Talk about NOT ending with a bang. Really IFC, it’s one thing to weigh down your show’s sixth season with an endless parade of unnecessary melodramatic plot devices — a murder, a pregnant man, a stolen film, a botched adoption from homophobic out-of-towners, two out-of-the-blue love triangles — and quite another thing to, when the season ends, not even “use” these devices to infuse the series finale with aforementioned melodrama.

When in doubt, dance. Dance, I say! Dance! Dance all over the stage, change your clothes, tear up the floor, waltz and tango and skip and mambo your smokin’ hot bod down to the village square, hook up with the Pied Piper of WeHo and dance your way out of regularly scheduled programming into the idea well of death.

Next time you move to LA to be with your swim coach boyfriend, uncover lifelong lesbian longings via a literary-minded French seductress, get caught by boyfriend, get married to boyfriend in Vegas, road-trip back home on ’shrooms, discover your French lover’s Sugar Mama’s back in town, break up with the boyf and the girlf, move into your ex-husband’s vacated home, get lady-lover Shane to move in and consequently…well, you know what comes next.