Well, everyone's favorite colonials on the run from jihading robots certainly are giving fresh new meanings to the phrase space opera, aren't they? I mean, my gods: Civilization's been destroyed, everyone's presumably traumatized out the wazoo over seeing pretty much everything and everyone they're ever known and loved nuked into radioactive slag, but Starbuck and Apollo allow themselves the luxury of indulging in high histrionics over agony! heartbreak! What is this, As the Battlestar Turns? Get over yourselves, you two, and get a room already. If ever there was a moment in which the rules that used to apply -- like those pertaining to, say, protecting the dignity of a spouse you married on a whim out of sheer frustration and loneliness, not out of love -- could be bypassed, then it is when you are among the last ragtag dregs of humanity limping toward a mythical planet that is your last hope for survival and an army of superintelligent, metaphysical androids is on your heels hoping to either kill you or convert you to the worship of their god.

I'm just sayin', is all. But no! Oh, nobility! Oh, sacrifice! Are Apollo and Starbuck fooling anyone with their laughing too loud at the bar with the spouses they're sticking righteously by and their making big, sad, puppy eyes at each other when they think no one else is looking? Apollo in particular is turning into Whiny Weepy Boy really quickly, and it's not that attractive on him. And what hell was up with the Jerry Maguire speech? He almost told not-Starbuck that she completes him, and I swear that if not-Starbuck told Apollo he had her at hello I was gonna throw something at the screen.

If Adama and Stands With a Fist really wanna torture Gaius, they should put him in a room with Apollo and Starbuck and their Damned Civility. Sheesh.

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