But…god. Moffat has turned. Turned like milk, I mean. He’s now a rabid feral ϋberhack, Vomitus Rex. Sure, he once wrote excellent stuff. Note the past tense. Now he abuses his reputation by feeding craploads of crap to crapheaded BBC producers who think crapberries are nutritious.
Sherlock isn’t merely crap, it’s stupid crap. It’s “the story-teller isn’t even trying” crap. It’s “Sherlock Holmes dies and there’s absolutely no possible way he could survive so everyone mourns and then we pan over to SHERLOCK HOLMES!” You didn’t get a SPOILER ALERT because crap doesn’t spoil.
Moffat sucks. He sucks up great literature and craps out polio. “Polio”, because it’s totally lame and also as tasteless as a polio joke. Unfortunately his writing also sucks in a fashion that can’t be separated from his private life. “But wormme,” you cry, “isn’t that a critical failure on the writer’s part?” Yes. Yes, it is.
Mr. Moffat…Stevie Stevie Stevie…we know you’re gay. It’s boring! You stuffed Captain Jack
Sparrow Harkness down Britain’s throat with Moffatian subtlety. Fine, who cares, gay up the Whoniverse all you want. But keep it in the TARDIS. Okay, DJ&MH wasn’t that bad. But Sherlock Holmes? Doyle’s masterpiece is never improved by a gay subtext, not that your “text” had much “sub”. Since nuance is beyond you, Moffat, let’s just say:
THE NEXT TIME YOU CRAP ON AN ENGLISH CLASSIC I WILL BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH THE COLLECTED WORKS OF OSCAR WILDE.
(Note how that one sentence has more irony that than your entire oeuvre, champ.)
Dear non-Moffat readers, I swear unto God that right this second he’s pitching a reboot of Frankenstein in which Victor and his creation exchange smoldering looks until the climax, when they switch to bodily fluids. Or possibly his 30-year-old Vlad Tepes/Van Helsing slashfic. Or maybe Romeo and Mercutio, his improvement on the Bard.
Just don’t—whatever you do–ponder what Moffat would consider A Modest Proposal.
I told you not to think about it!