There Will Be Paquin Boobage: True Blood Recapped

Do you ever watch a show, and you know it's not particularly good, but you just can't stop watching it for some reason? That's what True Blood is to me. First of all, it's the talkiest monster show ever. Everyone stop talking and kill something already! And most of the characters, have you noticed, aren't particularly bright? This is beyond the ones that aren't supposed to be bright -- like Born Again himbo Jason Stackhouse, and Jessica the vampire tween, and Arlene "9 out of 10 broken nails" Fowler, who never once suspected she might be engaged to a fake-Cajun-speaking serial killer for all of Season One.

But even the supposedly "smart" ones are kind of dimwitted! Bill just passes the time obsessing about Sookeh and saying high-falootin' vampirey things; Sam plays the self-pitying hangdog card too often; Detective Andy is the lamest stereotype of Southern law enforcement since Rosco P. Coltrane; etc. Just because someone talks in a dumb-sounding Southern accent doesn't necessarily mean their spoken thoughts have to be dumb!

Now that I've basically just made a case for why this is a terrible show you shouldn't bother paying attention to, I'll kick off my recap of last night's season opener.

We begin where we ended last season -- with the discovery of a body by Sookie, Tara and Detective Andy in the back of Detective Andy's car after a night of hard-drinking at Merlotte's. It's Miss Jeanette, the pharmacy worker who fed Tara ipecac and peyote in exchange for a couple hundred bucks to make her think she was exorcising her grumpy-making demons. What kind of twisted soul would cut Miss Jeanette's heart clear out of her chest?! (Check this space in 13 drawn-out weeks for answer.)

Cut to: Bill the Hunky Vampire Who Wears Banana Republic Shirts is laying down house rules for his sulky charge, Jessica, starting with the fact that they are a recycling household. This is humorous because he is hundreds of years old, yet has adopted the customs of modern-day peoples. Also, because the recycling bins look very out-of-place in a sparsely furnished Victorian dwelling that was apparently flipped by a fussy decorator who is still a little too keen on the Chabby Chic trend of the 1990s.

Jason, meanwhile -- having been robbed of his sociopathic, V-juice-addicted soul-f**k-buddy-mate Amy -- is seeking answers and enlightenment. He looks for them in some promotional literature from Fellowship of the Sun, the Church that preaches hate against vampires. This makes them evil, because vampiredom as it exists in the True Blood universe is a lazily rendered metaphor for being gay, or just deeply misunderstood and a little too keen on the chabby chic design trends of the 1990s.

A little later, we find ourselves in a dramatically lit basement dungeon with a slowly spinning fan that's pure Flashdance. We find there Lafayette the Drag Queen who Refuses to Shave, Tuck, or Even Act Particularly Drag-Queeny, who I'm thrilled to report is alive and well after some confusion at Season One's end about a dead body with African-American feet with painted toenails. He's shackled with a neck-cuff (this made me uncomfortable), and forced to spin some kind of rotary slave-driving device with some other godforsaken prisoners that don't even have a pot to poop in. Oops! Never mind. They do. We don't yet know why they are walking around in a circle, but it's later revealed they are crushing cappuccino beans for Eric the Other Hunky Vampire's morning latte.

Tara's crazy mother, who we're pretty sure is played by Fantasia Barrino, shows up at the police station to act mean and crazy and sing a selection from The Color Purple: The Musical. Luckily, Tara has a new crazy lady in her life: Maryann, who has clearly wandered in off the set of Passions and refuses to leave. Maryann brings Tara back to her fabulous McMansion, where there's always a spread straight out of A Christmas Carol waiting and Egyptian cotton bath towels. It's like Donald Trump's version of luxury.

Jason is introduced to Steve Newlin, the snakey and ambitious head of Fellowship of the Sun, and is instantly smitten. Throw him a vial of V-juice at that moment and I could easily see him exploring his bivampire side with his new Jesus-brah. But that doesn't happen: Instead Newlin hooks him with talk of a $1200 "leadership seminar," telling him that he should wait for a sign from God to tell him whether or not he should part with the cash he doesn't have. I bet they're going to pay that off at some point in the future!

Now's the best part of the show, cause that cute little Beagle comes running through a doggie door, and you know what that means: You're seconds away from looking at 17-year-old Sam's ass! Or maybe it's just the illusion of 17-year-old Sam's ass. Hey -- this flashback takes place at Maryann's place! Look: she's still got the A Christmas Carol spread all laid out. She is like Martha Stewart, except horny for teen Beagles.

Naked Teen Sam digs in to the Any'tizers®, then gets the Magical Cougar lay of a lifetime. You'd think he'd be grateful about it! Instead he swipes an underwear drawer of cash while Maryann rinses off his doggie saliva (this is when you remember that this show is weird), and takes off. That's such typical Beagle behavior, if you've ever kept them or accidentally fallen for one. Not that I have. But I've heard.

A little later, Sookie learns that her Great Uncle Moe Lester has been found dead, floating down the creek by his house. She immediately suspects her boyfriend might have had a hand in this, in a scenario that might have played out a little...like...THIS:

Boy, is Bill gonna get it when he gets home. He had no right to kill Uncle Moe, who left his favorite horsey-riding niece $11,000.

Back at the Trump Resort and Undead Casino, Tara flirts shamelessly with "Eggs" Benedict Arnold Quartermaine and the Lost City of Gold, who is the most actoriest actor I've ever actored. Those teeth! We're blind! I'm surprised he didn't give her a headshot instead of a deep kiss. Their sexy-time is interrupted by an update on towel fabrics -- still Egyptian cotton! -- which earns Carl the Towel-Obsessed Houseboy (don't even get him started on sheet thread-counts) a swat from the Mistress of the House.

Sookie gives Uncle Moe's inheritance to Jason. He looks up at the sun streaming through the trees: The Sign! It totally paid off. I knew it would. Sookie then confronts Bill about his murderous revenge scheme, which he owns up to, but then says something so freakin' romantic we immediately fell for him all over again, and forgave him for murdering the uncle who used to molest us. I mean Sookie! The uncle that used to molest Sookie. Where were we again? Is it hot in here? Someone open a window, for Christ's sake.

Anyway, Sookie buys it like the mind-reading pushover she is, and we do believe that what follows is some FULL-FRONTAL ANNA PAQUIN BOOBAGE. PLUS AN EYEFUL OF BILL BUTT! I am never going to be able to watch The Piano the same way again. And I had finally gotten over my Harvey Keitel penis-issues. Siiiigh. Bill then sinks his fangs into Sookie's neck -- a worrisome development, but we consulted with a vampire expert friend, and that results in a monster hickie, but no vampire conversions.

Back at Ye Olde Slave Grindery and Java Corner, Lafayette chats with the newest addition to the slave-wheel, a random dumb hick who for some reason admits to having engaged in oral sex at the age of 15 with another male. No mention if it was a Beagle. He then pisses off Eric so much ("I. SAID. LIGHT. FOOOOOAMMMMM!!!!") that Eric tears him apart, limb-from-limb, as told in the ancient Balinese art form of shadow-puppetry.

SMASH CUT TO END CREDITS.