What do Cheech Marin, Tokyo, and Oprah's transsexual father have in common? They all love LOST!

***SPOILER ALERT***

I know the secrets of LOST. Do you want to know them, too? I am warning you right now – stop reading if you don't want to know. If you want it all to be a surprise, for the love of all things holy, click away.

I want to preface this post by saying I have never theorized about LOST before. It just *poof* came to me almost in a vision the other day after learning that Uncle Rico is Ben's daddy. Although I tried to make sense of what meaning there was in knowing Napoleon Dynamite is Ben's cousin, I came up, well, lost.

But then all of a sudden, like a ray of sunlight streaming through the jungle, I saw it before me as clear as if I had donned Sawyer’s patched-up glasses. I knew what this kooky sci-fi extravaganza was all about. And – oh my God – you are going. To. Freak. Out.

Simply put, the island is a Skinner box for people with daddy issues, run by the Japanese and Dr. Phil.

I know!

Dr. Phil is behind the whole thing.

All will be revealed in the series finale three years from now, which will be filmed as a very special episode of Dr. Phil Family.

In the finale, Dr Phil decodes all of the psychoses of the LOSTaways and the Others-Hostiles-Whoeverthefucktheyare and they show a heartfelt piece where we learn that Dr. Phil's fat ass has been counseling Hurley on weight loss this whole time. It will be revealed in a shocking twist that Hurley has dropped 270 pounds just by using Dr. Phil's newest weight-loss book, and he's been wearing a Dharma Initiative fat suit since Season 1.

In the most heartwarming moment of the entire series, Cheech Marin runs out and wraps Hurley up in a big hug saying, "I've never been able to get my arms around my boy before – thank you Dr. Phil! Now I can love him."

Everyone has gathered on the beach to witness this touching moment, and no matter if they're LOSTaways or Others, they all decide to forgive their fathers for what they've done. At this moment, each of their daddies – alive or dead – materializes from a cloud of black smoke.

No one is more surprised than Jack, who learns that his father has been dressed in a Goodwin disguise and boffing Juliet for years when Daddy Shepard runs to Juliet, ignoring Jack completely, and feels her up, saying "Tune in, Tokyo" over and over again.

At the utterance of these words, the sky turns pink and purple one last time and opens up to reveal the LOST island is in actual fact underneath Tokyo, Japan, and the Japanese have been fucking with everyone's minds – including the writers and producers – this whole time.

Because they are so far advanced compared with the rest of the world, they had invented a technological device that actually prevents bad parenting and corrects daddy issues and wanted to make sure they could prove that to the world by fixing the psychoses of the most daddy-fucked people alive.

Jin starts babbling on in Korean, thrilled to finally see a bunch of people who look like him and don't speak English, either. Subtitles on the bottom of the screen spell out "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?" but his question – like so many before it – goes unanswered when he sees the blank looks on the faces of the Japanese people above him and realizes maybe all Asian people really do kind of look alike.

With the sky open and Tokyo looming above them, Dr. Phil reveals that he has been working as a Japanese operative since before his days on Oprah, and he knew running this experiment would be the only way he could one-up his former mentor.

So, my friends, LOST turns out to be nothing but a pissing contest: a chance for Dr. Phil to wave his dick around and for the Japanese finally to assert their dominance over the world.

All of the mythology turns out to be a load of bullshit, except for the numbers, which, if combined in the right sequence and placed into a complicated logarithm, would have revealed this fact long ago. Knowing no one on the island – nay, in the world – would be near smart enough to figure that out, the Japanese decided to throw the numbers around just for grins and giggles. And so the world learns Japan is a lot funnier of a nation than was originally thought.

Then, true to form, things get really good in the closing moments.

In the last minute of the last episode of the series, for no apparent reason whatsoever, Danielle the Frenchwoman arrives on the beach to join the others and just stands there with a gun slung over her shoulder, holding a crate of dynamite with a scared yet blank look on her face.

As the screen turns black and LOST flashes before our eyes for the final time, we are left, cliffhanging once again, to wonder why the fuck she turned up on this show every four weeks with no plot line or character development.

The end.

I'll give you a minute. Catch your breath.

But there's more.

Although this part won't be televised, meanwhile, back in Chicago, Oprah (a big fan of the show) has watched this unbelievable, twist-filled finale from the comfort of her mansion. Later that night, she responds for the first time ever when Stedman spanks her tush in bed and asks, "Who's your daddy?"

"GAYLE," she yells, screaming in ecstasy, and Gayle walks out of Oprah's closet, revealing herself to be a transsexual and Oprah's father, explaining a lot more things than the LOST finale ever could.

For geeks only: Look for Hurley holding a copy of The Ultimate Weight Solution in the second hour of next week's season finale: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Succumbing to Assholery: How Commuting Stole My Soul

“Oh, LUCY!”

A play in one act

7:55 a.m., the first cold morning of the New Year. I stand on the back steps of the LUCY bus, staring blankly out the windows of the back doors, sleeping with my eyes open, and wishing I was already at my desk with a nice hot cuppa. Every seat is full. The bus engine hums loudly and the heater hisses under the strain from the cold. People mutter “watch it” and “sorry” as they jostle each other trying to pack in tighter. A woman wearing ski gear even though we are in the middle of a major non-mountainous American city at the start of a business day, is standing just ahead of me. The bus begins to leave the stop.

Ski woman, to me, flatly: “They could fit three or four more people on here.”

She gestures to the sidewalk as we pull away, at one or two people who were not able to squeeze on the bus. One of them is Stacy, with whom I work.

Me, frowning: “Huh?” (realizing the woman is speaking to me) “It’s plenty crowded for me.”

Ski woman, flatly: “It was a joke.”

Me, under my breath: “Not a funny one.”

Ski woman: “You know, because, the bus is crowded, and…” (She continues to drone on explaining her “joke,” but I do not continue to interpret the sounds coming from her mouth.)

Me: “I’m sorry…um…stop talking to me. I’m not…listening to you.”

THE END

Retr-oh-no

8:10 p.m. Tuesday, February 28, 2006

(I dial the phone)

Ariel: Hello?

Me: What on Earth is The Seacrest wearing?

Ariel: I have no idea. Is that velvet?

Me: I don’t want to know. Could it be a velvet tuxedo jacket with satin trim?

Ariel: Maybe he’s “taking a risk.”

Me: I might have to take back everything I said about him on my blog.

*******

Well, I don’t know if it’s come to that, you guys, but in addition to the (velvet tuxedo?) jacket The Seacrest had on (chose to wear?) last night, his hair wasn’t even spiky. I was a little sad in the heart.

I have written the following letter in the hopes that this sartorial nightmare will end.

Dear The Seacrest,

I only say this because I care about you.

Please hire a stylist who knows the difference between vintage and someone’s old crap.

Also, if you’re not busy, would you like to have dinner with me and some friends on Friday? Let me know.

Love,

23broadstreet


RSVP, regrets only: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Win a Date with Ryan Seacrest

This could make me unpopular, but I don’t care.

Ready?

I love Ryan Seacrest.

Oh, stop your hissing and booing already. I love him and I don’t care what you think.

I don’t love him like that, anyway. I love him more in concept than application. But I still love him.

Not that I should have to, but I will explain myself.

I love The Seacrest because he is at once equal parts moron and genius. He’s an idiot mastermind. A cunning simpleton. A walking, talking, toothy-grinning oxymoron, and I love it.

Let me break it down for you.

The Seacrest isn’t the best-looking guy in the world. He’s probably not even the best-looking guy in the room (especially if my new TV boyfriend and American Idol hopeful Ace is there).

I mean, standing in my shoes, I have little room to judge, but I’m just saying that by Hollywood standards, he’s — forgive me, but — “just a’ight for me, dawg.” I mean, his hair is blond enough and errs perfectly on just the wrong side of spikyness and he goes to the Mystic booth the correct number of times per week and he makes appropriately spaced appointments with his cosmetic dentist, sure.

But take away his seemingly endless supply of fitted blazers and “vintage” t-shirts, and he’s basically a decent-looking waiter at Friday’s. Like, if The Seacrest was in fact your waiter, you’d say to your friends, “I’m so glad we got this waiter, you guys, instead of that chubby guy who’s sweating into that couple over there’s 120-ounce Margarita.” You see? You wouldn’t totally be knocked dead that The Seacrest is serving your Jack Daniel’s chicken, but he’s definitely better than the sweaty guy who’s carrying a few extra pounds in addition to your order.

You know what I’m talking about.

Oh, also? He’s short. OK, OK, OK, a thousand sad songs played on a thousand tiny violins for all of you short guys out there. I am really, really sorry that you’re not tall enough to date a fully grown woman in heels. My heart bleeds for you. But as a fully grown woman whose only pair of flat shoes is worn to the gym, I cannot endorse short men as desirable. Unless you’re Ben McKenzie. Then? God bless.

The Seacrest is also not the most talented guy in the world. Ever listen to him on the radio or see his talk show? OK, me neither, but I do watch the American Idol program (I vote, too, so get over yourself) and really, he’s not terribly interesting or unique or anything like that. I mean, he’s got a pleasant voice and he seems personable, but I can’t say that he’s exactly going to give Letterman a run for it. Right?

So, you’re thinking, hold the phone, is this bitch crazy? Didn’t she say she loves The Seacrest?

You’re not wrong to wonder, because so far I have done nothing but insult him. And I’m actually starting to feel a bit guilty.

My point, and I do have one...

Despite his shortcomings (no pun intended), The Seacrest is on the most popular reality show in the history of American TV. He has managed to rub elbows with the rich and famous, and even better than that — he has become one of them. With seemingly no recognizable talent, average looks, and a moderate personality, boyfriend is making millions — millions!!! — of dollars a year because of the exact things that you'd think would hold him back.

What the fuck? He's brilliant.

He found a way to market average. And for that, I must admire him.

I gotta say, the man’s got charisma dripping out of his spa-exfoliated pores. That goes a long way. People actually like him more because he’s not all that great. It’s less intimidating.

The reason why he’s so fantastic on the American Idol program is because The Seacrest embodies everything that show is about. The judges are always telling the contestants they need to find a way to market themselves (check), they need to look the part (check), they need to be likeable (check), and they need to come out there every week like their life depends on it and give it 150% or else they're going back to their lives as secretaries or mailmen or waiters at Friday's, as the case may be (check).

The Seacrest knows that he didn’t have much of a chance to be extremely successful without Simon Cowell, either. He’s in the same boat as the contestants. It’s like, really deep if you think about it.

He’s just good-looking enough, just funny enough, and just talented enough to be where he is. But at the same time, he’s the absolute best person for the job that he’s doing. It’s very symbiotic, all this.

You can tell The Seacrest is a hard worker, and I like that. And you can tell he’s got a decent brain in his head, which is clutch.

But what makes him a freaking inspiration is that he shows us all at home that with a few highlights, a trip to H&M, and an assload of determination, anything is possible.

He is the American Dream come to life wearing a tight pair of faded designer jeans.

He makes me feel good. I can’t help it. And yeah, his jokes are one note (but his ad-libs are hee-larious, if a little predictable) and he’s cheesy, but to quote Randy Jackson, he’s working it out. And I think I could learn a lot from him.

In fact, I’d like to meet him. Just to bask in his awesomeness in the hopes that some of that magic might rub off on me.

Next time someone asks me that trite question about who, living or dead, I’d like to have dinner with, I know who I’m picking.

Aah, The Seacrest. You’ve won me over, too!

Go ahead, send me hate mail: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Ace in my Hole

I have, have to give a special shout out to my new TVBF (TV boyfriend), Ace Young, of Los Angeles by way of Colorado.

Ace is my top most favorite male contestant on the American Idol program this year. God bless him, he is a delicious-looking young man, and he can actually — wait for it — sing!

No shit.

Anyhow, I was on the phone with Kate while the American Idol program was on last night, but I paused in my conversation when Ace came on just so I could watch him sing George Michael’s “Father Figure” at the same time as the rest of the East Coast. I even made Kate turn it on so she could have the pleasure of watching him.

I must mention that Ace is pretty like a girl, but I just so happen to think that is fucking hot. He was, like, staring into the camera right through my top and he was singing the words, "I'll be your daddy," and I had six orgasms in succession, and I'm pretty sure I died for approximately 30 seconds, and I was so happy. Just...peaceful, you know?

And then The Seacrest — in perhaps his most brilliant ad lib ever — made Ace give a repeat performance of that look he did at the end of the song where it seemed as if he was staring at my naked body after doing all kinds of very unfatherly things to me and he looked at once hungry and disgusted. Which, I'm sorry, but there's nothing hotter than when a guy looks at you with eyes that say "you're filthy but I like it."

Pass me a tissue and call me a slut, because I loved every minute of this kid.

And I imagine I’d love every inch.

And, and, before you start calling me a dirty old lady, boyfriend’s not even jail bait! Yea! I mean, it remains to be seen whether he’s straight or not (don’t make me dissect “Father Figure” for you), but he’s a very respectable 25 years old.

Anyhow, I voted for Ace seven times: once for each orgasm and once for good measure. Pun intended.

All this, plus he doesn’t look like Rory Gilmore: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Reason Number 267 not to watch the Winter Olympics

I almost want to watch the crazy-ass-bastard downhill skiers because I think to myself, these people are certifiable lunatics, and they’re being filmed live for my enjoyment. On first glance, it sounds awfully entertaining…

But then – think about it a little bit.

People throwing themselves down the side of a frozen mountain at 80 mph with sticks strapped to their feet (sticks!) wearing nothing but a leotard? Who thought of this? I thought I was crazy, but I’m a portrait of sensibility compared with these people.

I just can’t endorse watching people careening toward possible paralysis, life-threatening injury, or even death on live TV.

I think it’s a little too stressful for me as a viewer.

Thankfully, Fox runs 87 new episodes of American Idol every week so I have something else to watch until they run out of medals in Torino.

Watching people careening toward possible laryngitis, awkward moments of embarrassment, and career death?

That’s a live sporting event I can get behind.

I even refuse to watch the figure skating: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Inner Thoughts

What Ryan should have said to Marissa on The O.C. last night after he was really nice and supportive and she treated him like dirt anyway because she is a miserable word that rhymes with punt:

"You know what bitch? You don't want to spend Valentine's Day with me? [Let me just point out bitch is crazy just for that]

Fine. Cry your bony ass to sleep, then.

I'm going to go find Johnny's mysterious single cousin from the funeral who is slightly older than me and used to date Volchok, and I'm going to help her unpack her things in her new apartment and I'm going to be supportive of her sad feelings right now because that sensitive supportive shit is catnip to every girl I've ever met except for you, and -- fuck, Marissa? -- can you fucking stand up straight already? Just one fucking time? You're like Quasimodo, only with an older-looking face.

Aaaany-who, I am banking that the combination of Jodi's delicate emotional state, my knack for working the sensitive act, and how fucking hot I look in this crisp white shirt, slim-fit jeans, and leather jacket gets me into Jodi's pants within the hour.

So have fun moping around treating me like shit and wishing you could be with some skinny kid with a bum knee and a best friend named after a food that gives people gas. He's definitely worth more of your atrociously acted emotions than I am. Oh, and by the way? Motherfucker is dead. You killed him, oh woe is you.

But seriously? Gold star for that one, because he was the most annoying tertiary character we've ever had on this rapidly declining show and I was beginning to think my contract might be in jeopardy because ever since you met him I've only had six lines per episode and this fucking crap show used to be about me. As it should be. Anyone else remember that? For chrissake, Sandy doesn't even refer to me as his son anymore.

But, hey, does your mom have any rubbers laying around this trailer? I gotta get a move on if I'm gonna be balls deep in Jodi by 10:30."

And, scene.

Poll: Yes or No? The O.C. would be 850 million times better if I wrote all Ryan's lines. Vote now: pilarrrgh@gmail.com