Meanwhile, up in his temporary office at All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me, Slampiece Sparklies peers through the window that oh-so-conveniently overlooks the scene of Phoebe's latest triumph in her neverending battle against good taste and better judgment. He grins to himself and darts over to his inbox to retrieve her letter, which, as you'll recall, is bright pink. And is now sitting on the top of the pile. Which he misses entirely because he's a moron and so he paws through the stack of paper for six years until he finally discovers it. Grinning again, he turns to the keyboard, and Professional Boyband Fucktard Nick Fucking Lachey can't even pretend to type. No, seriously. He just clatters at the keyboard like he's Terry Sweeney playing Judy The Time-Life Operator in some ancient Saturday Night Live skit, and you know the result looks like this:
Uedbul duvfibviluv a;uv iubvariluvbla urilu ifvjbv lavblirb vuifblv ifafbvi lalviauebrl iubvla iuf kdnlnca oiovu vioru oasnv aldnk vqou ovj kvna kjdv noia eiouh vedajdvn dkjnb
And the screen finally fades to a black not quite as dark as the foul, bitter hatred I have for this show as I weep and weep and weep.
Next week: Grams! Daddy Dearest! Teeth!! But you'd never know it from the promos, because they're all about Slampiece Sparklies. Again. Stupid show.