can/Got a two pack habit and a motel tan." But then, my parents, married over three decades claim 'their song' is I've Gotta Feelin' Sometimes it's best leaving the audience wanting just the smallest bit more information.
With this bit of I really should be in bed now since I have work tomorrow but I' reading a memoir so I'm feeling self explanatory information all yours now, Gentle Reader, I will go to the trouble of explaining myself.
Those of you who are regular readers of this column may recall that I had drawn my summer of all things Hugh Laurie related back to the days of yore with viewings of Black Adder.
It has crossed my mind that I am really catching up with two years of my life over the last few weeks. That horrid little experience the ages will call graduate school robbed me of the ability to enjoy what gives me the most pleasure: weird cult television programs. Here I am, two years behind in my viewing of weird cult television programs and it is a crying shame. Other than my dedicated viewing of Breaking Bonaduce (and my noticing the brilliance of the Report as soon as the commercials debuted, of course) I've been completely out of the loop of my beloved series television. Hell, I've even had to catch up with my soaps of late, several characters had changed actors and I'd been thinking they were whole new people. Damn you Western Kentucky University. Damn you to hell. That isnt sarcasm, it has come to my attention that as far as employment goes, I spent a decade at university to become a receptionist. A re-wanking-ceptionist. The sort of job I was told if I didn't buckle down with my studies and do well at university I would end up doing for lousy pay and worse respect. I am, of course, bloody pleased for the opportunity to dedicate myself to such a noble, and dare I say, well paying (compared to serving coffee to yuppie scum for example) pursuit. I also would like to damn to hell the teachers that put that stupid idea that I was better than the jobs for which I am qualified. Damn their eyes.
Oh, where was I? Right-this has a point, I know it doesn't seem like it, but what that I do does? I was saying, in the midst of my summer of Hugh Laurie (heretofore refered to as the SOHL-and which, should I not have been Folk Studies bitch for far too long, should have taken place last summer at the latest) I've managed to watch a decade worth of Blackadder in 3 days.
II mad me laugh like an idiot. The third was brilliant and I nearly choked on my couscous on more than one occassion. By tonight when I turned on Blackadder Goes Forth I was feeling pretty cocky, can't be all that funny, said I. Until I took I drink of water and a particularly funny line (probably involving pooh or some equally classy subject, I suspect) sent me nearly into convulsions. After recovering from that I took a bite of pork chops and almost choked following the rattling off of some clever bon mot. British comedy should not be hazardous to one's health.
Each series ended with someone, or several people dying an ironic death. As long as that ironic death is not mine I'm likely to be amused. I don't like stunt endings either-nothing pisses me off more than one of those twist endings I don't like being twisted. Give me a nice clear understanding of what's going to happen or just did as the case may be but I have too much watching paint dry to do to spend my afternoons trying to figure out the psychological implications of a television program.
That being as may be-and I am the last on the planet to see this, due to my unfortunate avoidance of all thing Rowan Atkinson for the last 2 decades-but I was by damn struck watching Goodbyeee
. It was quite brilliant-in a sort of, 'I wish that was just anachronistic in its starkness...Fuck...I just...fuck..."

Kind of way.