Judging Amy
Spoil The Child

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Spoil The Child

And this is the part where they show the credits.

I wonder, at this point, if I've already recapped this episode. I don't think so, but everything is beginning to look the same. Anyway, Back at the Ranch, three things are established: Amy is taking Lauren to get a costume for her dance recital, Amy is tired, and it is cold outside. Moving along.

At the Rancherito, Vincent helps Gillian and Peter write a letter to a prospective birth mother. Judging from Vincent's mussed hair and exasperated expression, this project is going as well as one might expect; which is, not. See, Gillian wants to stress what kind of loving individuals she and Peter are. Peter wants to stress that they have a lot of moola. Vincent suggests that they just write an honest letter, about why they want to be parents. Peter cradles a guitar. Please, Lord, please, if you are at all a merciful God, please, please don't let Peter pluck one string of that instrument. Please. Because if I have to watch that man sing again, I, like Oedipus, will rip my eyes from my face with my bare hands and, for good measure, will also puncture my eardrums with a sharp object. Like this pencil here. See, God? It's in my hand. It's poised at the ready. I'm not even joking. One note from Mr. Sweater Vest over there, and I swear I'll make myself into a 21st-century Helen Keller. Except with more talking. I hold my pencil right by my right ear, as Vincent starts writing a lovely letter. Mid-sentence, Donna walks in. Vincent introduces her to his brother and sister-in-law, and Donna claims to be "a big fan of your whole family." That's because she hasn't heard Peter sing yet. Vincent asks after Donna's weekend (it was the weekend in which she, allegedly, lost her virginity to her convict husband, Oscar Pant, during their first conjugal visit). Donna's not very forthcoming about her weekend in the Temporary Trailer of Conjugal Love, and scurries off to her room. I put the pencil down. Thank you, God. It's hard to watch TV when you've blinded yourself.

At DCF, everyone is overworked. And, according to the Evil Susie Nixon, one of their co-workers has quit, and cannot be replaced for almost a year. Moaning and crying commences. Clothing is rent; hair, torn. Susie gives Maxine yet more cases, including one concerning an eleven-year-old boy suspected of arson who will not give anyone his real name. There's much whining, but Susie doesn't care. Susie is the Devil! The Devil, I tell you! Can't you see the forked tongue, and the little pointed tail poking out from underneath her linen skirt? She's Lucifer, Old Scratch, Beelzebub, the Dark Angel, Satan, Old Nick, The Prince of Darkness, the Ruler of Hades, and the fiery inferno raging below us all! She sucks.

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Judging Amy




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