The Real Super Sunday
Or, Despondency, desperation, deterioration and Jameson.
Bunk Moreland. His suits, his vomiting, his cigars, his robe. (See also Bodie, Butchie, Barksdale)
Every time Leutenant/Major/CID Colonel/Deputy Ops Daniels walks, I giggle.
Snoop Pearson. Greatest season opener in the history of ever.
Tommy Carcetti. Eventually grows on you a little, but never stops looking like a flacid penis.
Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiit, Clay Davis rules.
Hamsterdam. Hopelessness. Heartbreak. Hardship. Oh, Bubbles.
OMAR!!!!!!!
Where's Wallace? WHERE'S WALLACE?!?!
Engrossed. Completely. Obsessed. Season 5 is awesome.
Vondas & The Greek. Good hats, good mustaches, good business sense.
Editor Gus. Like him already. Lazy eye? Maybe so.
Rawls had me at his middle fingers.
Fifth and final season. Headaches and heartaches at every corner. I'm giving myself whatever the female equivalent of a hernia is trying to keep it together. So consuming. No need for details; you're either with me or you're not (although the On Demand week early controversy is really complicating interactions in my inner wire circle). Well. No details besides maybe a quick F you to Marlow. We're nearing the end now, kids. And so is Jimmy's liver. On that note, just because:
