Since four-column Monday is made even worse by the obligatory "24" update, I'll pad this out with another ad that didn't make the new book.

If you recall the last ad from Movieland magazine, you probably know what’s the matter here. You might think that Paul has becoming indifferent to her because he’s just come out of the closet, and Eileen does one hell of a Judy Garland, but no.

It’s time for a chat in the overstuffed smothering bedroom:

Eileen begins step two: planting the seed of sexual shame in her “friend’s” heart. Then Paul will be all hers. All hers! Or maybe not; perhaps she’s just acting on behalf of the community, since usually around this time of the year the flowers were out, and nothing’s been growing in a six block radius around her friend’s house.

Somewhere, over the rainbow! 

I’ll leave out the solution for a moment. The happy conclusion:

Victory! Paul can’t stop smelling her ear. To what dulcet ablution do we owe this sweet tender moment?

At some point they got out of that racket, and marketed the stuff for toilets and tubs. You know, things made of hard ceramic.

If you don't care for the Obligatory "24" Update, remember: it's Tuesday Funnies.

And now, the O24U. Morris, the Shoe Salesman on whom the fate of the nation now hangs, has been abducted. Jack is flying one of the always-available helicopters to inspect the site; en route he’s informed that Piglet is dead, and naturally he blames himself. This will complicate the family reunion with the sister-in-law. Meanwhile, the CTU computer surveillance system – which can find a car in the vast LA metropolis but cannot detect the Seasonal Mole who always complicates the plan in the 22nd hour – has found the car in which Morris is riding. I suspect that atmospheric particle-density sensors have picked up his cologne. 

UPDATE: Morris makes a play for Trashee LeMoll’s sympathies, but it doesn’t work; they escape, using one of the conveniently located, perfectly running vehicles left by the roadside by the International Terrorist Assistance Organization (a 501c non-profit)

UPDATE:  HOLY CRAP. Did not see that coming. At all. I was getting up to make popcorn, figuring it would be more driving and shouting for a while, with cut-aways to CTU for frowning and typing, and Trashee pops her boyfriend. Whoa. No anchor shot, though. Amateur.

UPDATE:  Well, that wins the award for the shortest elapsed time of hopeful relief in the entire show. 

UPDATE: I’m having popcorn, so I can’t type. Greases up the keys.

UPDATE: “I can’t serve,” says the presidential aide. (What to call him? I.N. Turner, maybe.) “Not in this administration.” Ah! It’s time for the annual coup, then. Meanwhile, Trashee delivers Morris to a small room of with 126 scowling men, several of whom prepare Morris for his delicate technical job by liquefying the majority of his internal organs. Trashee’s pained reaction indicates she may escape a bad “24” fate, and have a redemptive moment before the end.

UPDATE: Yes! Chloe’s back on duty. She runs a level 5 diagnostic, realigns the plasma injector, reinitializes the structural integrity field and finds the exact apartment number of the terrorists, as well as the status of their utility bills and the exact amount of change in the sofa cushions.

UPDATE: President Palmer the Lesser is warning the Arab terrorist that additional nuclear strikes on America will set back the chances for a peace agreement. Man, he plays rough.

UPDATE: The perimteer status? It’s in place. Jack and the strike team are ready to go in. This is all good. This has been, thus far, prime “24,” which is a relief after the talky-shouty stuff of the last few episodes.

UPDATE: Uh oh. Power tools and shower curtain sheets. Even terrorists watch “Scarface.”

UPDATE:  Trashee, we hardly knew ye.

UPDATE: Much shooting of an efficacious nature; cumulative virgins called to immediate duty in the afterlife appears to number 504, assuming seven hostiles and 72 virgins per. It should be noted that Jack’s mojo is fully restored. Unfortunately, there’s a beeping suitcase in the bathroom. I wonder if he can just dunk it in the tub. Seriously: I’ve paused to write this. That’s what I would do. If I was a fictional super-agent who just got out of a Chinese prison and spent the morning shooting my old colleague and torturing my brother, that is.

UPDATE: Turns out it was the old dip-switch issue. Ah well. We meet the Grizzly Russian, who’s peeved that Fayed wasted two perfectly good nuclear bombs so far. 

UPDATE: Sometimes a nation needs Al Swearengen for President more than it needs Cy Tolliver for Veep.

And now I’m just going to enjoy the rest without typing. As a great leader once said, I will type no more forever. Okay, well, no more tonight. Remember: the Tuesday Comics are new! Enjoy, and I'll see you tomorrow.