God, there is so much left of this episode. Why isn't it over yet, God? WHY?
Back at the Ranch, Amy's having cold Chinese food as Evie hauls her hugely pregnant self down the stairs and complains that the TV in her room has no remote control. And she's wearing Amy's favorite Mod modtastic blouse. The horror! Maxine enters the kitchen, and Evie complains about the lack of heating in the house. Maxine, tight-lipped, promises to show Evie "how to work the thermostat," and gives her the fake smile she generally saves for Susie Nixon. So, Evie is lazy and irritating. Got that? Because I don't know if they've made it sufficiently clear. I just don't know.
At the Rancherito, who comes a knock, knock, knocking on Vincent's door, but the Girlfriend. Oh, how I hate her. I'd forgotten how much until just now. It's visceral, this hate, making me want to unleash my Fists of Fury upon her unsuspecting little rat face! Anyway, Donna clearly doesn't share my hatred, as she embraces the Girlfriend in the doorway, and tells her that Vincent is in the midst of reading his New York Times review, and that he won't say anything to her about it. Girlfriend shoves Donna roughly to the side and barges inside. She hovers near Vincent, who's all curled up on the fetal position on the sofa, and asks if the review is good. Vincent says that it is. Not willing to accept merely "good," the Girlfriend asks "how good?" Vincent smiles and says, nervously, that it's "real good." Donna, bless her heart, breathes a sign of relief and makes the sign of the cross. The Girlfriend sits her scrawny ass down on the sofa and simpers. She takes the paper from Vincent, and in a tone most people would reserve for reading aloud, oh, say, phone numbers at random, monotones the phrase "auspicious debut" "original voice" and "nuanced and convincing." Vincent does his sideways grin, and tells the women in his life (and yeah, I am so including myself in that number) that another paper, The Spectator also reviewed him. Donna classifies The Spectator as "very literary. British. Snotty." Girlfriend simps that she's never heard of it. She asks what they said. Vincent groans that "they said [he] wrote [his] second book first." At this, Donna stamps her foot. "Those bastards," she hisses. Hee. The Girlfriend doesn't even know what that sentence means. Vincent explains that they called him careful, calculated and without courage. His sweet little face looks all crestfallen. Donna looks devastated, but the Girlfriend tells him that no one has ever heard of The Spectator, so who cares? She snaps at him to enjoy the moment. Donna sits down and tells Vincent that writing something for all the world to see is an act of courage in and of itself. Hey, thanks for that, Donna! Then she says that "finding fault with other people's work is cowardly," and hey, Donna? Bite me. She then says that "it's easier to criticize than create," and while I get what she's saying, and, yes, bite me again, I'd also like to say that artfully done criticism is as much a creation as anything else. I don't think John Updike reviews books in The New Yorker because it's all easy and shit. Then Donna makes the salient point that "if Englishmen had any taste, they'd be circumcised." She then randomly stand up and runs off to her room. Um, okay then. Can I take another moment to go off topic here and ask a question? Huh? I mean, I'd heard that there are more uncircumcised European men than American ones, but I thought that was restricted to the Continent. Then again, I've never had the pleasure of...I mean, all the...every time...you know what? Never mind.