I should have known better. Any time I give this show a little credit, the writers go out of their way to spit in my face soon after. So really, I brought this on myself.
It’s rare for the English language to fail me. But I’m so repulsed by the awfulness of Sonny/Olivia that no established words seem capable of conveying the right amount of nasty, nauseating, hateful, sleazy loathsomeness on display during their scenes yesterday. I think I need to take a page from Barney Stinson and make up new ones:
Sonny and Olivia: their love is so VOMITASTIC and SLEAZASTY!
I’m not going to risk my breakfast going over all the reasons why Sonny is the worst human being in the history of the world. It’s fairly self-explanatory. Suffice it to say that the count of all the times I yelled “Oh my God, HATE!” during the first ten minutes of the show alone was already in the double digits.
Let’s take a look at some other stats from Tuesday:
ZERO: amount of genuine emotion on display during any scene involving Ethan and Rebecca.
THREE: number of slogans the writers used to prove they were up on all the hip lingo…from 1999. (“What up, homey? This Dante story is totally whack!”)
NINE: number of times some variation of whore, slut, or tramp was spoken — and only one of those by Sonny! (Bonus points for describing Kate as “frigid” in the same conversation, because clearly, a woman can only be one or the other, and either way she’s wrong.)
FIFTEEN: number of consecutive seconds I was able to sit through any scene involving Spinelli.
FIFTY: number of high-fives Guza and Frons gave each other when they finally figured out a way to work one of Kelly Monaco’s burlesque costumes into the show.
ONE HUNDRED: percentage by which the hour improved whenever Patrick and Robin were on screen.
COUNTLESS: number of times I questioned why I’m still watching this crap.