The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

This winter, there were few things better than watching Matthew McConaughey wax philosophic about some truly absurdist shit while being chauffeured around the southern bayou with Woody Harrelson in HBO’s True Detective. (“I gotta bad taste in my mouth out here. Aluminum. Ash. Like you can smell the pscyhosphere” could be my favorite line written for television quite possibly ever. Keep ‘em comin’, weirdos.) And so when the season ended 76 days ago (I mean, who’s counting), the buzz already started over who and what would come next in the serialized drama. Them’s some big shoes (and delightfully snug wife beaters) to fill. Although no one can hold a candle to the way my post-Dallas Buyer’s Club, scrawnily muscular MM could so broodingly drawl when he called this planet “a giant gutter in outer space,” I am open to the idea that next season be certifiably spectacular. So open, in fact, that I’m going to write the pitches and cast the fucking thing myself. Hollywood, you’re welcome.

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