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.

Boyfriend & Girlfriend: A Knowing Conversation

(This post is a serendipitous third installment of the “The Mace, The Axe and The Crowbar: A Love Story” series. If you are not familiar with the story, read it jerk. Everyone in the world thinks it is a great read.)

In hopes of making a long story short:

The former love of my life –the girl who the Mace/Axe/Crowbar story is about– has contacted me after finding the aformentioned story on this blog.)

—

A few days ago, I was hanging out with my fabulous girlfriend in my bedroom as usual. She was watching America’s Next Runway Nanny Factor, or some stupid shit. I was buried in my laptop sending long overdue replies to millions of e-mails.

Then I saw an e-mail from –the girl from the story–. I hadn’t spoken to her in more than seven years.

My heart started beating ninety miles an hour and I started sweating.

I must have looked wicked guilty.

From across the room, my girlfriend whipped her head around to look at me in the most accusatory and condescending manner I can possibly imagine. The following conversation commenced:

Girlfriend: What are you doing?

Boyfriend: Nothing really, same shit.

Girlfriend: Really? Do I need to come over there and look for myself?

Boyfriend: What? No. There’s someone I used to know, and…[interrupted]

Girlfriend: She must have been really special!

[a pause you could drive a truck through]

Boyfriend: What? Well, yeah, but…

Girlfriend: How far away does she live?

Boyfriend: What?

Girlfriend: HOW FAR AWAY DOES SHE LIVE?!

Boyfriend: Very very far away.

Girlfriend: Okay, go ahead.

Mace, an Axe and a Crowbar: A Love Story, Part II

Read -Part I- first, if you haven’t already.

About a week later, I was waiting outside in the back of my school, standing on a curb waiting for my father to pick me up. I had stayed after school for an extra curricular activity of some sort so almost everyone on the school grounds was long gone.

This was a particularly exciting day for me as my long distance girlfriend of over a year was in town and I was going to get to see her. I only got to see her once every couple months. This was a gigantic fucking deal.

As my father was running late, I shifted my focus east for a while, then west, as I didn’t know from which direction he might be coming. I was standing there, zoned out in my own little westward facing world, counting down the seconds until I get to make out with my furiously hot long distance girlfriend in the photo booth at the mall.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard a loud bang and I immediately fell unconscious. Knocked out cold.

I woke up a few seconds later staring straight at the dirt on the ground. I had no fucking clue what had just happened. Very groggy, I slowly got to my feet. When my eyes finally came into focus, I looked down to see a single red clay brick lying at my feet. I also felt an overwhelming pain on the back of my head.

My eyes rose from the ground and I saw a kid sitting on a bike in the middle of the street smiling from ear to ear.

“Where’s your mace now, motherfucker?” he asked.

I didn’t have a good answer for him, as I was completely fucked up from his generous brick to the head. I just stood there, looking like a boxer who had just returned from a trip to the canvas.

The little shit rode off on his bike, laughing. Fighting every fiber of my being, I had to let him go.

Even in my diminished state of awareness, not to mention my young age, I knew to cut my losses right there. If this kid was crazy enough to chase me with an axe and blindside me in the head with a brick, who fucking knows what he’s capable of? I was happy to still be alive.

My father drove up in the family Buick a couple minutes later and I got into the car.

“Well, hell of a day to be late, Dad.” I said, while secretly wiping the blood from my head into the inside of my right front jeans pocket.

“Watch your language. Why? What happened?” He replied.

I didn’t even know where to start with the story, so I just said,

“Nothing. It’s no big deal.”

I was a little worried that if I told my dad what happened, he might make me go to the hospital and I wouldn’t be able to see Sarah at the mall, as she is only in town for one afternoon. I also didn’t want him to know that I had a habit of borrowing his can of mace when I went skating, as that part would be hard to work around if I were to tell him the story.

My Dad dropped me off at the mall, I met up with Sarah and her mother in the food court. We all sat and shared a giant pretzel before Sarah and I would go our own way(photo booth) while Sarah’s mom shopped. I was really spaced out and rubbing my head on occasion. Sarah’s mom asked if something was wrong with me and if I was okay. I mumbled something about axes, crowbars, rollerblades, mace and bricks.

Sarah’s mother immediately excused herself and Sarah, they never came back.

Sarah’s mother never allowed Sarah to speak to me or see me again.

End of a chapter in life.

Untill…

Five years later I got a phone call from Sarah. No shit. We had both just graduated high school in our respective states and I was heading off to New York in the next month. Sarah told me that she was going to be in town overnight and she really wanted to see me, after five years. Holy shit. This was one of the happiest days of my life, especially because my parents had just left town on vacation and had left me home alone–something they had only done one other time in my life. Talk about some fantastic fucking timing.

As promised, Sarah showed up on my doorstep a few hours later. She looked incredible. I hadn’t seen her or spoken to her in five years. Suffice to say that we were able to tie up a lot of loose ends, now that we were both consenting adults.

I saw Sarah off early the next morning. We haven’t spoken since.

End of a chapter in life.

UPDATE: Holy Shit! Sarah found this post. See the comments. Possibly not the “end of a chapter in life” after all… again.

This insane development leads us to present day, and-Part III-. Click and enjoy.

Mace, an Axe and a Crowbar: A Love Story, Part I

When I was about thirteen years old, I was going rollerblading with a friend. We were heading across town to go to a cooler older kid’s house. He was Oklahoma City’s stunt rollerblading answer to Tony Hawk, at least in our eyes.

We got all of our gear together. Knee pads, Gatorade, a couple granola bars, and a can of mace.

Why mace, you ask? Easy. There must be something strange in the water in Oklahoma City because every stray dog in town seems hellbent on attacking anything that moves on wheels at any cost, specifically rollerbladers and skateboarders.

Mace is a very effective deterrent against dog attacks.

Dear PETA:

This letter is meant to serve as a preemptive shut-the-fuck-up. Seriously, no one wants to hear it.

Best Regards,
Ryan

Moving on…

My friend and I set out on our trip. After a semi-uneventful trek of four or five miles we rounded the corner onto our friend’s block. He lived at the end of the street.

We skated by a house where there were eight or ten kids playing in the front yard, ranging in age anywhere from two to maybe twelve. As we passed the house one of the oldest kids ran to the curb and yelled,

“Whutchu rollin’ through my hood fo’, niggas?!”

I gave him a dismissive what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it glance and we kept skating. This was such a common type of occurrence that my friend and I both forgot it ever happened about thirty seconds later. I was attending an ultra inner city public school at the time, so I was used to dealing with stupid ghetto idiots. I had been punched in the face more times by age thirteen than most people have in their entire lives, if ever. Antics like his were old hat.

We got to our friend’s house and rang the doorbell. No answer. He wasn’t home. Oh well. We’ll show him our new badass skate moves another day.

We decided to skate back across town to our neighborhood, so we headed back the way we came. About half way down the street I noticed that all the kids who were playing outside were gone. I didn’t think anything of it.

We had just passed the kids’ house and were starting to skate up a big hill to leave the neighborhood when we heard from behind,

“I told you not to be rollin’ through my hood, niggas!”

We both turned around to see two kids running full speed straight at us, with the other eight kids cheering from the yard.

One kid was carrying a crowbar.

The other was carrying an axe. Not a hatchet, an axe.

He looked something like this, only with an axe in place of the gun.

Oh fuck. This is not old hat. This is some completely new shit.

We started hauling ass up this monster hill looking over our shoulders every couple seconds. The lords-of-the-flies were closing the gap on us at an incredible rate. This makes perfect sense because my friend and I were trying to rollerblade up a steep ass hill and the people who were chasing us were, well… black kids on foot. You tell me who wins that race.

We kept skating up the hill, but the kids were getting closer with every stride. It was useless. They were gaining on us and my friend and I were running out of gas with every push.

“I think I’m gonna have to do it, man.” I said to my friend.

“Fuck yeah man, do what you have to do!” He yelled, as if I’m retarded for having to say it in the first place.

Our attackers were close enough where I could hear their footsteps over the slow grinding of polyurethane wheels on asphalt. I took one more look over my shoulder. I stopped dead in my tracks, reached in my pocket and grabbed the mace.

I twisted the valve open and turned around. I held my arm straight out in front of me, squeezed, and let the little shit have it. He immediately stopped and covered his face with one hand and threw the axe in our direction with the other hand. Luckily, twleve-year-old kids can’t throw axes very well with one hand. His little brother was behind him and caught a lot of the spray too. He immediately turned and ran back home, smart kid. The older brother, the original aggressor, was still coming at us, or trying to. Leave it to say that I emptied the entire can of mace and stopped him in his tracks. The kid was just getting back to his feet when I looked back down from the top of the hill. He’d had enough. We made it out of the neighborhood and onto a main street.

I was in complete shock.

“Wow that was really fucked up.” I say to my friend in the understatement of the century.

My silent friend looks at me again as if I’m completely retarded for thinking its actually necessary to say that out loud.

As the adrenaline wore off, my mouth and eyes and face and skin and throat and hands started to burn. It really hurt, a lot. I guess emptying an entire can of mace upon a would-be axe murder on a windy day doesn’t come without its consequences. Who knew?

–To be continued in Part II.