I guess there's no hope for me after all, Chip.

If Ron Miller described the ending of Battlestar Galactica

The final fight with the Cylons was a fallen summer star. Hyacinth. Elastic. It was a watery beer fart. It was the dying gasp of a Viking warrior before proud Valkyrie women carried him of to Valhalla. It was constipation.
The Cylon colony ship was a dancing anus, deer-like and waiting. It was Orson Wells in Paris, 1955. It was strong coffee with too little coffee. Potter's clay and TARDIS. Gold, Frankincense, Mir. It was Stan Lee's gobbler.
How the Galactica was unable to jump after that final space-shift was weak like a gull's cry in a hurricane. Puissant. Agile. Inexplicable. It's hull had the sheen of Charlie after a coke bender, strippers hanging of his port side, listing into the sun. It was Orwellian
Starbuck had the appearance of wild horses running over amber cliffs when she inexplicably disappeared. Dust motes kissed the air she left in her passing. Lee's express was that of a retarded child having a staring contest with Keanu Reeves, officiated by Christopher Reeves. It was a baying wolf, crying out for wages the dock foreman owed him so he could feed his family back on the farm. It was gay, like nine dudes blowing ten dudes.
Adama crying over Roselyn's death was stewing beef marbled with thick white tracts of fat. Bloated, kind of cloying. He made a grave for her with his tears, big fat crocodile jobs with dreams puffing up their middles. It was the Gettysburg Address delivered by a french whore. It dreamed of Ryleh gilded in baby's breath and roses.
Her pubes were ranked clone troopers, fire teams and assault. They blossomed to life as the enemy approached, fey winged aliens. They were the loss of all meaning in a rush to finish. And i don't even know what this metaphor points to.
(And that's about all I have right now.)