Underpants On The Outside

Lost has a habit of setting up dozens of mind-boggling mysteries and solving NONE of them. My friend Jordan, whose use of imagery is nothing short of genius, describes the experience of watching the show as frustrating as “Dry Humping a Supermodel”.

This week’s Supermodel: A SUPERMODEL SHOWDOWN!

In a single hour of television we had a very large wrinkle added to one already wrinkly mystery, and a whole new oddity to contend with. But who is to say which is more intriguing? That’s why, as I tend to do in these types of situations, I’m proposing a face-off, a fight to the finish, a steel cage match of doom.

But since we’re talking about supermodels here, let’s put them in a kiddie tub filled with hot-oil.

IN THE RED BIKINI: The Others. “The Others” is an experienced fighter. She’s been around a while, almost two whole seasons. We’re already familiar with a lot of her tricks, such as “using costumes to pretend we’re savages”, “baby stealing”, and “torture zoo”, but this crafty veteran still probably has some tricks up her sleeve. Except she has no sleeves, because she’s in a bikini, standing ankle-deep in a tub of baby oil.

IN THE BLUE BIKINI: The Supermodel known as “Desmond.” For those of you unfamiliar with the show, at the end of the first season, the castaways found a hatch buried in the ground on the island. Inside was the whole electromagnetic anomaly the island is known for, which had to be periodically deactivated by a button on a computer terminal, which needed to be pushed every 108 minutes. Stuck down in the hatch, pushing the button for the past two years, was a Scottish guy named Desmond. He’s a nice enough guy, though he’s a bit twitchy, and the way he calls everyone ‘brother’ is kind of obnoxious. Then again, when your best friend is a Commodore 64 and the only conversation you have is you pressing ‘Enter’, it stands to reason that your social skills are going to be a bit rusty.

What’s intriguing about Desmond is that he’s become a psychic. Two weeks ago, he and the fat man were walking along, and Desmond referred to Locke giving a speech that wouldn’t happen for another ten minutes. But while this supermodel and I know that we are destined to dry-hump, like characters in a Greek tragedy, our struggles to avoid our disappointing and chafed fate only propel us further towards our doom. Which is my way of saying, “Relax, baby, and it will all be over soon.”

The problem is that I’m like a two-headed snake, and if these two supermodels head off in different directions, I’m going to split in two, or have a Ritalin seizure. So who wins? Who commands my attention and sexual frustrations? The aging superstar or the young up-and-comer? Let’s find out.

Round One: The Others come out strong to open the round. Sawyer attempts a break-out, and is beaten down by who-else, Kevin Spacey. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he also makes a mean soufflé; that guy can do anything. As punishment, they take him into a room, strap him into an operating table, and put a stick in his mouth “for the pain.” This is an incredibly bad-ass thing to say to someone, and it kind of makes me long for Jack Bauer. I also really hope to say it to someone one day, and I don’t think my career in advertising is going to help me reach that goal. Even more interesting, one of the Others is overheard saying “The sub is back.”

On the other side, Desmond tells the pregnant chick that something is wrong with her roof. She looks up. Nothing is wrong with her roof. Clearly the Supermodel in blue is not ready for the big-time.

Round Two: The Others go all Pulp Fiction on Sawyer, stabbing him in the heart with a needle. When he wakes up, Kevin Spacey tells him that there is a pacemaker in his chest now, and if his heart rate gets above 140, it will make his heart explode. Kevin Spacey then demonstrates with a rabbit in a cage, which he shakes until the stressed out rabbit falls over, limp. This seems mean, but less so when I realize that Kevin Spacey probably made into a delicious roast. Desmond is still wandering around like he belongs on a subway at four in the morning. One no-name castaway is hitting rocks into the ocean with golf clubs, and Desmond asks him if he can borrow one of the irons. He even advises the guy to square his shoulders on his swing. The guy gets really snotty about it, but Desmond explains, “I’m Scottish”. I’m disappointed. Every Scottish guy I’ve known would have beaten him senseless with the club then said something incredibly snide that I didn’t understand, but probably contained the word ‘Irony’. Then again, I only know Scottish guys from Trainspotting. In any case, Desmond clearly has no fight in him, and I’m just about ready to award this one in favor of the Others. Never has a supermodel oil fight been so disappointing.

Round Three: The Others obviously mean to make an example out of Desmond, and make me sorry I ever looked at another supermodel. After breaking Sawyer’s spirit, Kevin Spacey takes him on a hike. You see, it was all one big fake-out. Kevin Spacey even pulls out the rabbit, healthy and whole. They just wanted Sawyer to know that they were in control. And to prove it, Kevin Spacey crests a hill to reveal…THE ISLAND. Oh my god! The Others have TAKEN SAWYER TO AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT… oh, who am I kidding, I’m really not all that impressed by this. We already knew they had a boat; now we know they have a sub, and it’s really not that far between the two islands. It’s farther from Santa Monica to Catalina, and that has a ferry. That’s the thing about veteran fighters; they tire easily.

Meanwhile, Desmond takes his five iron and makes a lightning rod outside the pregnant chick’s hut. Minutes later…you guessed it. Kablammo, and you better believe I have some questions, though none of them have to do with how he knows the future. It doesn’t make sense, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s just another Wednesday in Dry-Hump Cove. I’m more curious as to Desmond’s reaction.

If I’m playing pool and I’m going for any sort of double-bank advanced-geometry shot, I call my shot and get verbal agreements from any and all nearby females that in the unlikely event that I make my shot, I get a blowjob. (My working title for these is, ‘blowjob shots’.) Banking the nine off of the two and sinking both is a blowjob shot. Predicting a lightning strike deserves a kind of sex I don’t have the anatomy or fortitude for. Yet Desmond is sitting around looking like he just found out he was double-jointed.

The result: It may not seem fair, but I’m going to have to give this one to Desmond. Maybe I’m bitter, after dry-humping the Others for so long. Maybe I’m just happy to rub up on a new leg. Who cares. I want to know why isn’t Desmond going around selling stock tips, but as much as I’d like to ask him, when a supermodel finishes a hot-oil fight, it’s usually considered rude to dry hump her before she’s had a chance to towel off.

The other day my manager handed out fifty dollar bills.  For a second I expected a slap on the ass and an invitation to go get myself “something special”, but instead I was told to make the house look nice, just in case the boss comes over for dinner.

Actually, she informed us we’re having a cubicle-decorating competition.  Now my first thought was, “Crepe paper: two dollars.  Magic the Gathering cards: 48 dollars.  Not having a cubicle that looks like a sixth-grade diorama: priceless.”  (Also, that my company’s sense of economics worries me, since they’ve given out fifty dollars to spend on a contest where the prize (a fleece) is worth forty.  I should ask for a raise.) But at the same time, I don’t really want to be THAT guy: y’know, the kid who shows up to school on Halloween without a costume and then makes up some pretentious line about how he’s dressed as Holden Caulfield.

So I’m coming to you guys for help.  Now, obviously I don’t want to spend all fifty dollars.  That would be dumb.  I don’t even want to spend 25 dollars.  I want the cubicle equivalent of throwing a bedsheet over my head, poking some holes, and calling myself a ghost.   But if I could win on a budget, that’d be the best. 

My first idea for a theme was “This place will be the death of me”, and decorating my cube to look like the inside of an Iron Maiden or the Trash Compactors on the Death Star.  But that’s pretty lame.  Then Wonder Woman and I came up with going to Chinatown, getting a bunch of cheap Chinese trinkets and Mao posters, throwing them around my cubicle and telling everyone that my job got outsourced to China.  It’s both topical and potentially offensive, particularly when I line the cube next to me with M-80’s and signs that say “Taiwan”.

So that’s the best we got, and I invite you guys to do better.  You guys never respond whenever I ask you for submissions, but like a one-legged punter, I keep fooling myself into believing that things will turn out differently next time.

Lost has a habit of setting up dozens of mind-boggling mysteries and solving NONE of them. My friend Jordan, whose use of imagery is nothing short of genius, describes the experience of watching the show as frustrating as “Dry Humping a Supermodel”.

This week’s supermodel: the motherfuckin’ polar bears.

While the previous profanity might seem unnecessary, I felt it appropriate.  You see, the show takes place on a tropical island, so it’s pretty odd that there’s a polar bear around.  Luckily, in the first couple episodes the castaways restored the proper order of the world by shooting the polar bear.  By placing a polar bear on a tropical island, the show’s writers alienated a lot of smart people who believe in science and learning and what-not, who said to themselves “this is stupid”, and went off to go read The Odyssey.  Not me.  This is exactly the type of mind-humping that gets me hooked.  Show me a stupid mystery box, and I stick around to see the stupid surprise inside.  And if I can pass the time dry-humping supermodels that wander in and out of the room, so be it.

Now allow me to digress for a moment.  Imagine what your reaction would be if you shot a polar bear on a tropical island.   Me, I’d freak out a bit.  Actually, I bet that five minutes later I’d be naked and covered in polar bear blood, acting out my own personal Apocalypse Now.  At the very least, every sentence out of my mouth would end in, “…and holy shit I just shot a motherfucking polar bear.”  (Actually the more I think about it the more it seems pretty awesome.  I want to shoot a motherfuckin polar bear.)  Well, not the castaways.  A couple of them shoot a polar bear, then with some limp-ass reasoning like, “It would scare everyone else if we told them there were polar bears on the island,” they pretty much never mention it again.  And yeah, news of tropical polar bear existence would scare people, but that kind of information could also save lives.  If you were on a tropical island and saw a polar bear, you’d probably think you were suffering some sort of coconut induced hallucination.  Then you’re getting eaten.

Digression aside, there’s been almost no mention of the bears except for a couple throwaway remarks, meanwhile we’ve been distracted by the Hatch and the Others and other well-dry-humped supermodels.  It’s as if the writers were trying to sweep the bears under the rug, which would be difficult, though hilarious, particularly if it were a bear-skin rug.

But I never forgot.  For the past two seasons, I kept thinking, “but what about the polar bear???”  Eventually this became “what about the fuckin’ polar bear???”, and as these things tend to evolve, “what about the motherfuckin goddamn polar bear???” 

Well the motherfuckin goddamn polar bear is back.  At the end of last season, the Hatch blew up…sort of.  Everyone says that the Hatch IMploded, but everyone inside was knocked unconscious and scattered over the island, like some kind of EXplosion, so that doesn’t exactly add up.  Whatever.  I don’t dry-hump supermodels because they’re scientists.  Besides, I don’t even have time for anything more than a dry-quickie with this chick, and I’m sure we’ll meet again before the year is through.

In any case, Locke, the island’s official Old Crazy Guy, wakes up and decides to build himself a sweat tent so he can communicate with the island. With his sweat tent and the help of some homemade hallucinogens (a skill I really need to learn) Locke learns from the island that Eko, after being EX/IM-ploded in the hatch, was dragged off into the wilderness by…the polar bears.  This might seem oddly diabolical for polar bears, but scientific proof is offered in the form of Charlie the Ex-Drug Addict, who mentions that the nature shows he used to watch often called bears the geniuses of the bear community.  Even smarter than the brown bears, which as we all know, trap and stun their human prey with a mesmerizing three-tier system of beds and porridge.

Thankfully, even though Locke finds Eko in a cave littered with human remains, he’s not missing even so much as a limb or a head.  It really proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that polar bears are evil masterminds.  I can only imagine the thousands of penguins hidden in iceberg abattoirs as they await their turn to die in the Icicle Maiden. 

That’s what drives me crazy about the show: it makes me look like a moron.   I accept that Locke’s hallucination was perfectly accurate, whereas mine used to make me believe that my buddy Eugene was the Devil.  I believe that a polar bear surviving in the South Pacific would drag a human body through the jungle back to a cave, without causing it significant damage.  I believe.  Why? Because when the supermodel talks, you smile and nod and try not to get caught staring at her tits. 

So the polar bears are back, but what kind of supermodel is it?  I think they’re like that girl you got to first base with in summer camp ten years ago.  She was cute, but nothing special, and yet for reasons you can’t comprehend, from time to time you’re reminded of her and wonder, “What’s she been up to?”  Then one day, you open a Victoria’s Secret catalogue and she’s staring back at you.  She certainly filled out nicely, didn’t she?  Six months later, you quit your job because it took too much time away from clipping her photo out of magazines, yet for some reason everyone thinks you’re the one talking crazy, even though she’s the one that can’t see that the two of you were meant to be together.

(Note: Sorry about the lack of posts.  I started a new job, and it’s definitely taking a good deal more of my time, so I’m still working out what my writing schedule is going to be.)

But do we know what they were doing down in Gomorrah?  I mean, those folks in Sodom sure knew how to have fun, so…

If you are between the ages of 13 and 35 and have a penis, I can pretty much guarantee you’ll find this particular piece of nerd humor funny.

Thank you, Yankee Pot Roast and Geoff Haggerty. 

Lost has a habit of setting up dozens of mind-boggling mysteries and solving NONE of them. My friend Jordan, whose use of imagery is nothing short of genius, describes the experience of watching the show as frustrating as “Dry Humping a Supermodel”.

For the most part, last night was a dud in terms of supermodels and dry-humping.  It was more of an adventure tale, and for the first fifty minutes the only moment of intrigue was when Kevin Spacey found out that the other castaways had a boat.  Suddenly he seemed concerned that their island suburbia would be found, and it became the number one priority that they capture the boat.

I’ll admit; I was curious why the Others would seem so concerned.  After all, they’re the ones with houses, food, an amusement park, a shitload of guns and tasers; that’s like me hiding from a platoon of kittens.  But that’s the thing about talking to supermodels; it’s easy to read too much into what they’re saying.  The next time you hear a supermodel say, “It’s really important that I go out with you,” take a second to make sure she didn’t actually say, “It’s really important that I go out with (a guy with a great sense of humor, like) you, (but taller.)”  Kevin Spacey probably just said, “I want that boat…because the weather is supposed to be great for sailing this weekend.”

And yeah, everything goes down just about how we all imagined, because the castaways are like the Washington Generals.  But even the Generals score a basket or two, and one of the Others gets gutshot in the boat-jacking.  And it’s a girl.  I get the feeling we’re in that moment right before Bruce Lee tastes his own blood and goes batshit-insane.  Hell hath no fury like a woman, and that’s just when she’s scorned.  The castaways better PRAY she doesn’t survive this. 

Back at the zoo, the Others have Sawyer and Kate breaking rocks, but it’s not really clear why. Usually slavery has some kind of point, so I can’t tell if the Others are just dickheads or if there is some larger metaphor I’m missing, like in that book where the pigs could talk to the horses.  Maybe if I paid attention in history class I’d realize that the island is about colonization or the war of 1812.  All I know is that from all this talk of dry-humping and history class, this supermodel is starting to look like Ms. Hipolito from junior year, who I definitely would have liked the LeTourneau treatment from.

The real surprise came ten minutes from the end, when Kevin Spacey came in to talk to Jack in the dolphin interrogation center.  He introduced himself, mentioned that he had spent his entire life on the island, and then he told Jack that they still were in contact with the outside world; that George Bush was reelected and the Red Sox won the World Series.  At this last bit, Jack’s skepticism was cute but predictable, but Kevin Spacey had a television rolled in and played a tape of the broadc- wait, WHAT??? You’ve been on this island your ENTIRE LIFE!??  How?  Why?  Have you really worn nothing but khaki that entire time???  In one sentence I went from healthy skepticism to spending a week’s pay buying Professor McSupermodel  drinks.  Damn it!

As we all knew would happen, Kevin Spacey swears to Jack (and by extension the viewers at home) that if he “is patient”, and “cooperates”, and “does what he is asked”, then “when the time is right”, he will let Jack “go home”. 

Go back and read that last sentence.  Now exchange “go home” for “…you-know-what”, and what you get is exactly the conversation a supermodel gives you when she’s telling you she wants to save it for marriage.  And I’m filled with the same sense of dread knowing that not only am I in this thing for the long-haul, but even when I reach my goal it will be a) anti-climactic and b) probably awful.

I’m changing jobs next week, so these days I have the happy-go-lucky attitude that comes along with being a lame-duck on his way out.  The only time I’m lifting a finger is to eat lunch.

Still, I’d rather not ask my bosses the clichéd, “what are you gonna do – fire me?” so I’ve been working on a few different responses.  Here are the working drafts:

• I’m gonna eat your unemployment checks for breakfast.  Or your unemployment checks will pay for breakfast.  Which ever is easier.
• What are you gonna do: have yo’ momma fire me?  She is too fat and/or stupid!  Not to mention she doesn’t work in Human Resources. 
• Don’t hate the player; hate his need for greater responsibility and higher pay.

When I was a kid, I played baseball, basketball and soccer at one time or another.  In some ways I was like Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders; an all-around athlete who could play any position in any sport with the same level of aptitude and athleticism.  Yep, I sucked at everything.  The baseball chapter of my life lasted for all of one less-than-legendary game.

In fact the only athletic competition I ever won was a “belly flop” contest in summer camp.  I was the one guy willing to lay myself out on a sandpit at full speed, and something about watching me roll around and suck wind made the other kids think it wasn’t worth it.  Well, take it from the guy with his name engraved (written) in gold (ball-point pen) on the trophy (five-cent blue ribbon): it’s easy to get your wind back when it’s scented with the sweet smell of victory.

Still, it was apparent to this one-time champion that I would be better off devoting my time and effort to scholastic pursuits, and I’m glad I did.  I might have given up money and fame, but when you’re playing in the Mathlympics and the Vocabathon, you’re doing it for love.

Apparently, I’m no different than the rest of America.  After the rest of the world beat us in soccer, baseball and basketball, we took our ball, went home, and hit the books.  And since we’re 4 for 4 in Nobel prizes, I’d say it’s paying off handsomely. 

I’ll bet that somewhere in Italy there’s a World Cup trophy that  isn’t shining so brightly any more.

Lost has a habit of setting up dozens of mind-boggling mysteries and solving NONE of them. My friend Jordan, whose use of imagery is nothing short of genius, describes the experience of watching the show as frustrating as “Dry Humping a Supermodel”.

Today’s Supermodel: The Zoo

Holy moley, that was one hell of an episode.  At the end of last season, Jack, Sawyer, and Kate, were all captured by the mysterious “Others”, who inhabit the other side of the island and seem to know what’s going on.  We also saw that the Others have a boat and know how to get off the island, so the only reason they stick around kidnapping people must be because they get a kick out of it.  Who can blame them?

Now as far as Supermodels go, the Others are nothing new.  We’ve danced this particular Blue Ball Waltz before.  It’s got to the point where the metaphor of the Dry-Humped Supermodel has broken down – this particular supermodel has a name.  Lena.  She was this chick I used to take out.  At the end of every night we’d make out for like a half hour.  Then I’d start arguing that it was time she and I did some Grade-A hot-railing, she’d say no, and I’d drive home with a semi while my buddies would call me and laugh.  I did this for like a year.  At some point her vagina had become my very own White Whale; I was doomed to chase it all the while knowing it would be my downfall. 

What makes “The Others” so much worse is that they keep introducing more and more conundrums. (Honestly, if I keep saying mysteries I’m going to go insane.  Enter: Thesaurus.com)   It is like if Lena had introduced me to a constant stream of really hot roommates, sisters, cousins, co-workers, and best friends, etc., all of whom weren’t about to touch me because they thought me and Lena were hooking up, but felt safe enough around me to wear nothing more than lacey panties and a bra.  Even the real Lena had too much decency for that, though not enough for a measly handjob.

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Tomorrow is the season premiere of Lost, and we’re very excited around the apartment.  I know there are an endless number of websites out there trying to predict what WILL happen in the upcoming episodes, but I took a different approach…

Six Unlikely Plot Twists for the New Season of Lost

1) It turns out the first two seasons have been a hallucination brought on by Charlie’s heroin withdrawal.  In fact, he has merely been wandering around the Bronx Zoo after closing time.  While it does a lot to explain the polar bear, the janitorial staff won’t appreciate the mess he’s made of his “hatch” in the men’s room.

2) The island is discovered by a luxury cruise ship that has wandered off course.  The castaways enjoy the ship’s onboard rock climbing wall, driving range and nightclubs, but politely refuse a ride back to civilization because the ship is too “touristy”, and they prefer the authentic feel of the island.  Weeks later, the castaways are all struck with similar stomach flu symptoms.

3) Jealous for her affections, Jack and Sawyer convince Kate to play a game of “Spin the Bottle”.  Unfortunately, the island’s unpredictable electromagnetic field causes the bottle to only point towards Jack or Sawyer, no matter where they sit or how the bottle is spun.  Kate excuses herself awkwardly, and after several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Jack defuses the tension by shooting Sawyer in the thigh.  

4) A lawyer representing the mysterious group of inhabitants known as “The Others” sends a scathing cease-and-desist memo to the castaways.   The letter claims that the term “Others” is discriminatory.

5) In an astonishing revelation, Joon, one of the two Korean lead characters, admits that he is actually half Korean and half Japanese.  This should not change how the other islanders perceive him, so he is justifiably insulted by the way they keep bringing him handfuls of palm fronds and seashells and asking if he will make some wristwatches.

6) Using the mysterious outdated computer technology found on the island, the castaways manage to connect to the Internet, only to arrange their rescue through a conspicuous combination of Yahoo! services, including the search engine, map viewer, and free email accounts.  The show is finally revealed to be nothing more than an innovative advertising campaign introducing Yahoo!’s new slogan, “Whatever you may have ‘Lost’, you can always find it on Yahoo!”