LOST : Episode, “Eggtown”

WARNING: SPOILERS.

Last night’s episode of LOST was pretty good, but at the same time, I’m pretty sure I misinterpreted the ending. Severely.

My girlfriend walked out of the room at the very end when Kate walked into her child’s bedroom, when we saw Kate’s son for the first time. As soon as they showed the first shot of Kate’s son, I screamed to my girlfriend across my apartment, which is big (my apartment, not my girlfriend), “Holy shit! Kate’s baby is retarded!”

My girlfriend came back into the room and I rewound the DVR so she could see, as this was a very bold and bizarre plot twist in my opinion. It explained why Jack didn’t take Kate’s invitation to follow her home. He’s a doctor. He has to deal with that weird handicapped crap all the time at work, it’s probably the last thing he wants to deal with in regards to his romantic compartmentalization, as it were.

Anyway, my girlfriend tried to convince me that the baby is not retarded.

I argued my point further, “I mean, I guess the baby’s father could be retarded, thus making the baby only half-retarded, but I really don’t see Kate taking weenie from a retarded man.”

My girlfriend gave me a look that I don’t know how to describe. Maybe a cross between regret and despair, somehow relating to her having ever met me in the first place.

I continued, “Look, that is a retarded baby if I have ever seen one in my life. They always use beautiful babies on television. If they don’t, they’re trying to tell you something. Think about it, Kate is gorgeous. Wouldn’t you expect her to have a beautiful baby?”

Her: “You’re drunk.”

Me: “This is true.”

Upon a few more viewings, I decided that Kate’s baby is not, in fact, retarded. Instead, I decided that it must be the director’s kid or something, because there’s no way a casting agent would cast such an uuuugly baby. I mean seriously, that baby was so ugly that I, a LOST fanatic, seriously considered that the major plot twist at the end of the episode was that Kate has a retarded son.

Maybe it’s just me.

I have no idea what my point is.

Please go away.

Romantic Vacation Cancelled: Instead, IHOP

My girlfriend had been talking about taking a mini vacation. The plan was to walk across the George Washington Bride to spend a nice weekend at the Fort Lee Hilton (now Doubletree). They have good restaurants, a fitness center, heated indoor pool, a nice lounge, excellent mattresses, etc. Oh, and a bar. Very important.

While discussing our vacation, the vacation in which the destination is less than a mile from my apartment, an IHOP commercial came on TV. This excited my girlfriend to no end. She asked me to search the intertubes to find the nearest IHOP to the hotel, so we could go there for breakfast on our vacation in New Jersey. My girlfriend loves IHOP. Also, continental breakfast sucks.

I went to the IHOP online locater and plugged in my zip code. As I mentioned, the hotel is less than a mile from my house, even though it’s in another state, so my zip code is sufficient for finding said IHOP.

I looked at the first couple of listings. I blinked a couple times. I looked closer.

“Hey, babe? This intertube says that there is an IHOP in Manhattan. Even better, it’s at 135th & Broadway!”

“Don’t play with me. You know how I feel about IHOP.”

“No, seriously. The phone number is right here. I’ll call and confirm.”

I call. (ring, ring)

I confirm. (fist pump)

Girlfriend: “Well, fuck the Hilton! Let’s just go to IHOP Saturday morning!”

Me: “I love you.”

Really?

I was flipping channels late last night while my girlfriend was sitting next to me. She has an interest in fashion. I flipped right by a DKNY runway fashion show and my girlfriend begged me to turn it back so she could watch.

The conversation went something like this:

Her: Ooo! Ooo! Turn it back turn it back pleeeeease!

Me: Why? You can see this in any department store.

Her: No, don’t even start. I know way more about this than you. I like really like “Dackney” clothes.

Wait, what? Really?

Subconscious: Your Contract is Under Review

-To: My Subconscious
-Re: Last Night’s Dream

Dear My Subconscious:

You are going too far.

Your latest dream made me very uncomfortable.

I understand that when I am asleep you have a specific purpose in mind when you impose a dream upon me. I understand that this is your own special way of sorting things out and that’s cool, but I really don’t see what you were getting at with your latest contribution.

Why the fuck did you have me spend my entire eight hours of sleep competing against The Cookie Monster for the affection of Mary-Kate Olsen?

I mean, what?

I… I honestly don’t know where to begin to address this.

I don’t care one iota about Mary-Kate Olsen, do I?

If I do, why is The Cookie Monster my main competition?

I’m not getting your hint, Subconscious, please clarify.

In the future, unless your directive is crystal clear, I would appreciate not dreaming about Mary-Kate Olsen or The Cookie Monster, or competing against one for the other.

Thanks in advance,

Your Conscious Counterpart

Girlfriend: Your Contract is Under Review

-To: My Girlfriend
-Re: Your repeated attempts to cuddle while watching Ultimate Fighting Championship

Dear Girlfriend:

Have you ever been to a movie theatre to watch a movie that you were totally excited about, and then the big moment of the movie came and it really hit home with you and you started to cry? Then some jerk two rows back started laughing because he thought that that part of the movie was particularly ridiculous and deserving of his dismissive laughter? Did you feel like he just spat on what was supposed to be a great experience in your life?

Think about that, please.

This letter is intended to serve as a formal notice that it is absolutely not acceptable for you to attempt any sort of cuddling while I am watching Ultimate Fighting Championship. It is expected that from the date of this notice that you will adjust your actions accordingly and that there will be no further incidents.

Thanks in advance, and I look forward to improving our working relationship.

Best regards,

Your Boyfriend

Our Nations Young(er) People

I was reading random blogs today and leaving weird/funny/chastising comments whenever applicable.

After wading through hours and pages of inane bullshit I finally found a post on a 12-year-old girl’s blog that I wanted to unload on.
(no inuendo here)

Anyway, believe it or not, I’m not a total asshole so I left the poor girl alone.

It was hard.

Very hard. (seriously, you need a psychiatrist)

Here is what’s happening in Abbie’s World:

7th Grade Dance (and more)

Okay, heres the situation. the dance is comeing up on friday and of course i dont have a date. I didnt expect to have one but… the guy that has a locker next to me lets call him jim (not his real name) Okay i dont know if jim likes me or not but hes kinda nice to me and sencitive (he thinks puppies arae cute). Problem he has only 1.5 arms. Im not being mean but if he asks me or asks me to dance i dont know what i would say. I dont think i love him maybe im wrong i dont know. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I mean, I wouldn’t even know where to start with this one.

An entire thesis could be written on this.

Low Brow Brown Cow

I’m scraping the bottom of the blog barrel today in search of the lowest common denominator.

I don’t think it gets much lower than this:

My girlfriend told me specifically not to write about this, so of course it’s the first thing I do this morning.

Oh yeah, bring it on.

So my girlfriend started on a new diet a couple days ago, Nutri-System or some shit, and last night she had some awe inspiring gas.

Hey, I warned you we were going low with this one.

We were watching TV on the bed, and even though we were on opposite sides, she was repeatedly expelling butt smoke in my general direction.

It stunk.

Badly.

Over and over again.

Now, I’m pretty much a guy’s guy. I like football, beer and tits. I scratch my ass on occasion and have been known to toot indiscriminately so normally this wouldn’t bother me.

What was going on here with my girlfriends gastro system was on another level entirely. I finally had enough.

Me: “Honey, can you please just light them on fire or something? It’ll burn off the methane and I won’t have to smell it anymore. Seriously, I can’t take it.”

Her: (shocked look) “No! Absolutely not.”

Me: “Why not? It’s only the courteous thing to do. I mean really, this is crazy.”

Her: “Are you serious?”

Me: “Yes. Or maybe just light every other one. That would at least help.”

Her: (speechless)

Me: “Hellooooo?”

Her: “I hate you.”

So anyway…

My girlfriend is so inconsiderate that she won’t even light her own farts on fire if it would mean improving my health.

I hate you too, honey.