Sopranos
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It's Only Puke & Coal (But I Like It)

You know, because of the shows I recap here at Television Without Pity, I'm often accused of being some sort of TV snob who watches nothing but HBO and PBS, and then only when I can be torn away from my busy schedule of Bible study and marriage planning. But the sad truth is, episodes like this one really make me yearn for the opportunities my fellow recappers often enjoy to party with space hookers and hot chicks on motorcycles, to say nothing of all the wild hot-tub threesomes. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to recap this week's episode? There's only so many times you can use the phrase "Shut up, Meadow" before the words start to lose all meaning. Shut up, Meadow. Shut up, Meadow. Shut up, Meadow. Buck up, ghetto. What's up, libretto? Cut up, stiletto. See? Besides, who the hell names their kid "Meadow," anyway (actually, Hippy.com lists it as forty-seventh in popularity, just ahead of "Patchouli," and just behind "Moonbeam," "Maryjane," and "Ethan")? But really, all that is neither here nor there, and even though we can't catch a frigging break at the Emmys, I guess I should just be happy for all the profanity and gratuitous nudity I get. Still, the occasional space hooker would be a welcome addition.

John Ritter: You know, I had a space hooker once.
David Chase: Oh, Christ.
John Ritter: No, really. She was on a five-year mission to seek out and explore new sexual positions.
David Chase: Yeah. We already did that one.
John Ritter: Oh. Okay, how about this: In every generation, there is a chosen one. She alone will have sex with the Sith, the Romulans, and the people who still think Sorkin has talent. She is…The Space Hooker.
David Chase: Oy. Been there. Winced at that.
John Ritter: Wow. You're not exactly leaving me with a lot of options here.
David Chase: Eh. Whaddya gonna do?

We open this week at Lola The Fed's house, with the hazy soft-focus filter of government-sanctioned marital bliss once again covering the lens. That lasts only for a few seconds, however, because Lola's cell phone rings, and her blocking demands that she step into the foreground, which in turn allows her barely bra-covered cleavage to press almost directly into the camera. You know what? Forget the space hooker. I'm happy now. Anyway, it's Adriana calling, and they make plans to meet up later.

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Sopranos

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