I liked this show in the very beginning for Tony Shalhoub's masterful portrayal of extreme social awkwardness (not so much the writers' cartoon version of OCD), nicely contrasted against Ted Levine's dry-witted police lieutenant, and the clever mysteries that called to mind the glory days of "Columbo." But things went downhill, or over a cliff, when the writers made the decision to sacrifice all realism in favor of putting their lead character in an OCD sufferer's worst nightmare every week, always thanks to some "Final Destination"-style inescapable twist of fate. It was kinda funny the first, third, and tenth times, but eight seasons of it is appalling. To take but one of countless examples, Mr. Monk is investigating the death of a lead actress in a play and repeats some of the play's lines, and he's overheard by the director, who, *gasp*, casts Monk in the role! And he's afraid of public speaking! You might wonder why a detective would agree to learn a bunch of lines at the same time he's investigating a murder--or why he'd be asked to do this--or why he'd be allowed to do it--but then you'd be using your brain, which is not recommended if you're planning to enjoy the show.<br /><br />I put up with this insanity for about half of the show's duration, still enjoying the interplay of the actors, but the final straw came in season four, when Mr. Monk went to a rock concert (ho ho, he thinks it involves rocks) and mistook a port-a-john for a phone booth. And spoke into the urinal. Because he thought it was a phone. The genius detective with a germ phobia. He talked. Into. The urinal. At that point, it was obvious the writers were just using their potentially interesting character as a prop and nothing else. The few episodes I've caught since then don't seem to have made significant changes. The only thing the show can be praised for anymore is consistency. 3/10. <br /><br />(Postscript: the finale, at least, was good.)