Last night was the Sopranos' version of "That's My Dog" (Six Feet Under viewers will know what I'm talking about.) Worst. Episode. Ever.
Easily.
Why the hell am I being asked to give a crap about the medical diagnosis of a fictional character's imaginary vision of his alternate self? If somebody doesn't shoot somebody next week, I'm shooting my television.
And where the f#*k is the Russian interior decorator who escaped in the pine barrens?!?