Kiefer Sutherland, <EM>24</EM> Kiefer Sutherland, 24
So here's the thing: For these handy-dandy Watercoolers we bring you every morning, we're supposed to shoot for something in the 250- to 300-word range... longer if it's a big event, shorter if it's a rerun, but you get the idea. Do you know how many words I have for this week's two-hour 24 extravaganza?

Zero. That's right. Abso-frickin'-lutely speechless, kids. But I gotta start somewhere, and since my eyes are still all red and blotchy from the completely unexpected sobfest that was the final 60 seconds, well... nope, still not ready to talk about it. Let's think back to happier times, shall we? Say, back when Jack Bauer totally shot Henderson's missus in the leg to get the intel out of him? See, it was her fault, really, for uttering such a boneheaded line as "You don't need the gun, Jack. You're not gonna shoot me." Actually, ma'am, once you say something like that, he's obligated by CTU mandate not only to shoot you but to wait just long enough so that I, the at-home viewer, will have completely forgotten you said that. And to thank her for her troubles, Henderson wouldn't even give up the dirt. (Clearly, not a good night for wives: The first lady, meanwhile, comes to the teary-eyed conclusion that not only did her hubby fail to warn the motorcade about the threat of a terrorist attack, but he actually turned over the route information. I'm guessing that trumps "forgot our anniversary" and "insulted my mother" all in one fell swoop.) Elsewhere, Lynn's junkie sister and her no-good junkie boyfriend bite it, Tony wakes up to find out Michelle's dead, an unforgiving Kim's back with crazy-long hair extensions and C. Thomas Howell as her shrink-boyfriend (eww with the age gap!), and, oh yeah, there's a canister of nerve gas wreaking havoc inside CTU. Watching that place go from lockdown to evacuation in record time was indeed a thrill, but I simply wasn't prepared for the last scene. And I know it's happened before (right?), but there's something so utterly chilling about seeing those oh-so-familiar numbers tick off the end of the hour in absolute silence  appropriately, gut-wrenchingly chilling. Look, ER's supposed to make me cry. Even The Office has been known to push my weepy buttons on occasion. But 24... I'm so used to picking my jaw up off the floor and holding on for the next curveball, I sort of forgot these guys (read: Louis Lombardi and Mary Lynn Rajskub) were capable of reducing me to a big ol' ball of sniffles right there on the couch. Edgar, buddy... nope, I still got nothin'.