An unproduced Stanley Kubrick script is going to be given life, by a man most well-known for taking lives on TV! Ha! How is that fucking a fucking lead-in sentence! It’s dog shit?! I agree! But none the less. Michael C. Hall is going to be leading the charge to get Kubrick’s God Fearing Man out of carbonite and into your television room.
Ohhh, it’s hotter than a mofuckah’ out there. (There being the Eastern Seaboard, Empire Proper.) How are you friends and foes of the site doing today? I hope you’re doing well. This is Monday Morning Commute. Ya’ll know how it goes down around these parts. Unless you’re an innocent passerby. In which case I say: RUN! But if you’re not going to run, I should probably explain it to you. Within these virtual walls, we explain what we’re up to this week. Share the arts, farts, and life activities carrying us through the next 24×7 hours or whatever.
This episode finally had a character on the show suffer the realization that I did dozens of episodes ago. Deb is all like, “Harry was probably a puke-filled toilet of a Dad.” Even if you take away the idea that Dexter is interpreting Harry’s code through a blood-soaked curtain, why the fuck would a Dad ever drub up such a thing? All I know is that if I ever have a sociopathic kid, I probably won’t default to teaching him the right people to kill. I’ll probably start with therapy. Throw in some mind-massaging medications. See where that goes. I don’t have to worry about that, though. Whatever sort of child rears up out of my scrotum isn’t going to be a serial killer. He’ll be a manic depressive and lord willing I’ll try the same methods I would if he were a sociopath. Worst comes to worse he’ll end up like me, masturbating and playing video games. It’s a solid existence, if not a valorous one.
Maybe Harry just didn’t want to accept that the crying little duder he dragged out of a blood-filled shipping container was broken. His raw love for Dexter overrode what was an obvious need to rock whatever sort of healthcare provider he had and get his son a serious set of cognitive behavior therapeutics.
Holy taint, Dexter is back on its game. After seasons of circling the nipples, it has clamped back down with a vengeance. Teeth grinding while you arch your back in unexpected pleasure. Pain. Something-such. Draw in your breath and prepare for the terminal descent, as it looks like the writers are finally willing to play with an endgame. The season seven premiere had me diddling my taint with anxiety for a solid hour, before sucker punching me in the groin while I screamed yes.
Gather round, children. Taste the delicious taste of my nectar. This here sugary paste didn’t distill itself. No sir. No ma’am. Salutations to all genders, the myriad of multiple possibilities in a world where binary is only for coding! Ha! Speaking of delectable, what a pun, no? Where I am from you respect your mother and sharpen your pun. Did I ever tell you the story about how my Great Great Great Vat Father was shanked behind a stim stage for mouthing off without a retort? Old mucous-face tried to parry with a master of repartee and when his wits ran dry, his blood ran fluidly. Never forget what Jean-Paul said. Oh sure he was a coke-head and was banging the chicks working under him and sure he ultimately went even way too Red for my socialist, anarchist, burn-it-down ass. None the less. Remember when Jeanie said.
Words are loaded pistols.
What does that have to do with this column? Nothing. This is Monday Morning Commute. Gather around the watering hole, us shackled to the churning of the capitalist tides! How are you hiding from the next sixty years of brain-numbing repetition? This week, which arts are you finding salvation in? Movies, music, television, funny book, new sexy toys. I want to hear it all. Share it.
This is what I am digging.
The biggest problem with Dexter the past couple of years has been that nothing has fucking happened. Agreed, the lack of John Lithgow’s glorious bare butthole has also been a drag, but its the lack of progress that has submarined it for me. Perchance, we can worry no longer! The producers of Dexter are totally confirming its totally ending come season 8, and they know where the story is going.
All things considered, I’m excited for this seventh season of Dexter. The terrible sixth season ended in a manner that suggested, Jesus Christ wait for it, they may actually be taking the show somewhere. With only what, two? seasons left, hopefully they’ll begin playing for keeps.
The last minute or so of this season of Dexter was really the only thang I enjoyed about the entire enterprise. I’m hoping they’ll ride the shocker into a final two seasons of the show that rock my Casbah, and comments from Dexter’s showrunner have me keeping the faith. Loosely.
It only took nearly twelve episodes, but something dope finally happened on Dexter. As the door swung shut on the season the writers decided to throw us starving wolves a grizzled piece of meat to gnash our teeth on for ten months or so. It only took nearly twelve episodes, but the writers have delivered a trajectory for the final two seasons. Incestuous complications and abject horrifying revelations await those of us who will return from this season – an exercise in apathy – and hope for greener pastures as the Bay Harbor Butcher and his brother-lusting sister complete their journey through the wilds of Miami Metro.
For the love of all that is holy I’m fucking done with this season of Dexter. Or whatever has become of it, which seems to be a pastiche of HBO television tropes. We have the incestuous vibes from Game of Thrones, the insufferable psychoanalysis of the Sopranos, and the Six Feet Under (Hi David!) prolonged dream sequences. Meanwhile people are running around and Colin Hanks is trying really, really hard to make grim faces. Let’s rock out this shiz with some bullet point blitzes.