Just then, the distraught Doormat emerges onto the Manor's front porch. He sighs and conveniently glances down the street just as Paula, the Dagim, Pamela, and Phucking Hag-Ass Trash cross to amble happily away from the Manor. The Dagim's pretty much hanging all over Paula like they're teenagers, by the way. And, actually, if the actors' birthdates on the Internet Movie Database are correct, they pretty much are, but still. You've got an eighty-year-old Dolt inside of you, Agim. Start acting like it. Anyway, Phucking Hag-Ass Trash trains her gaze upon the Doormat and gifts him with a mischievous smile through which, we are to assume, the Doormat realizes the Manor Morons are alive and well. Whatever. All this fancy glamouring and recasting won't last long enough to see the opening credits of the eighth-season premiere, so who gives a rat's ass? Besides the Doormat, I mean, for it evidently means a great deal to him as he skips down the front steps, revitalized with the knowledge that the Glamorous Ladies have lived to fight another day, or some such bullshit. Shut up, Doormat. Meanwhile, some unseen supernatural presence within the Manor gently eases shut the front door. Or maybe it was the wind. Who cares? The camera slowly cranes up to take in the full Manor façade as a ghastly choir aaaaaahs! us out of this dreadful train wreck of a season.
Many, many thanks to the lovely and talented (and well-mannered! Okay, mostly) gang on the boards for keeping this amusing; to the lovely and talented Couch Baron and Keckler for moral support and America (The Book); and last but certainly not least, to the lovely and talented Sars for tolerating my filthy fucking mouth all these many years. ["My goddamned pleasure!" -- Sars] It pains me greatly to say this, but...see you all next season! If I don't kill myself long before then, of course. Have a great summer!