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.