See? I knew I could count on you. In the seven days since posting my various pleas for assistance in last week's recap, I've received (among others) the following e-mails:

1. Detailed instructions on a number of nifty little TiVo tricks, one of which will display the seconds for counting StC.
2. 4,376 French translations of the word "week." It's semaine. I. Get. It. Thanks, though.
3. Lots of other fun foreign words: Die Einbalsamierung! Das Sargzimmer!
4. One marriage proposal.
5. Six death threats.
6. Yet another "I can't believe I found you through MBTV!" e-mail from someone I haven't seen since high school.

So I guess this means the recent media frenzy over our forums is justified: We really do have the most intelligent, literate, and well-rounded readers on the Internet. Aww. I love you guys, and all the more so for the surprisingly large contingent of you who apparently knew me when I had hair. At this rate, you should expect my high-school yearbook to be showing up on eBay at any minute. And not just because Kurt Angle is in there with me.

Now that I've kissed your asses a bit, here's the bad news: I actually liked this week's episode. Yeah, I know. It went a little over the top in places, but after barely registering a pulse in the first four shows, a little flamboyance was a welcome addition. Anyway, this week opens with a nearly naked and newly mellifluously monikered La Femme Morte de la Semaine (tm sorkinhead, maryng, and the entire population of France and certain Canadian provinces), taking a bath and chatting with an off-screen companion. As she talks (and waves her breasts in the mirror), the camera lingers on a number of naked photos of her that are displayed around the room. La Femme Morte prattles on, referring to herself as a "fucking hot-shit bitch," before mentioning that she's looking forward to an evening with her new boyfriend, because he's "got a big fat dick, and he fucks like a jackhammer." Knowing Alan Ball's work history as I do, and noting the obvious resemblance to the actress he's chosen here, I can only assume this is Al's fever dream version of bath-time at Cybill Shepherd's house. Incidentally, I debated whether or not it was strictly necessary to include those two quotes in the recap, but I've come to the conclusion that if Alan Ball gets to be a potty-mouth, so do I. And while our profanity policy here is kind of scary, it's not naked-Cybill-Shepherd scary, so it's okay. Anyway, the off-screen companion not surprisingly turns out to be a cat, and the little furball jumps up on the counter while Cybill continues to ramble. After two weeks on the bench, The Ironic Musical Detachment Fairy finally gets back in the game, warbling, "Don't let me down. Your momma's gonna help you move uptown," as the cat knocks the electric curlers right into the tub. After a shot of some twitching toes and some sizzling on the soundtrack, The Ironically White Title Card of Death informs us of the passing of "Jean Louise 'Viveca St. John' McArthur." Sometimes I think they spend more time writing these names than they do on the rest of the script.