Rome. Oh, Rome. I've been indulging in repeats of the first season, and it's so completely gross and disturbing and amazing, I cannot tear my eyes away. That was before I saw it in high definition, mind you. Now blood and body parts come flying straight at me off of forty-six inches of flat-screen perfection. And what of Cleopatra? Cleopatra, with her buzzcut and crazy sing-song voice, is insane.
Is it wrong? Is it wrong that I cannot wait for Sunday when the second and final season begins? Then, dear ones, let me be wrong.
Oscar, are you there? Rome will erase every memory you have of what's-his-name (he of the hair extensions and excessively bronzed and oiled legs) yelling, "Is there no one else?"
If I were in Caesar's Rome, I would declare slowly and with undisguised yet quiet rage (perhaps while grabbing your gold-edged tunic):
Alas, I am in the blogosphere and must put it this way:
I'm just sayin'.