“Hi, I’m Rory Gilmore. I used to be all shy and bookish, and I didn’t know how to talk to boys, and I could always count on my awesome mom for the perfect comeback and spot-on advice. Now I’m at Yale… and… Logan… and…

“So I’m dating a rich asshole who’s only fun because he can throw money around like it’s his job. I’m self-righteous and irritating as editor-in-chief of the Yale Daily News. But I can’t stick up for myself in my personal life and I no longer listen to my awesome mom.

“What happened to me?”

The good old days.

Rory Gilmore, I’m sick of your shit.

When you slept with Dean, that was bad. But you had had a confusing year, as the first year of college often is. For the first time in your life, boys were not lining up around the block to carry your books. Teachers seemed to expect original thought. I can see how that might bruise a girl’s fragile ego, which would cause her to seek validation in the arms of a dude who is so sweet and so harmless he could never in a million years possibly do anything callous or mean. Except cheat on his wife, of course.

But then Logan. Listen, I’m trying not to judge. Really. I myself went to a fancy pants school, and on the first day there, after meeting my roomates (three other white chicks from the suburbs — thanks for the diversity, freshman dean’s office) and some other nice kids, I met this guy who would eventually become a very good friend and then six years later star in a WB reality TV show (btw: Dutch Aristocracy, my ass). I thought to myself, Shit. There are going to be guys like this All Over the Place! But… a) No there aren’t, and b) the ones that are, are actually real people, and nothing like Logan’s caricature of “Being a Rich Guy.” Not that I’m defending rich assholes. I just think that even rich assholes have more depth and nuance than Logan Huntzberger.

Also, I’m a Jess fan. (Though Jess is also a caricature — “Poor Hipster Tortured Artist” — I forgive him because he seems to have layers.) What’s wrong with you, Rory? Going to Philly to toy with him? Telling him you love Logan? Give the guy a break already! Like you haven’t made him suffer enough for treating you badly. He seems like he’s cleaned up his act, so let the man live his life. Or run off with him. Damn. Do something.

Just do NOT stay with Logan Huntzberger and act like a boring married couple and get used to the luxury so that you’ll never be able to have a normal relationship ever again. It’s crazy and stupid. Little Rory in her private school uniform and with her high ideals would laugh in your pathetic boring face.

She’d also be completely ashamed that you are so weak and hopeless that you actually stole a boat and quit school because Logan’s dad said some mean things to you. As is every viewer of this show. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for that, Ms. Gilmore.

As Stephen Colbert would say, grow some balls. Get your shit together, and stop annoying me already.

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.

I really like Kyle MacLachlan. I really like The Onion AV Club. But man did they steer me wrong tonight. The AV Club has a feature this week about this year’s mid-season replacement shows which, as you may know, are historically very bad programs. They gave a B+ to a show called “In Justice” starring Kyle MacLachlan. For a midseason show that’s a hearty endorsement. So I decided to watch an episode. Maggie warned me that the presence of the 2nd greatest Kyle in a TV show wasn’t really enough to make me enjoy it. It certainly didn’t work for Sex and the City. Ugh.

So Maggie was right. Where do I start? How about the title? In. Justice. It’s like a play on words. It’s about these do-gooder lawyers headed by the K man, whose dad is a powerful California congressman. They don’t get along. Big surprise. Next problem is the opening sequence. It has a voiceover explaining that things don’t always go right at trials and these are their stories, or something. Hmmm, where have I heard a voiceover at the beginning of a procedural drama before? I can think of three right off the top of my head, and they all start with Law & Order.

The episode I watched started with a kid typing “innocent man help for no money” in Google. Now there’s a search that’s bound to fail, I thought to myself. But no, this kid was Feeling Lucky. His first two hits were actually pro bono legal services. They’re called The Innocent League, and Laws of Man (which is also a great Christian rock band). They’re even in California, but not close enough for his taste. He needs one on a local bus route.  But what do you know? The third one has a goofy-looking picture of the K-ster. It’s called The National Justice Project. And it’s in Oakland, which this kid knows he can get to on the C730 bus which leaves in 15 minutes. All three of the websites look like they were designed in 1997.

OK, so now we finally meet Sir K. Man, he looks awful. Get a haircut. What happened to Special Agent Dale Cooper? He is very close to a serious downgrade on the all-time list of Kyles. One great thing he does on the show is write completely illegible notes on a white-board. Just like House, you can tell he doesn’t let anyone else touch that thing.

He has a whole bunch of interchangeable, idealisticish minions who I guess will provide the supporting stories, but there are so many of them it’s hard to keep track. At one point a pair of them was questioning a witness in the ridiculous case they were working on and actually pulled a Columbo. The guy seemed to think that they had come out there just to ask if he was doing all right, and just when he thought he was off the hook: BAM! Oh… JUST ONE MORE QUESTION… that didn’t get old 20 years ago did it?

My favorite part was when the kid got to visit his dad in jail and his mom came too and the kid made them all hug. Apparently San Quentin doesn’t have the same “no touching” rules they have at the O.C Prison (don’t call it that).

Anyway, it’s my duty to advise you not to watch this show.

Dear Meredith, 

When I was a child, growing up amidst poverty in nineteenth-century England, life was barely worth living.  My neighborhood was full of thieves and prostitutes.  We had no bread and there was very little coal to keep us warm.  I was raised by my dear grandmama (pronounced grand-muh-MA), until she was hanged for stealing a bobbin of thread to mend my winter coat.

That said, quit your bitching, Meredith Grey, things could be a lot worse.  I’m sick of your shit.

 

 

I get it.  You fell hard for McDreamy and then drew the short straw when it came time for him to choose between you and his wife (who is, let’s face it, hotter than you).  Still, it’s been like twenty years in medical drama time and you’re still complaining.  In the time it has taken you to get over McDreamy, Luca Kovach on ER has banged at least eight to ten nurses.

You may have had your heart broken, but at least you got to have a few good rolls in the hay with Patrick Dempsey.  If I were afforded the same opportunity, I would have immortalized the moment in a diorama or a snowglobe and not gotten wrapped up in whether we were going to have itty-bitty babies with stubble and salt-and-pepper hair.

And another thing, re: the voiceovers.  It’s just too much.  You wrap up every episode with a series of haikus about love and life.  But when you really give these morals any thought, they either A) make no sense, or B) are completely obvious.  And you recite these lines with such a cool, collected tone it almost makes me forget that you learn nothing from week to week.  Guess what, Meredith? I may not have smug ruminations on what it means to be a life-saving doctor, but at least I can get out of bed in the morning without Sandra Oh standing up and kicking the covers off.

That said, here’s my advice:  Bang George, because he deserves it.  Stop squinting so much.  Most importantly, start whoring it up around the hospital to make McDreamy uncomfortable and help you get your confidence back.

Of course, if you get blown up next episode (as if), then I guess this advice is moot.

Love,
DAN