It’s impressive how out of touch the writers of True Blood are with their own subtexts. Nothing could have solid their obliviousness better than the puke-inducing monologue that Slutty Sookie delivered to her two panting, devolved meat-sac lovers who wanted nothing more than to explode their cock-missiles all over her stratosphere.

A sultry Sookie drabbed in red lingerie stood center frame. She spoke to the two man, flanked on either side both emotionally and physically by the two other lines in their insufferable love triangle. Then somehow within the confines of a wet dream, Sookie clad in nothing but suggestions of cloth decided to launch into some absurd (in the context) feminist diatribe.

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I usually have a True Blood support group. Every Sunday I watch the show over a friend’s house. I recline into his comfy leather sofa and I prepare myself for what I’m about to watch. I didn’t suffer such a benefit this week. The friend spend the weekend in North Carolina, and the only interaction I had with him was picking him up from the airport.

This was bad news bears. Without my friend, my sponsor if you will, I was adrift. It was up to me to watch it. I have a wandering attention span on the best of days. Without my friend-sponsor-reprimanding influence, I am liable to refresh Facebook and ponder if I want to eat Cheez-Its or take a shower while Billy and Sookie and Viking Guy are prattling on.

It was tough to get through this week’s episode. Real tough.

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Last night’s episode of True Blood was an obvious homage to Shakespearean notions   of the Forest. A world filled without rules, which character depart into to exercise their darkest desires. Without the constraints of society, in the comforting sanctity of trees and creaks and shit, vampires and faeries can fuck to their heart’s content. Balls-swinging, butt-bumpin’ mossy bark grindin’ fucking.

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If the goal of a television show is to keep you watching, then this week’s episode of True Blood succeeded. It had that sort of “son of a bitch it’s over?” cliffhanger ending that makes you regret your inability to pierce time and space with your Dong of Atemporality. If only I can run fast enough, piercing the thin skein that keeps us transcending space and time.

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When we last left True Blood, Eric was a brainless twink dream, Jason was getting raped by a pack of werepanthers, Sookie was probably doing something, and Bill was sentencing dudes to death in-between knocking boots with that lawyer. Whatever could come next! Let’s find out, shall we?

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Alright, this is what I’m talking about. I dug last night’s True Blood more than I had any episode in recent memory. On a relative scale, nothing really happened.   Everything was par the True Blood course. Couples fought. Vampires fucked. Melodrama was as melodrama is. However by slowing down the episode and giving characters time to interact on a personal level, the show hit with a funny, charming episode.

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Still stuffed to the brim with hormonal beef, remnants of little alcohol atoms rocketing around my synapses, tired from the first day of work since Thursday, I sat down this afternoon and watched the second episode of True Blood’s fourth season. Be it the chemical-soaked flesh I munched en masse yesterday, the fatigue, the lingering hangover from too much frisbee and alcohol and too little water, but I enjoyed the episode.

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