If my esteemed neighbor, the State's ambassador, who will devote his days to the settlement of the question of human rights in the Council Chamber, instead of being threatened with the prisons of Carolina, were to sit down the prisoner of Massachusetts, that State which is so anxious to foist
the sin of slavery upon her sister -- though at present she can discover only an act of inhospitality to be the ground of a quarrel with her -- the Legislature would not wholly waive the subject the following winter.
And yet, tonight's episode hedges its bets, with a lot of uninteresting folderol that every reality show in existence foists
upon its viewers: the farewell montage to the cattle-call losers, whom we don't know or care about in the first place; the perfectly unrevealing portraits of the winners, who seem practically interchangeable; their giddy squeals as they meet at the airport, and further giddy squeals as they move into their posh temporary digs, and their further giddy squeals --
Russell Quant chases around, trying to accommodate his mother's Christmas visit, while giving his lesbian friend whose breast cancer foists
another dog upon his home, even while he is constantly being tailed, spied upon, and finally kidnaped.