I’m Sick of Your Shit: John Locke

Posted by Dan March 1st, 2006 at 04:52pm In I'm Sick of Your Shit Lost

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.