If you were lucky enough to get killed off Star in its explosive season finale,

count it a blessing.

Like the episodes before it, the season finale of Star aired, as usual, the hood drama in tandem with loads of dirty drawers that viewers have gotten used to anxiously awaiting and smelling.

The season finale of Star was like Mike Tyson off Lithium, schizo.  The reversals of fate were so immediate, spinning senselessly out of control, that you may have actually seen stars.  What are fans s’posed to believe?  That the life of a weed-smoking, fornicating granny, prone to quoting scripture and spewing blessings and curses out of the same mouth, deserved such a brutal extinguishing by the Bankhead Crew?

Were viewers s’posed to believe granny, a rape victim, needed to bite all those bullets on her grandson’s wedding day?

Damn, not Grandmaw!

Luke James and what’s her name make chocolate look good!

Apparently, heathens live a life so punch drunk that any floozy can crawl into bed with them and blindfold them, and the difference in the smell of her hair, shape of her body, size of her lips, pressure of her kisses and caresses—rather than shaking them awake—embalms them in her confusion?

It’s star-speckled fantasy, we know.  So, it shouldn’t be exploding with logic, like expecting Angel Rivera (Evan Ross) to seek shelter when in the presence of gun shots.  No cliffhanger here: his character will certainly die off because off-screen, his real wife, Ashlee Simpson, who is real insecure, is real tired of loaning out her husband’s lips for his real purty TV wife, Simone (Brittany O’Grady), to sample each week.

Excuse the skepticism, but like a handful of words, sliding out as soft as baby poo, from a former lover about one’s ability to mother a child and 3-6 deaths at a wedding is just the epiphany a “mother” needs to realize that she and the baby daddy should probably smother—uh, parent—their own child.  Star, please.

Now, about them other freaks—the Vaselined gays and trannies galore—don’t even get me Started!  I thought these creatures were only 3% of the population.  Oh, they multiplied in the age of Obama and now all 10% have roles on Star?  Oh, ok, that makes sense.  No wonder the glut of lip gloss.

In the eye of this maelstrom of madness, what stuck out the most was the ease with which Lee Daniels blasphemes against what true Christians hold most holy.  Daniels  and other gay producers seem to be angry with Jesus—Jesus, who is holy and chaste, keeps showing up in Star and other sitcoms shinier and sexier . . . tanner with re-imagined values.  Muscle-bound, instead of emaciated.  And damn-near duck-lipped, instead of humble, bruised, and broken.  Warning: These images, if you focus too hard, may send you to the sunken place.

While Star has some of the most irresistible cast members/eye candy in Luke James (Noah Brooks), Evan Ross (Angel Rivera), Queen Latifah (Carlotta Brown), Quincy Brown (Derek), Benjamin Bratt, Brandy, Lance Gross, Matthew Noszka, and those divas, Ryan Destiny, Brittany O’Grady, and Jude Demorest as Alexandra and Star & Simone Davis, no one’s dumbfounded that rumors are swirling that this Star, although packed with star power, has finally fizzled and will likely be cancelled.

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Do you want Star to keep a-twinklin’ or to just go on and burn out?