Wayyyy back in the day, this blog was called Go Guilty Pleasures! Yes, with an exclamation point, because I make it my mission to tell you how you feel about what you’re reading. Back then I waxed poetic about Darren Criss and Justin Timberlake, but eventually I evolved to more mature matters, like eating dog kibble.
Well, old habits die hard, and I’m here to tell you how you should feel about Santa Clarita Diet, the morbid, quirky, irresistible Netflix show starring Drew Barrymore and that guy from Girl Next Door. (…Anyone?) They’re back for season two and I just about puked from excitement.
This show is filling the Buffy-sized hole in my heart. It is utterly absurd, and yet entirely lovable, with characters who make the most implausible seem as commonplace as eating an entire box of Wheat Thins in one sitting. (…Anyone?) Take, for instance, this dialogue from the beginning of season 2, episode 1:
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INT. MENTAL HOSPITAL – DAY
JOEL (male lead a.k.a. Drew Barrymore’s husband) is inside a mental hospital. He shares a room with CRAZY HOSPITAL PATIENT and decides to come clean about his wife.
JOEL: She’s undead.
CRAZY HOSPITAL PATIENT: Really? How is that going?
JOEL: Honestly? Mixed. She has an intensity I love, but having to find human flesh for her to eat? That’s been hard.
CRAZY HOSPITAL PATIENT: I can’t imagine.
JOEL: We’re realtors, so, killing people and stuffing them in the freezer doesn’t come naturally.
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If you’re reading that cold, I’ve probably convinced you to never watch this show. But guess what? THAT’S EXACTLY WHY YOU SHOULD WATCH THIS SHOW. They make that work.
Chyeah. I know. Catch you on the flip undead side, Chipmunks!
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Go Jules Go 