About Me
I know what you're thinking... Yay, another huge Lost fan. Well, I'm no Lost fan. In fact, I hate that stupid show. Seriously. I hate it so much that I watch every episode about nine times to be sure I don't miss anything to hate on. And wow. I can really get my hate on with that show. You know what show I liked? Magnum, P.I. With Tom Selleck. Now there was a good TV show. Also set on an island. The same island, in fact. You know why? Because it was filmed and set in Hawaii. Hawaii. That's where you are, you dumb bastards. Hawaii! Get a map! You're not lost, you're just ignorant. And why isn't Juliet in charge? No, not of the Others. Well yes, of the others, but the survivors, too. She's the only character on that island worthy of Magnum, P.I.'s hot man-love. In those short, short shorts. God, that show was camp. Lost? I don't get it. Actually, come to think of it, I hated Magnum, P.I., too. Those shorts actually creeped me out. And he was way too hairy. Like Jack. You know, Jack "I'm Intense" Shepherd, the Christ figure of that goddamned island. Yet, sadly, he's not had to die yet. I'm telling you, I'll build the cross myself. They can write that in. I'll come floating in on a boat made of ovaries Juliet stole from all the women on an atoll off the coast of Barbados in a different timeline. It'll make total sense when they explain that Magnum, P.I., on another wild goose chase as the stooge of a corporate crook, this time named Alvar Hanso, is actually Jacob, the man Locke is pretending to be in my nightmares, which, yes, feature commercials for Dharma. Along with ads for Will & Grace reruns. Then I blow my brains out with a pistol made of Roger Linus' right hand and the dream starts over from the beginning. Remember Room 23? Lost, the TV show itself, is one macro-Room 23. You may have to get a little metaphysical to see what I'm talking about here, but come on, it's Lost. If you're not metaphysical, you're pretty much screwed. In fact, if you even exist, you probably can't get this show. And yet somehow my brain is sucked into it like its metaphysical crack. And yes, I'm sure I stole that description from a Genesis album review. Sue me. Magnum, P.I. loved Phil Collins. I'm 31, by the way. 31. I'm not bad looking, either. And I'm somewhat intelligent, or at least, I've read enough books to delude myself into thinking I'm intelligent. All it takes, however, is one damned TV show on ABC to reduce me to low-grade dumbass status. Jeopardy never made me feel this stupid. Why doesn't this show come with footnotes? You didn't have to have footnotes to watch Magnum, P.I. Or, frankly, know the numerical significance of Pi. Or Phi. Both of which, I'm guessing, at this point, you have to know a lot about to be able to uncode what's going on with Hume time traveling around Locke while Rousseau hides in the woods and a Christian Shepherd vanishes from his coffin 3 days later and a bunch of numbers that signify God-knows-what spell out a code that somehow might, if there really is a God, explain once and for all why that fucking statue had four toes. Undoubtedly, it's got something the Holy Grail, Greek mythology and astrophysics. Oh, and some military industrial complex supplier questionable tastes in hairstylists and videography. You have to know a hell of a lot more than me to really get this show. Magnum, P.I.? To get that show, all you had to have was a TV. I rest my case.
