“All I want is a normal fucking day,” says Brenda, former-sex-addict, former-masseuse, current psychotherapist-in-training. It’s Brenda’s wedding day — finally– as the 5th (and last) season of Six Feet Under begins.

Unknown to almost everyone, Brenda has just miscarried the night before. ("This is so not the vision I had about the night before my wedding,” she tells hubby-to-be Nate. “Where’s the stripper?”) Now, as her mother helps her dress, she is beset by those hip Brenda problems we have come to adore– West Coast soul-searching about self-worth and whether the Vicodin is getting a wee bit out of hand.

She wonders too if her padded underwear will stop the blood from staining her pearl-satin gown. Her mother, a big-time Hollywood therapist who is totally self-involved and hilarious frank about it, gives her daughter some typical advice. "Oh, honey, more women have had miscarriages than have masturbated with dildos."

“I just don’t want to be late, okay?”

“Oh, Brenda, Brenda — honey, you don’t have to worry about everything going right anymore,” Mom says with target-hair precision. “That ship has sailed.”

Six Feet Under never disappoints. One of the most quotable shows on HBO (the current high-bar for American television) where even secondary characters like Brenda’s mother have smart, funny lines, SFU has taken us down, up and sideways though the lives of a family of undertakers, the Fishers — each of whom have a way with the language. As the gay brother and his lover — the hunky ex-cop, below, kissing the brother’s hand — prepare to go out, for instance, the lover turns from the mirror and asks how he looks. David drinks in the big guy in his hot suit. “You’re all that,” says David, “and a box of cookies.”

Our favorite moment last Monday came when David and Keith were looking through headshots in search of a surrogate for the child they want to have. Keith leaves the room to take a call and — typical in this show where people have mental reveries with dead relatives and jump in and out of daydreams — David is suddenly startled to see a TV announcer step out of the shadows.

"Are you ready to meet the Bachelorettes?"

"Um…yeah," says David, a bit (but not overly) perplexed.

"Ladies…"

A beautiful blonde comes down the steps into the sunken living room. "Hi, I’m Sierra, I’m 20. I have a combined SAT score of 675 and and I want to be your egg-donor surrogate because although I’m not ready to start a family of my own, I want to put as many versions of myself on the planet as I possibly can."

Next a perky redhead hands David a rose: "Hi, I’m Dee-Dee from San Pedro. I’m 27-years-old. I love outdoor sports and I’m your dream surrogate because I’ve given birth to nine healthy babies. And it’s my personal mission to have children for bourgeoisie narcissists who can’t conceive on their own."

Finally the killer, a gorgeous brunette: "Hi, I’m Lindsay. I’ve got a degree in applied science from Yale, a masters from M.I.T. and 60,000 dollars of school loans to repay. I’m hoping you’ll pick me so I won’t have to resort to more obvious forms of prostitution to get out of debt."

Abruptly the voice of Keith breaks into David’s daymare, snapping him back to reality. "So have you found her?" he asks, referring to the headshots.

"I …I can’t do this, Keith." David confesses. "I just can’t rent out some woman’s uterus like it’s a storage locker."

Nightcharm invites our readers to contribute their favorite lines and scenes from SFU, past and current.