THIS WEEK ON True Blood: Spellbound

My friend is gnarling his gnarly teeth on an enormous chicken leg. I’m reclining, staring at the television and thinking about a plethora of pithy pittances. The homework I have to do. The shit I have to take. The porn I’m inevitably going to indulge in. Once or twice. Friend gnashing across flesh. Me, spinning inward into the cosmos of my own inner monologue.

On screen, what was once a Viking Lord and a Gap Toothed Horror are indulging in their thirtieth conversation of this season in which they proclaim that they want nothing but to lie in one another’s arms. They’re floating about a magical frosty fornication forest, replete with snow. As they babble, and babble, and babble, I can’t help but zone out and imagine a time when Eric wasn’t some blathering bitch. Some quivering pile of Nordic Handsomeness reduced to a babbling bonerjam, whose only purpose on the show is to give Sookie yet another cheap momentary bliss. Only to be wrenched away, causing oh the tears to flow, oh the sadness to swallow.

As they vomit up cotton candy confectionary bullshit into one another’s ears, I continue zoning out. I wonder why Eric is laying on the bed awkward as a motherfucker. It becomes apparently they have him in some position with his knees locked in an I Am Going To Piss My Self precautionary guard, curled up and his masculinity whittled away. It becomes clear this is because they don’t want to show his Viking horn. Anna Paquin trots out her tits and it’s just another day. Those boobies are like that one Top 40 song you were totally blown away by a couple of years ago and they kept playing it, and playing it, and playing it.

And now you’re like Jesus Fucking Christ, is there anything else?

On and on they go. Prattling about how they should just leave everything behind. On and on they go. Meanwhile in Bon Temps, nothing is going on. Hoyt is being an asshole, Jason’s ripping off push-ups, Jessica is being too hot for the either of them.

Billy Bob the Vampire King runs around this episode being more enjoyable than he would be if it was tethered to the never ending black hole that is a romantic involvement with Sookie. He slaps on his leather jacket, beguiles some bitches, maybe fucks a great granddaughter of his. It’s all good in Billy’s hood. Don’t weep, Compton. The woman you’re hopelessly in love with is laying in a bed with a guy who crosses his legs like he has penis shame and is one bad day away from opening a Live Journal account dedicated to her.

He’s a Heel now. Can’t you tell. Leather jacket. Black shirt. Holds political office. When he’s alone he reads some Lord Byron and quietly nods to himself knowing that he’ll be forever tortured, or at least he hopes so because that is half of his charm. He’s Bill. Billy Bob. King of Louisiana.

If only Lafayette could have known what a perilous path he was going to take. At one point he was an engaging character. He challenged ideas of masculinity, femininity, and sexuality. Wanted to throw down with racist homophobic yokels in Merlotte’s. Now? Now the dude rolls around humming to himself. Why? Glad you asked. Because he’s possessed by the spirit of a black lady with emotional problems.

What a fantastic storyline to give the viewers. Lafayette walking around, humming to himself. You see, the average viewer of True Blood wouldn’t be able to remember that he is possessed unless he hums like she did. Audio clues! So now we have him and this black lady who was wronged by her white lover converging with the insipid Arlene and Terry and their El Diablo baby storyline.

Well, at least they’re consolidating bad credit if you will.

In sadder news, Jessica is alone. She weeps her bloody tears, and I sit. I sit and I lament the fact that she is fabrication, and that I cannot transcend the boundaries between works of fiction and reality. For I would hold her. Hold her done proper. Her flesh! So pale. Her body! So curvy. Her eyes! So blue. Wait, where the fuck was I? Um. Oh yeah! I want to shake the hand of the intern who has destroyed three seasons of Hoyt’s character development. Oh hey man, that’s what love does to you! Fuck ya’ll. Hoyt went from a genuine, open-minded empathic dude to a verbally abusive piece of refuse in the span of one spoiled batch of eggs. It’s the sort of erratic, plot-driven character behavior that has me pulling at scabs while watching some of the later seasons of Dexter.

All the angles that form the Sookie Fuck Fest converge by the end of the episode. We have Eric and Sookie running and gunning with Billy Bob as he throws down with the Witches. That would only be a triangle, but thankfully we have Alcide running after Sookie through the mucky muck swamps. Pause. Note that Alcide couldn’t hear his fucking crackhead girlfriend running after him in her Spirit Form or whatever.

Once Sookie gets capped by a rogue bullet — and you and I chastise ourselves for momentarily thinking gasp maybe she’ll die! — Alcide picks her up and runs off to save her and everything. Alcide is like Jack in Dawson’s Creek. He messes up the love triangle between Pacey and Dawson, and I predict we’ll inevitably find out he’s gay.

And I’m gay.

And that we run away together and make puppies. Lots of them. Through love, and by the power of science.

Until then, friends. Until then.