Thanks for telling me Pam is pregnant. Dick.

Don't worry--I'm not going to spoil the endings to everyone's favorite shows, even though Reality Blurred founder and personal friend Andy Dehnart says these aren't really spoilers:

Those are not spoilers, because a spoiler ruins something that has not yet been broadcast; it’s like calling the outcome of the presidential election or the ending to The Sixth Sense spoilers; if you don’t already know, the world cannot bend over backwards to protect you from your pop culture procrastination.

To Andy and other critics I say, Some of us work late on Thursdays. Some of us don't feel like turning on the boob tube as soon as we get home. Some of us would like to watch the season finales of our favorite shows at our leisure, just one day later, without knowing how they end. Write about them all you want. But I'm not going to read your shit until I'm good and ready.

But to those of you who twittered season finales or made them your Facebook status updates, thereby violating the safe spaces that were Facebook and Twitter, know this: There is a special place in Hell just for people who do what all of you have done, and it will feature really uncomfortable folding chairs and Leslie Neilson's Mr. Magoo on loop for all of eternity.

An odd thing occurred to me as I was watching the 66th Annual Golden Globe Awards last night -- I wasn't all that excited. Maybe it was because I was tired from an evening spent running around. Maybe it was because Thursday's Critics Choice Awards had sapped some of my I LOVE MOVIES! gush.

(Seriously. I expected to FF through it underwhelmed, a la the common man's trophyfest, the People's Choice Awards. But I was enraptured, unable to skip a single "thank you" or moment of the brilliant Mingle Cam.)

But it's probably just because the Hollywood Foreign Press has terrible taste.

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