Dear Don, you're on a highway to hell and I'm not enjoying the ride. Pull your drunken, lung-polluting, brooding self together. I'm getting sick of looking at you. 'Can't believe I just said that, but it's true.
Dear Pete, wow! You do have your moments. Leveraging your wife's unlikely pregnancy to get the whole kit and kaboodle account (minus Clearasil) from Daddy-in-Law? Genius.
Dear Joan, it sucks being you right now, and I don't like that either. You need a Pete moment. Or an Allison moment.
Dear Allison, good for you, turning a focus group meltdown into a triumph. I do believe you gave Don something to think about as he dives for rock bottom.
Dear Roger (whose real-life alter ego directed the episode), I loved, loved, loved the first "conference call" scene with Lucky Strike. You're hilarious and fun. Thank God.
And dear, dear Peggy, I love you as the confident, lesbian-spurning, weed-smoking Bohemian (best line of the night: "No, but he's renting it.")... not to mention that beatnik-inspired turtleneck you wore to the party. You've never looked better all season. But, alas, you were smitten with that wedding ring, weren't you? And Pete's paternity news just about had you floored. That lingering glance between you and your would-be baby daddy at the end of the show broke my heart.
(Have I mentioned I actually use Pond's cold cream? It's the best make-up remover I've found, to date.)