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this interpretive function is built into the structure of the show, most prominently in the form of its narrator. The narrator might be a necessity for a viewer who is presented with an often self-deceiving (see: Lucille; Gob) or very confused (see: Tobias; Buster) cast of characters who are rarely, if ever, reliable sources of knowledge. To take one subtle yet amusing example, in “Hand to God,” Lindsay half-heartedly guesses that her daughter Maeby is in Sacremende for her debate club semifinals. The narrator is quick to point out that Maeby wasn’t, and that a Google search of the word “Sacremende” came up with zero results and the following helpful question, “Did you mean ‘Sacramento’?” That sort of interpretive activity is built into the way in which we relate to the world, and the show’s narrative makes clear the ways in which we could, or should, be asking those questions of interpretation.

Characters on the show, however, are often highly selective and self-interested in their interpretation of events. Consider the case of J. Walter Weatherman.

Narrator: George Sr. had used his considerable means to stage intricate scenarios, to teach his children what he considered valuable life lessons.

George Sr.: We’re out of milk. I could have got it earlier if someone would have left a note.

(Tires screeching. Car collides with a man on the street, whose arm falls off, spurting blood. Screaming and yelling.)

George Sr.: Why?! If someone had left a note, this innocent man would still have his arm! Why?!

J. Walter Weatherman: And that’s why you always leave a note. [“Pier Pressure”]

George Sr.’s lessons and their “meanings” show just how far selective interpretation can be stretched. Switch to Michael and Lindsay in the present:

Michael: Well, those lessons worked, didn’t they? I mean, we still leave notes to this day.

Lindsay: Oh, that’s what that was about. I thought he was trying to get us off of dairy. [“Pier Pressure”]

George Sr. is nothing if not consistent, as he takes every advantage to reinterpret the meaning of those lessons to whatever purpose best suits his present needs.

Michael: I want the guy with the one arm and the fake blood. J. Walter Weatherman. How do I get a hold of him?

George Sr.: Well, he’s, uh, dead. You killed him when you left the door open with the air conditioner on. [“Pier Pressure”]

How can we decide whether George Sr.’s interpretation of those events is any more or less “right” than Lindsay’s? Is either interpretation more valuable than the other, since neither portrays an accurate understanding of the events as they actually are? One of the difficulties of a narrative view of things is that we are oftentimes presented with a proliferation of possible meanings—we may quickly become entangled in different ways of understanding the same events. As Judith Butler points out: “Any one of those is a possible narrative, but of no single one can I say with certainty that it alone is true.”5

Narrative thus presents a moral choice—given that a story can be told in many ways, there are choices that must be made about what’s right to include, and to exclude. When we tell the stories of our own lives, how do we justify ourselves, and the choices we make in the telling? Do we paint a truthful picture of our story to ourselves and others, or do we simply tell the story we want (and perhaps wish) to be true? Fortunately, the show’s narrator provides us with those deep psychological insights rather handily, such as in “Hand of God”: “Michael had always thought of himself as that great a guy. The kind of guy who could raise someone else’s baby . . . But he wasn’t.” For us, truthfulness can be a tricky thing when we’re talking about something as personal as the story of our own lives—and what we tell of ourselves, both to ourselves and to others. We have a need to make sense of our existence, and we want our lives to have a sense of purpose. We want “existential coherence”6—things need to fit together in a certain way and not merely be a series of random,