June 12, 2007 | BITE: My Journal
Sopranos: Just Desserts
I bet you thought there was something wrong with your television Sunday night. Yeah, me too. The wimpy bastards didn’t have the guts to end it true. Don’t they realize they owe us? We stuck with them all those Sundays for years, passing up some great gigs, dinner parties, country barbeques. We stuck in there through some pretty disgusting mayhem and gore, not to mention a few ridiculous, long drawn out fantasy sequences. No. That is not the way the world ends, Baby…to hell with that sniveling poet, whatever he said. It ends with a bang, not a whimper.
Now it’s left to us, to the restaurant critics. We must write the ending of The Sopranos. Isn’t that what you guys at HBO expect? I mean, there they were, in a luncheonette chomping on whatever, crispy croccantini or was that fried onions?
So the sleazy staring guy slips into the john…Can you believe Tony never gave him a stare, much less a bulllet in the head? Anyway, you don’t think they sent one guy to knock off Tony Soprano? It’s the waitress, coming up out of nowhere. “We got a great braciole like mom used to make,” she whispers in a strange low growl.
Tony leans over. “Yeah. What?”
With her sawed off shot gun behind the stack of menus, she sends a round into Tony’s ear. Carmella screams. The waitress pulls off her wig. “Good God, it’s Janice,” Carmella screams.
"You didn’t give a damn my Bobby died,” Janice bellows. The odd guy bursts from the john sending a bullet to Tony’s shoulder and another shatters the croccantini, sending bits of cracker shrapnel flying.
A.J. slides under the table. Meadow rushes in the door screaming. A burly guy grabs her from behind as a shield, waving his gun. She bites his hand. His gun goes off, killing an illegal immigrant serving mozzarella with unripe tomatoes. A.J. grabs Tony’s auxiliary gun from his leg holster and shoots everyone standing up in the knees…and again, as they fall, aims for the head. Carmella has fainted and he accidently shoots her, too.
"It’s just a flesh wound,” says Meadow, wrapping the wound with a napkin. “I think I’ll be a doctor after all.”
"It’s gonna be all right, Mom,” says A.J. “I’m not depressed anymore.”
A waiter emerges from the kitchen. “Which of youse gets the bracciiole?”
Mercifully the camera pans away.