The show is not bananas, it’s not maj, it’s not even kind of good. Nobody died, there wasn’t a single gif-worthy eyeroll, and Rodger wasn’t even on camera long enough for me to mock. Instead, we got perhaps the most boring half hour of television since the WPIX Yule Log.

But whatever. Fashionably Late With Rachel Zoe is over, just like its host.

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Racist old lady galumphs around stage, butter ensues.

“Hey y’all, I’m Paula Deen and I’m probably most know for cooking.” Or, being a virulent racist. And is she wearing a dress from the Blake Lively “Allure Of Antebellum” Collection? “I had on white underwear when I started but it probably ain’t white no more.” Oh, Paula. You’re just so disgusting. And ABC isn’t much better for letting her hoof around the television. Anything for ratings, y’all!

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Where did Carol get her extensive collection of sensible ladies’ wear? And how are her collars so neatly pressed in the zombie apocalypse? It’s all just so contrary to everything I know about the end of civilization. Maggie, too. She’s sporting a pressed button-down that is less wrinkled than I’ve been on any job interview. Ugh, even Li’l Asskicker has a North West-level wardrobe.

And trading recipes on the porch? Please. There’s no way that this town survived on its wits. “You can tell the difference between walkers and humans just by sound?” Um, what? You can’t? How are you still alive?

The highlight of the episode? Daryl eatin’ spaghetti. Oh, Daryl. Stay gold, Ponyboy.  And it’s heavy-handed metaphor time, with Michonne hanging her sword on the wall like she just purchased it off of QVC and Rick getting his hand stamped One of us! One of us! One of us! 

How many more episodes until things go really bad in Mayberry? I’m guessing one. Maybe two. But no more than three or this’ll turn into just another season on the farm. Also, there are only three episodes left, so…flaming zombies, or something.

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Three episodes in and the show is one giant snoozefest of hemming and hawing and backstory and retreading and caricatures (how annoying is the Kettleman family? And really? Nacho?) and giant, gaping winks and nods to Breaking Bad. Yes, it is framed and lit and filmed and paced beautifully, but without a compelling story to unwind, it’s all just window dressing on a chain store.

And no, Saul isn’t a compelling story. At least not on his own. He was always meant to be a supporting character to Walter White’s brilliance, and he’s wilting in the spotlight. (Speaking of wilting, how is it that his suits, though unfashionable, are always perfectly tailored and pressed if he’s a poor schlub court appointed defense attorney living in the back of a nail salon? Missed opportunities like that drive me nuts, and make my clicker finger itchy.)

Anyway, I tried. And I know you’re all going to keep on watching. And maybe it’s just a very slow burn and will eventually pay off and I’ll have to binge watch the bulk of a season on Netflix. And agreed, there was a spark of something when Mike finally had more than a cameo. But for now, I prefer to remember Saul Goodman as a superb supporting character in a stellar series. That ended.

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Downton Abbey is back, and hoo-boy! Or, rather, hoo-lady! It is back with a vengeance! Well, at least with a sideways glance combined with a snide one-upper during afternoon tea.

This season has the makings of being all about Edith. Edith, Edith, Edith. Edith and her bastard baby. And is it hot in here, or did someone just set the Abbey on fire? Prompting the best line of the evening from Lady Mary:

Lady Edith chose to set fire to her room, but we’re fine.

Ah, Mary. You just run upstairs to take off your hat and leave the drama to the less…lovely. By the way, how’s that indecent proposal coming along? Mistress Mary has quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Anyway, Downton Abbey. Sigh. You just never know who Bates will kill this season. (My money’s on Miss Sarah Bunting, but I’d take a Jonathan, too.)

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Three episodes left in what has been a comparatively decent season of The Walking Dead and our smelly little friends can’t seem to get themselves off of their new metaphorical farm. It’s a mere six hundred or so miles from Atlanta to Washington, D.C., yet these yokels have barely made it to the exurbs.

No matter though because SPOILER ALERT the Kenny Powers doppelgänger is not really a scientist. Nope. He’s just some guy who has spent a lot of time wandering the autism spectrum and figured his best shot at survival was pretending to be a man with a “very important mission.” Kudos to you, Eugene Porter. You really are business in the front.

Welp. That’s only vaguely disappointing. Now are we finally done with these tangential characters? And can we get back to some Carol and Daryl?

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After finishing the entire season of Transparent (in two sittings) I only have three things to say:

• Mustard
• Sweet ‘N Low
• Stirrers

Watch it, you’ll like it. Trust me. Amazon Prime, who knew?

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After several stunning shots of olden times New York City (including a clearly CGIed trolley), the main character, a surgeon, shoots up some sort of drug before performing a c-section on a woman whose hair, eyebrows, and makeup miraculously traveled forward in time to the twenty-first century.

There’s fake blood, even faker guts, a fake Toys-R-Us-style baby, and The Knick has already lost my respect and maybe my attention.

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I tried not to watch, I really did. But sometimes a gal needs to watch other gals embarrass themselves on the television, and the only cure is a poorly-premised reality show. If it helps, I skipped the first half hour where we learn all about the first-class cast and dove right in at the very moment our handsome faux prince met the dozen-or-so women who are too dense to know any better.

Faux Harry (Farry? Yes, Farry) catches a lucky break—he meets the woman at a masquerade party that is not even close to a ball, so his not-nearly-as-hot-as-Harry face is hidden from the watchful eyes of a gaggle of drunken 20-somethings whose knowledge of princes begins and ends with Game Of Thrones.

Farry is peppered with questions that he doesn’t want to answer because…he doesn’t want to lie? Which makes no sense. I mean, isn’t that the point? The moderately attractive British ginger pretends to be the severely attractive British royalty in order to woo the stupid Americans whose idea of royalty is Beyonce and Jay-Z, which I guess makes Solange our Harry. ‘murica!

Okay, so now I get it—the women are really, really dingbatty and decide on their own, with nothing more than a head of red hair and a haughty accent, that the man on the reality television show looking for love in the good ol’ U.S. of A. is Prince Freaking Harry.

Some woman named Maggie is drunkity drunk drunk drunk. She’s also orange, and bleached blonde. Oh good! A New Yawker, and of course her name is Kimberly. Eventually the girls take their masks off so that Farry (yeah, I’m really calling him that so just deal) can decide who gets to move into The Crown Suite and who has to go home to their sad little world.

There’s a butlerish-type person involved, which I guess adds to the I AM THE PRINCE HA HA NO I’M NOT BUT REALLY CAN WE HAVE SEX NOW? mystique. He sends some chick in a tacky black dress home for not having enough fun, and keeps someone named Rose who was “loud and brazen,” a trait that is especially endearing and, dare I say, charming? His taste leans in the rode-hard-and-put-away-wet direction, but hey. You work with the reality contestants you’ve been given.

Anyway, this show is about as bad as they get, and the jury’s still out on whether or not it is the good kind of bad, or just plain old brain-rotty. Next week, a show of security to convince the dimwits that this schmuck is a Prince. Sigh. 

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