Dexter Is Still a Horrible Show

Sunday night television is a land of wonderment for me. From Breaking Bad to Game of Thrones to Mad Men, it seems there is a wellspring of high-budget, intricately written and directed adult fare to entertain and intellectually challenge. I find myself rewatching episodes of these nuanced pieces of art during the week to see if I missed anything or replaying them for friends I hope to share the gift of these shows with. And then there’s Dexter.

If Game of Thrones is the beautiful, brilliant new girlfriend I cannot take my mind or hands off of, Dexter is the wife I left after she lost her charm and her figure only to come back to when I realized how expensive divorce was. Dexter is a horrible show. And I know, having never written a show, how easy it is to dispute my claim that I could write something better than that piece o’chit. But I could. Easily. So could you. So could this guy.

Dexter, in its first season, was a fine show. It told the story of serial killer Dexter Morgan whose quirk was that he killed other killers. The logic is sound: It takes a real lunatic to enjoy innocents getting murdered, but only a lefty pinky queer would root against the death of someone else who takes lives. Dexter had an adopted sister he was civil with and a girlfriend whom he enjoyed the company of as much as a sociopathic murderer can appreciate another human being. The premise was inane, but it wasn’t an elephant dropping a Volkswagen-sized deuce on my intellect, either.

That began to change when the writers hit a wall with the character of Dexter because, shockingly enough, it isn’t easy making a watchable show out of a person devoid of humanity, which serial killers tend to be. All of a sudden, Dexter had a heart. His girlfriend wasn’t simply cover for his serial killing any longer–he actually cared about her. Deborah, his sister, wasn’t someone he grew up with–she mattered, too. Dexter was now a man about town with women fighting over him and friends competing for his time. The show did everything short of giving him a Golden Retriever puppy to lick the blood spatter off his face.

After the fourth season, which many consider to be Dexter‘s zenith, I tapped out. And I held fast in my refusal to watch the show for years. Until it was revealed this season was Dexter‘s last. (Okay, that and my buddy gave me his Showtime Anytime and the thought of being productive with my off-time sickens me.) In a matter of days, I had slogged through every season of the show I had missed in order to catch up to the episodes currently airing. Why? I don’t know. Why does an alcoholic continue to drink? Why does an overeater binge? I just did.

The show is worse than ever. But I’m back. In fact, I typed this entire thing while the current episode is paused. Unlike every other Sunday night show, which I hate not watching by the time Monday rolls around, I sit on Dexter for as long as possible, like a fart I’ve trapped against the couch cushion and am not letting out until the girl I’m with has exited the room. Now I’m done writing and it’s time to face another stinky gasser. Yay.

(You can also hear me talk about my hatred of Dexter by clicking here.)

Tagged as: Dexter.