Well Lost is over and I must admit, I am sad. It’s kind of like losing your hot, crazy, butt-sex loving girlfriend—that you could never quite figure out, but you didn‘t really care. She also drove you nuts sometimes, but once again you didn‘t give a shit ‘cause well…you know. Leaving you unfortunately with nothing but pale substitutes like V—that for example, sticking with this analogy, don’t particularly seem to enjoy anal. Even those are being taken from me! Flash forward is canceled. Happy Town and I never even made it to first base—two or three shows aired, then it was also canceled. These two were supposed to replace Lost damn it. Thanks a bunch ABC. Why can’t you cancel The View, or Dancing with the Stars, or Brothers and Sisters you octogenarian loving shit heads. Crappy shows old people are into run forever. Is Matlock still on?
To make matters worse there was another fire in the Bosque, which the fucksticks at KOAT News felt the need to either run a scroll, or a split screen or some such other interruption during the entire four-and-a-half hour Lost Extravaganza. I was so angry I scribed a scathing email to the KOAT News Director. It wasn’t pretty. I think I actually called them fucksticks. I waited six years for this. I don’t care if there’s a band of undead nazi pedophiles working their way up Central Avenue, swinging morningstars made out of dildos, barbed wire and dead babies. I want my fucking Lost Finale untarnished with your crappy local news. It was probably that camera-starved media slut, Shelly Ribando that actually made the call to fuck with my evening. On a local side note, do we really need to hear about Shelly’s upcoming nuptials every single fucking day? Yeah, she’s hot, but jeez, shut the fuck up about it already. I hope her period comes early.
And yes, I watched all four-and-a-half hours. Then I watched the Jimmy Kimmel special. Then I watched the morons in the audience ask extra questions of the cast on jimmykimmellive.net. Then I downloaded some shirtless pics of Josh Holloway, masturbated and cried.
Ahh Lost, what ever will I do without you? During various bouts of depression over the last six years I always had a beacon of light ahead of me. Knowing your secrets was enough to live for—that’s how bad it got a few times there. What am I going to do now ABC? Start watching Grey’s Anatomy? Now they’ve got their hopes on the sure-to-be banal The Gates, a show about vampires. Way to swing for the fences. If it has an old dude that happens to be a crack detective, it will be on longer than I care to ponder.
Lost, you gave me six good years. It’s remarkable that a show that groundbreaking and that expensive to produce, was ever green-lit in the first place—much less allowed a full and glorious run. I hope one day I have children I can share you with, my beloved Lost. To experience it again as if for the first time—to live vicariously through them. Unless I have Alzheimer’s, and then I can just watch it by myself. That is if I’m not too busy watching some redeux of Murder She Wrote.