Dammit, America. I let myself believe that I was done with Futurama for a little while. After the finale, which I found one of the more poignant pieces of (primetime) American animation, there was a shiny metal ass-weight lifted off of my chest, as I thought this always wonderful series was actually gone for good. And then that somber albatross was gloriously vanquished from my sky with the solid crossover episode with The Simpsons, and then there was rumorish talk about the show possibly returning. And now there’s an itch that only another season can scratch. 2015, do this.
I’ve now gone full-frontal Hedonismbot with my boner for more Futurama in the future. Addictions are normally fueled by knowing the substance of choice is already out there in the world, waiting for you to come and grab a hold of it at whatever cost. Being addicted to Futurama is like playing craps with marshmallows. When you’re hot, it all just sticks to your hand. That doesn’t make sense, because being addicted to Futurama doesn’t make sense. But this is how this series’ lifespan has led fans to behave.