For a league that fields the finest sports product known to the face of the Earth, the NFL (if you were expecting me to say anything other than the NFL, please drink bleach until you feel a boo boo in your tummy) sure shits the tub when it comes to selecting Super Bowl halftime entertainment. This year’s choice of that dessicated bruja Madonna continues a baffling trend of boring, geriatric ghouls being picked to entertain the world on America’s biggest stage. Without proper entertainment, halftime has been reduced to a break for men to take a excruciating, constipated, queso-dip-dump while their girlfriends flick their cuteness bean to the Puppy Bowl.

Enough is enough. The Super Bowl deserves entertainment worthy of its greatness. Here are a few ideas I had that would keep our morbidly obese American asses glued to the sofa.

Any takers for Slayer?

Maybe all that’s needed to fix halftime is a small tweak of the artists selected. After all, in recent years, I must admit to thoroughly enjoying the performances of both Bruce Springsteen and Prince. Here are a few other musicians that I believe have enough presence to handle the Super Bowl with ease.

Metallica-They haven’t been relevant since 1994 and Lars Ulrich will someday share a bunk with Hitler in the afterlife, but you’re a goddamn liar if dispute that the opening chords of “Enter Sandman” wouldn’t throw the house into a frenzy.

Garth Brooks-Yes. I like – nay, love – Garth Brooks. (That sound you just heard was every shred of the edgy persona I’ve spent years cultivating being flushed down the toilet.) Say what you will about the man or country music in general, but he knows how to entertain. How else do you explain this video?

Jay-Z and Kanye West-I suppose this wouldn’t play in Middle America, but you know what? Fuck the Heartland. Unless you need an abortion clinic blown up or the appeal of Hee Haw explained, that shithole can contribute nothing to your life.

According to Google, these are Victoria's Secret models. I wouldn't know. I'm an adult. I mastubate to porn, not a bunch of skinny bitches who have the presumptuous audacity to assume that I'd choose looking at them over naked ANYONE because they have high cheekbones.

I don’t get the appeal of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. The women involved are beautiful but not sexy. (The difference between beautiful and sexy is a face you want to take home to mom versus a face you want to spray with more white stuff than a runway that’s about to take a crash landing.)

Still, judging by Twitter traffic, people seem to love the yearly VSFS, so why not hold it during the Super Bowl? Seems like a great piece of synergy, and it’s a more innocent way for Junior to learn about the contours of the female form than the Katie Kox cuckold porn he found on your hard drive.

It’s time we embrace the fact that America is the Roman Empire with Wi-Fi. And one of the best aspects of Rome was the Colosseum, which spillethed over with rivers of gladiatorial blood. (And affordable booze. You hear that, FedEx Field?) While the government probably wouldn’t permit humans maiming each other in combat (thanks, Obama), animals beating each other to a pulp sounds like it’d be incredibly fascinating, ASPCA be damned. Here are some matches I’ve dreamt up, in no particular order:

-A pack of wolves versus a pride of lions
-A rhino versus an elephant with a machete stapled to its trunk
-A polar bear versus a seal with a bomb inside it
-A tuna-smeared gorilla versus 100 cats

I could keep going (no I couldn’t), but I feel those duels are a good place to start.

Have a Super Bowl halftime show idea of your own? Tell me in the comments. That way the site won’t look like some 1996 Geocities ghost town.

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One of many shows I'm not very proud of having religiously watched.

My new obsession with the BBC comedy Gavin & Stacey led me to a startling conclusion: I’ve watched a lot of sappy TV in my day. Share in the fun as I purge myself on air of my television demons.

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The cast of Gavin & Stacey, seen here with the fit, attractive people paired up and the unfulfilled, overweight folks left on the outside to seethe alone. Just like real life.

I tend to be a logical, keeps-his-cool kinda guy. Not to the degree of Mr. Spock, mind you, though I do view him as a role model for how all humans should behave. (Feel free to play “Guess At What Age The Author Lost His Virginity” in the comments section after reading that.) Which is why it pains me to admit the following: I’m a ball of emotion. And I’m not just limited to things like “hungry” and “erection” (note: those might not be emotions). We’re talking actual, fully-developed human feelings.

Why am I revealing all this to you? Because I’d like to think that having a metaphorical vagina the size of a catcher’s mitt combined with my comedic sensibilities makes me a great judge of romantic comedies. So when I say that Gavin & Stacey‘s titular couple is the cutest duo on TV since Pam and Jim became intolerable, you should probably spit in my face out of disgust at reading the word “cute” on this site, then kick me in the testicles until I’m unresponsive. But after hiding my corpse, take a look at Gavin & Stacey this weekend before it’s removed from Netflix streaming. The story of two young people who meet online, fall head over heels for each other, get married and then wind up living back at home because they’re broke is an incredibly refreshing premise, and the show has the impeccable wit you’d expect from a Britcom. So, please, watch it…or I might just cry.

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I'm not saying genius and being batshit crazy go hand in hand, but I think it probably helps. Click the picture for video of what is still, undoubtedly, the most hilarious moment in Oscars history.

Mine is a life of dichotomies. I log countless hours at the gym yet have a booth on reserve at the Great American Buffet. I love sex, yet panic after every fling that I’ve both impregnated the woman I slept and contracted HIV. And I know no greater rush than gambling, but will weep like a moneylender the moment I lose a dime.

Outside of years of therapy, I’m unaware of a solution to those first two problems. But this website has provided me an outlet for my gambling jones, and so now you’re going to have to sit through me picking the Oscars because I would lay money on the sun not coming up tomorrow if you gave me good enough odds. I’m only subjecting you to my picks in the big six categories because even my addictions have their bounds. Oh, and, for the record, I’ve seen two of these films, tops. But why let that stand in the way?

Nominee Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids. I laugh every time I see that face. She's like Benny Hill with (bigger) tits.

Best Supporting Actress

Bérénice Bejo, The Artist

Jessica Chastain, The Help

Melissa McCarthy, Bridesmaids

Janet McTeer, Albert Nobbs

Octavia Spencer, The Help

I wish the award would go to Melissa McCarthy because she actually had some funny moments in Bridesmaids, but comedies have always been the n-bomb of the Academy, so it ain’t gonna happen. (For the record, I meant the n-word ending in a hard r, not a playful “a” as those rappers are wont to use.) Jessica Chastain is screwed because there’s no way a white chick from The Help is winning over a black chick from The Help (though I’d laugh my ass off if it happened). I’m going to go with Janet McTeer because she has the same weird face that all supporting actress winners do. Plus a pair of comically large tits that I’d love to see crammed into a low-cut dress. Seriously, take a look. Those things make Dolly Parton look Asian.

Nominee Max von Sydow as King Osric in Conan the Barbarian. That he never won the statue for this role is criminal. (Click the photo to witness greatness.)

Best Supporting Actor

Kenneth Branagh, My Week With Marilyn

Jonah Hill, Moneyball

Nick Nolte, Warrior

Christopher Plummer, Beginners

Max von Sydow, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

They won’t give it to Nick Nolte because he’s insane and might shit on the stage like a dog. These things run long enough without the time it’d take to wipe down the stage. Christopher Plummer and Max von Sydow both have that generic old person face and people might confuse them, so they’re out. I’m going to go with Jonah Hill over Kenneth Branagh because a few people were upset that Hill didn’t win the Golden Globe even though by now it’s quite evident that literally any comedic actor can handle a dramatic role. People, sadness comes naturally to comedians. Do you think someone learns how to get laughs for reasons other than feeding a ravenous, all-consuming void in the middle of your soul where other individuals have things like self-esteem and contentment? OH NO, SOUND THE SAD CLOWN ALARM!

I might take flak for this, but Meryl Streep in her prime wasn't half-bad. Believe me, this little racoon has eaten out of far worse dumpsters.

Best Actress

Glenn Close, Albert Nobbs

Viola Davis, The Help

Rooney Mara, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

Meryl Streep, The Iron Lady

Michelle Williams, My Week With Marilyn

I really doubt Meryl Streep wins this because she must have 14 Oscars by now. Maybe I’m missing something, but there’s no way Michelle Williams doesn’t get the “I’m Sorry Your Husband Died While Doing Painkillers and Fucking Michelle Tanner” award.

I hate pretty men. The only way I can sleep at night is imagining that they're all hung like an infant's pinky toe.

Best Actor

Demián Bichir, A Better Life

George Clooney, The Descendants

Jean Dujardin, The Artist

Gary Oldman, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

Brad Pitt, Moneyball

I dunno who Demián Bichir is, but he sounds like a goddamn Bond villain, so I’m ruling him out.
While the Golden Globe went to George Clooney, I’m thinking this is a tossup between Gary Oldman and Brad Pitt. Oldman is an option because he’s brilliant and this is shamefully his first nomination. Pitt might win because the Academy loves giving the award to pretty people. It’s the same way a rich guy would crow about his worthless trophy wife having actually done something in life other than have 34 D tits and weighing 110. Shut up, we get it, she started a campaign to clean up all the dog crap in the neighborhood. Call me when she cures lupus.

There is no darker, denser hair than that found on the face of young Martin Scorsese. It looks like an Italian Muppet's asshole.

Best Director

Michel Hazanavicius, The Artist

Alexander Payne, The Descendants

Martin Scorsese, Hugo

Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris

Terrence Malick, The Tree of Life

I actually caught The Tree of Life. If I had terminal cancer, I’d want to live out the rest of my days watching that movie on loop, because it made 2 hours feel like 47 years. Alexander Payne will win this because I’ve heard nothing but great things about The Descendants
 and they already tossed Scorsese his consolation Oscar for The Departed a few years ago. Note: I didn’t consider 
Michel Hazanavicius because I’m not sure if that’s a man or a woman and didn’t want to waste my time Googling to make sure I used the proper pronouns.

Is Tom Hanks part Asian? Those are some Jon and Kate Plus 8 eyes if ever I've seen 'em.

Best Picture

The Artist

The Descendants

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

The Help

Hugo

Midnight in Paris

Moneyball

The Tree of Life

War Horse

Hmm, which will win? A movie about a game, a horsie, or a terrorist attack that claimed thousands of lives and is still an open wound in our collective psyches to this day? There is no way Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
 doesn’t bag this one. Hollywood is already sensitive to being called a bunch of liberal douches. You really think they’re going to pick something with the word “Paris” in the title over a 9/11 flick? Oklahoma already has papers drawn up to secede from the Union if they do.

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Charlize Theron looks so sexily disheveled in Young Adult. You can practically smell the melange of liquor and last night's seed on her breath. Rawr.

There was a marked lack of strife in the Papageorgiou household during Christmas this year, which is odd, because we are a bunch of excitable Greek savages who scream for sport and, during the holidays, even icy-hearted WASPs manage to lock their flaxen horns whilst sipping their scotch or whatever it is that actual white people do. The day’s highlight was a viewing of Young Adult, which won out as the family choice of films choice because what the Hell else were we going to watch? We Bought a Zoo? That feel-good pablum is PG, which meant that ScarJo’s areolas were going to stay in their cage. You can’t fool me that easily, Cameron Crowe.

You can tell Young Adult's a classy movie because they never once let the dog shit in Charlize's bag for laughs.

Young Adult stars Charlize Theron as Mavis Gary, a writer of young-adult fiction who decides to leave her Minneapolis home and return to the small town where she lived out her popular teenage years in order to win back her now-happily married high school sweetheart. If that premise sounds like a clusterfuck waiting to happen, that’s because it is. As Mavis’ efforts grow increasingly desperate, she begins to forge a fascinating relationship with Matt Freehauf (Patton Oswalt), a former classmate and underachieving nerd who has also failed to escape the spectre of high school, albeit for different reasons.

I fell utterly in love with Charlize’s character, the flawless blonde prom queen who’s grown up to reveal both artistic talent and a few screws loose. What guy wouldn’t want Zelda Fitzgerald’s mind inside Cindy Crawford’s body? It’d be a roller coaster of great sex, uncontrollable sobbing and waking up with a gun to your head like Henry Hill. Sign this man up. Up until now, I’d really only seen Charlize in The Devil’s Advocate and, while I thought she did a great job, I attributed most of that to acting opposite Keanu Reeves, who could make Stephen Hawking seem emotive by comparison. Charlize has made a fan of me, and I intend to watch her in every movie in which she’s pretty (so fuck off, Monster.)

I hate that I'm resorting to sex to sell a good movie, but, ladies, this shirt doesn't stay on forever.

The rest of Young Adult works because Patton Oswalt is as fantastically at-home in the role of an alcoholic geek as you’d expect him to be and, Christ help me for saying this, but Diablo Cody’s script is very well done. Yes, Patton’s character is obviously just Miss Cody with a penis, much like Juno was Diablo inside the body of a 10-year-old boy, but, as any great lover knows, you keep doing your best move over and over until your partner vomits at the mere thought of your naked body. And, Diablo, I haven’t felt the need to fake one and roll over quite yet.

For those of you that have New Year’s Eve plans, well, la-di-da, aren’t you just massa of Cool Kid Plantation? For the rest of us, feel no shame in eating half of a pizza alone then going out to watch Young Adult. Or feel shame, then drink afterward until you don’t. As Ted Bundy once said, “Whatever gets your rocks off.”

Note: You can click any of the song titles to download the .mp3 directly via Amazon. Because me shilling like a Jew when writing about Christmas songs is deliciously ironic.

I’m a huge fan of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” because I can’t remember a Christmas without hearing the song. I don’t care one bit about Bing, though he allegedly smoked weed by the pound and beat the ever-loving shit out of his fat son Gary whenever the kid gained an ounce, both of which are admirable qualities. The song remains a favorite because, the older you get, the more pleasure you derive from your earliest memories, no matter how awful they might be. With enough time, even a repressed memory of a mall Santa fingering your ass would go down like a cold beer on a hot day.

I love this song because it reminds me of getting head. From a woman. I felt I should clarify that. Back in college, I had a girlfriend who opted to spend a week of her Christmas break with me. The girl was awesome in a lot of ways, but most important was that she lived to go down. I’m talking zero cajoling on my part. Not even a raised eyebrow. Just, “Hey, I’m bored, let me blow you.”

“Last Christmas” enters the picture because the girl in question was obsessed with the song and would sing it non-stop every time her mouth wasn’t full of my dick. It wasn’t literally “Last *gulp* Christmas *gulp* I gave you my heart *gulp gulp*” bad, but pretty close. And, as Pavlov proved, you can condition a physical response via an unrelated stimulus, which is why, every time I hear the first lines of “Last Christmas,” I pop a rager. True story.

“Christmas in Hollis” is another song I heard at a very young age that stuck with me. Everyone enjoys this song, even my mother, and she hates rap of any sort. A note to black people: Ever since this song came out, all white people believe that your Christmas dinners consist of nothing but chicken, collard greens, rice, stuffing and macaroni and cheese. I suppose that’d be a problem if it weren’t the truth.

I really don’t need to explain why The Ramones wound up on this list because they were amazing, but here goes: This song captures what actually goes down during one of my family Christmases. We’re a bunch of temperamental Greeks who scream at each other whenever we interact. Toss in the stress of cooking, buying presents and several mandatory hours together and you can see why the success of each of Christmas is measured in how long it took for the inevitable meltdown to arrive.

Elvis was the best. He was the first rock star, and a Southern rock star at that, meaning it’d take a mind like Bobby Fischer to truly comprehend the quality of the ass he slew. Guys like Robert Plant and Jimi Hendrix were skunking the same ungroomed hippie pussy that was being tossed around like a Frisbee while Elvis was wiping off his shaft in Ann-Margret’s hair. What does all this have to do with “Blue Christmas”? Absolutely nothing. I just want you to remember this Christmas that there’s only one true King, and he wasn’t born in a manger.

There is so much about this song that I loathe that it’s difficult even picking a place to begin. The cunty whispers at the beginning. The obnoxious use of a children’s chorus. The fact that John Lennon had the balls to tell anyone how to live their life when he abandoned his first wife and his non- ^_^ -eyed son, Julian like lumps of shit in a dog park.

It’s the condescension present in the refrain of “War is over/If you want it” that gets to me the most, though. You know what, asshole? No one likes war. You aren’t some heady genius for standing against it. Sometimes, though, as much as everyone hates something, it becomes a reality. Just look at the WNBA. The next time you want to make a statement by sliding the stem of a flower down the barrel of a gun, how about you jam it up your cockhole instead? At least that’s amusing. I only regret that Mark David Chapman didn’t get into you sooner.

A Britcom that revels in shaming and embarrassing its protagonists? Why, I never!

Look, all you need to know to enjoy British television is that: 1. They call it a “series”, not a “season” and 2. There’s only one commercial break and it comes in the middle of the show. All caught up? Good. Now let’s talk about what makes Peep Show so damn excellent.

I'm telling you guys, relax. British humor isn't all references to centuries-dead prime ministers.

PS tells the tale of two hopeless beta males, Mark Corrigan (David Mitchell) and Jeremy “Jez” Usbourne (Robert Webb), as roommates who toil through their unsatisfying day-to-day lives as a desk drone and unemployed musician, respectfully. In the annals of television friendships between two men, this is perhaps the most believable. Mark and Jez desperately resent each others’ scant successes (especially those of a romantic nature), delight in each others’ misery and have no compunction about screwing one another over for even the slightest benefit. Yet, in spite of that, the duo honestly care for each other, and, as every other one of their relationships inevitably fails, you realize they are meant to be (in a hetero life-partner sort of way).

The show's writing is rife with brilliance like this.

What makes Peep Show tick beyond the almost-stifling plausibility of its characters and the situations they inhabit is the sharpness of the writing. You will be laughing within moments of watching the first moments of the first episode. Because not only are the writers absurdly talented, but they take the time to develop each character and allow them to be funny in way specific to them.

Have you watched a prime time American sitcom recently? It’s okay to admit it, I’m not going to judge you (yes I will). Each character takes turns firing off one-lines with the speed and delivery of a comedian. That’s not how real people function. What’s worse, it destroys any individuality a character might have. If everyone is talking in the same manner and speaking the same words, why would I be excited by or identify with any one of them? Peep Show lets its denizens be funny in a way unique to each of them, and the show is richer for it.

Sure, dressing a character up as a Nazi is intrinsically funny, but the marvel is that Peep Show gets you there organically.

Last month, I wrote this piece about ten movies to watch via Netflix during Thanksgiving. Well, I nominate Peep Show for the task of amusing you during Christmas. Give it a try. I’m sure you’ll love it. And, if you don’t, write me a letter saying why. Don’t worry, crayon is acceptable. You dolt.

Dennis is caught retrieving fetish gear from a secret compartment in his vehicle. Hey, it shouldn't be a crime to know how to properly make love.

Last week, the Always Sunny gang did a great job with the first half of Season 7′s finale, “The High School Reunion.” (Click that link to watch the episode online via Amazon, and click here for my review of it.) The episode, like all scripted works using a high school reunion as a plot device, centered upon our protagonists living as marginalized outsiders through those years and planning to return to the scene of their ostracization to prove how far they’ve come. And, as is wont to happen, said plans failed, leaving them awash in the all-too-familar scent of social bankruptcy.

It’s Act III that defines these stories. Do our heroes go home humbled, eventually making peace with their high school years? Do they perform some grand feat at the reunion that wins them the widespread acclaim they so badly craved? Do they manage to drag those who tormented them down with them? In the case of the Always Sunny gang, I suppose the episode’s title gives it away: The goal is revenge. Which is a good thing, because It’s Always Sunny shines when it comes to vengeance. And no star shined brighter in the Constellation of Retribution that was “The Gang’s Revenge” than Dennis Reynolds.

The Golden God in all his majesty.

Dennis Reynolds’s metamorphosis this season has been the impetus behind my continued viewing. Chinks have riddled the once-impenetrable armor of his mastery of seduction (haha, chinks). He has gone from ladies’ man to sociopath, the transformation perfectly illustrated by a conversation Dennis had in “The Gang’s Revenge” with the wife of a former friend…whom he was attempting to sleep with out of spite.

Listen, listen, listen…I want to be inside you. I want to do shit to you that is going to make you realize what a boring, worthless piece of shit your husband really is.

After the woman question’s Dennis’ heterosexuality for both using makeup and wearing a girdle, he defends himself in a tirade that plums the depths of darkness by Always Sunny‘s standards:

I was speeding through the steps! I have a system! I was demonstrating value on the dance floor and then I engaged you physically when I put my hands on your hips. Now, I’m nurturing your dependence by letting you talk shit about your boring, worthless, piece-of-shit husband. Then I was going to take you to an empty broom closet and I was gonna bang the shit outta you. And then I was going to neglect you emotionally. That’s what I do, Christy! And it was working! I was manipulating your feeble little brain into doing what I want – what I want – and then now it’s what you want!

Dennis achieves the twofer of striking out and being called gay.

I realize that material so dark and aggressive isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (just ask this twat), but I ate it up. It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia once consistently wowed me with content that was both grim and hilarious. Those days are now few and far between. Yet, much like an enthusiastic blowjob from a woman you’ve been with for years, I’ve learned to be thankful for the times it does happen. Season 7 contained enough enthusiastic blowjobs for me to look forward to Season 8. And, for that, I am grateful.

Drinking? On Always Sunny? Why I never...Oh yeah, you can click this picture to watch the episode online for a nominal fee that may or may not wind up in my pocket to keep me in the finest top hats and monocles.

It’s been a while since I wrote about It’s Always Sunny, due to my belief that this season has been in the doldrums since the brilliant “Frank’s Brother” (an episode that I’m aware many of you hated, which shows that my tastes are simply that much more refined than that of the plebs). However, last night’s episode, “The High School Reunion,” might indicate that the season is going to end on a high note. Is it the best episode of Always Sunny yet? Hell no. I just wrote that because it made for a compelling title. But I did like the “THSR,” and here’s why.

I don't want to spoil anything, but...Charlie does some mighty impressive huffing in The High School Reunion.

I know everyone loves Dayman but...gimmicky, man. Gimmicky.

Still more time to kill at work after reading this? Feel free to read the story of my own high school reunion. Part one can be found here and part two is located here.

Jewish Bruce Springsteen has been one of the only tolerable aspects of the second season of The Walking Dead. (Speaking of Jewish, if you click his photo, it'll take you through an Amazon affiliate link to The Walking Dead Season 1 on Blu-ray and make me a couple of pennies. Ka-ching!)

A kindly old man nursing an injured child back to health on his farm as his parents attempt to repair their marriage. It's like season 2 was meant to be slightly edited then re-aired on Lifetime.

It’d take some balls on my part to say that season 2 of The Walking Dead has been a massive disappointment thus far considering I watched season 1 about four days before season 2′s premire, but I’m here to be an asshole, so you know what? Season 2 is shaping up to be worse than The Godfather: Part III. Hyperbolic enough for ya? With that out of the way, let me get into the reasons season 2 has failed to click.

Foremost to me was the presence of what reeked of extensive budget cuts. Season 1 of The Walking Dead, as previously mentioned, featured sets involving massive skyscrapers, abandoned military outposts and a cavernous underground building. It was visually dizzying, a constant reminder of how empty and tomblike man’s creations become without his presence within them. Season 2′s first half…was set on a farm. A sprawling, pastoral, cheap-to-shoot farm, with the occasional zombie popping up to remind us that we weren’t watching a commercial for Country Time Lemonade. Do you know why a farm would fail as a set to make the viewer marvel at the new, empty world that these characters inhabit? BECAUSE FARMS ARE GODDAMN EMPTY AND DEVOID OF PEOPLE TO BEGIN WITH! There’s no contrast between the new world and old world when you show me two people walking around the porch of a flapping their gums to pass the time. By farm standards, that’s a mob scene.

What looks cooler than a farm? Anything. But especially this.

And speaking of gum-flapping, was it just me, or has the second season of The Walking Dead featured roughly 10,000% more dialog than season 1? Which would be tolerable except that none of the actors on the show are particularly good. They’re not bad mind you, just not good enough that their conversations are going to make for compelling viewing. Anyone is watchable when they’re firing a shotgun through the back of a corpse’s skull. But if you have a ten-minute monologue prattling on about some existential crisis and your name isn’t Marlon Brando, shut the fuck up, already.

I could go on. The scope of the show’s plot has shrunk like my penis hitting ice water, from potentially saving the world in season 1 to searching for a lost girl who I barely remembered was missing to begin with in season 2. There were extraneous characters whose scant lines and screen time could have been cut entirely to flesh out the members of our party who mean something so that maybe I’ll actually care when said people eventually meet their grisly demise. Just…get ‘em off that fucking farm, already. The more time these dolts spend alone in the wilderness talking about their personal alliances, the more The Walking Dead descends into self-parody, like a sketch about a zombie-themed episode of Survivor.

Click on this photo to watch The Walking Dead Season 2 online. You know, after I gave it such a ringing endorsement and all.