New Girl: The Landlord

Have you ever gone to amateur night at the local comedy club and some dude gets up there for the very first time and he's looking at notecards and he's sweating so bad you can see the pit stains from the back of the room and he keeps pulling at his hair like Chris Farley in that SNL sketch where he's interviewing Paul McCartney and you can hear him breathing (loudly) into the microphone while he's telling some shaggy dog story that has no point and no punch line and you're squirming in your seat and looking every which way for the waitress so you can order another drink to ease your misery but she's nowhere to be found and you're glaring at your idiot friend who dragged you to this instead of letting you stay home and watch the game and the M.C. is off to the side weeping - literally weeping - and you feel more sad and uncomfortable than that time you took your Spanish final at the University of Iowa and realized you knew approximately 10 of the 850 questions?

That's what last night's episode of "New Girl" felt like. It was the worst episode of TV to which I've been subjected since my friend Matt made me watch the "Whitney" pilot on his phone while we were driving to Wisconsin. What am I doing to myself? Is this how it feels to ride out a hurricane? If so, I've reached that point where I'm cowering in my bathtub and cursing myself for not heading inland.