Three years ago, I was crossing a busy Boston street when I was struck by a speeding taxi cab. I flew several hundred feet, cracking my head on a “Boston Chowda” store sign, landing on a fire hydrant and then rolling off — laying prostrate on the cold New England sidewalk. In the years following, I have worn a halo, a headgear and a neck cone. It’s only now that I have enough strength to watch television and then relocate to a computer to write wiseass comments.

That said, John Locke, I’m sick of your shit.

I liked you a lot more in the beginning, when we really knew nothing about you. You just stood in the periphery and whittled things. Occasionally, you would pipe up with some sort of haiku about nature and life and the meaning of it all. And that was the way we liked you: spare, simple and quiet.

But then you caught a boar and suddenly you’re hot shit. Big deal. I’ve caught hundreds of boars. Once, in Spain, I caught a boar using nothing but a harmonica and a number two pencil. I was with my lover, Javier, and we had a feast that night. Oh Javier, he was wonderful in the kitchen.

Moving on.

What really bugs me about you is that you’ve got this absolute certainty that you’re always right and you carry yourself with this pomposity that you think is wisdom. And the only reason you can get away with this is because no one really knows your story — that you fancied yourself a wisdom spouting sensei even when you were a paraplegic pencil-pusher who was infatuated with a phone sex operator. One plane crash and suddenly you’re Splinter from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I’d love to know where you get this confidence from. John Locke, you’re every asshole I ever played Monopoly with who thought he knew everything because he lucked into owning Boardwalk, Park Place and all the greens. “Hey Boone, why doncha go see what’s up in that plane?” “What? Thanks for the heads up about the safe, Sawyer.” “Sure, I wasn’t doing anything with that kidney anyway, Pop.”

And you’ve got to be a pretty big tool to make Jack look awesome. Sure he’s a martyr and a sanctimonious blowhard, but at least he’s got a healthy skepticism and experience. That is, he doesn’t base his decisions on some sort of vague, new age-y, directionless faith in the island gods. “I’ve looked into the eye of this island, and what I saw was beautiful,” you say? Well, I’ve looked into the eye of the island too and you know what I saw? A lot of coconuts. Coconuts and some festering corpses. Not exactly Maui.

And you’re laying it on really thick with this “why don’t you belieeeeeeeeeve” bullshit. First off, let’s get this out of the way: You know those people who say “I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual”? Well, I’m not even spiritual. The only things I worship are chocolate Teddy Grahams and Jake Gyllenhaal’s jawline. So, given the fact that I don’t follow hundreds of years of organized religion, if I were a fellow castaway, I probably wouldn’t be drinking all this ‘the island is beautiful’ Kool Aid either.

I’m really happy for you that you can walk and all that good stuff. But now that you’re punching my boyfriend Charlie, being a hypocrite (all this trust business with Jack), and forever peppering the show’s dialogue with ‘fun facts,’ I don’t think I have any hope for you.

It’d be pretty great if the islanders got rescued and you decided to stay behind. Looks like Peg Bundy dumped your ass at some point, so what’s left for you in the States. Maybe you can just hang out and live in the hatch. Maybe write an epic poem. Maybe you can just make a temple out of reeds.

Meh.

Last night was the premiere of the the Amazing Race 9 on CBS. I’ve never watched this show before, but I had to this time around because I know one of the contestants from college.

So, can you guess who I know? Well, we can eliminate right off the bat the frat boys from California or the sluts from Staten Island. It’s not the old married couple, the extraordinarily grating Tall Southern Sisters, the “just friends” gay dudes, the psychotic dentist and his wife/hygenist, or the intensely aerobic black couple. So is it “Ken and Barbie,” the too-perfect couple with the popular kids attitude? Is it one of the overly-affectionate nerds? Is the mother-daughter latina combo? Or is it one of the bearded, colorful hippies?

It’s one of the “hippies,” BJ! I know, smart money would have been on the nerds. Suckah!

The thing is, I would really not describe BJ and Tyler as hippies, and not just because I know BJ and know that he is not a hippie. The whole show was an interesting look into how people judge each other on little or no information. I would describe their look and attitude more generally as “wacky Muppet hipster.” Are hippies really known for wearing pink frilled tuxedo shirts and colorful patterned pants? Also, they’re clearly fast-running smart thrill-seekers. Hippies? Really? It’s just the long hair and beards. People get fooled, and then are clearly shocked when BJ and Tyler turn out to be pretty awesome at the game. Yeah #2! Woooohoooo!

Let’s compare and contrast BJ and Tyler with the winners of last night’s challenge, the frat boys, Eric and Jeremy. Basis for the comparison: How they comport themselves when meeting the Staten Island Sluts for the first time.

BJ and Tyler: (At the ticket counter. Casual.) Hey, what’s up, we’re BJ and Tyler. We’re Dani and Danielle. Dani and Danielle? Really? Can we call you Double D? Sure! (laughs all around)

Eric and Jeremy: (In front of a hotel, as the girls’ cab drives away. Hyperactive.) HEY! I’M ERIC AND THIS IS JEREMY! (the girls mock and laugh at them)

I think we can see who the clear winner in that competition is.

Right now I’m rooting for BJ and Tyler, obviously, and the mother-daughter latinas. Do I like the mom-daughter group because they remind me of the Gilmore Girls? Maybe. The nerds almost got my vote, but they were too busy kissing each other all the time to really give their all to the race. I also kind of like the Staten Island Sluts as dark horse candidates.

Coming later this month, ANOTHER guy I know from college debuts in a reality TV show. And that one’s sure to be embarrassing for everyone involved and everyone who knows him. Just kidding, you know I love ya, Hunter Maats.