Palaver

Okay, so today I watched the Lost season 5 finale, and my synapses are firing! Well...what to say*? Religion is the root of all evil. Now you flash your cards. Or maybe not. Maybe we're all just confused, without a place or time to call home. Maybe there's a paradox that needs fixing, which would explain why some kid named Jake keeps calling me, asking me to save him from some haunted house and to rewrite The Phantom Menace, replete with vagina.

Maybe we're all just the imaginings of some autistic kid. Word to St. Elsewhere (and not Hill Street Blues, as I'm oft wont to sbcbtm).

That sounds nice. I sorta like that tune...Women, don't forget them. They are either the key or the lock to solving/complicating this mystery. (There goes my master plan, wherein religion -- or basketball, at least -- and women are the path to my redemption. Maybe they're both, but I don't think so. Blame Lost for throwing a monkey wrench into the cogs of my belief system.) I can't fault the season five finale, though, because it was well told. But...fuck! Give me something new! Or old! Give me polar bears and Walt. And Vincent. Okay, you gave me Vincent, but that was cheap. You know what was cheaper? Rose and Bernard. Damn you. I came back not to an island but to a television -- or a reasonable hand-drawn facsimile thereof -- and you give me this? I should holler. I should protest ABC Studios, boycott Disney, and drink a milkshake. A Shamrock Shake. I should throw a party like Demetri Karamazov, aware that while I'm not guilty, I'm far from innocent, for I too played a part in this abject debacle.

I've been stranded on Lost for six fucking years, and now you pull this shit?

(I've been living on Earth for 31 years and now you pull this shit?)

Yeah, I'm mad. But that's life; and, as a wise little sprite once told me, it's good to be alive. Because then you can watch stuff. And, word to myself, then you can complain about it. Until people eventually start ignoring you.

Live long enough, you grow to accept it. But it's still hard.

Six fucking years.

I want to live forever, or at least long enough to eat another bacon double cheeseburger. But it's getting harder.


* Son of a cock!