Dear Luke, We Need to Talk, Darth

by John Moe

  47. Could I just have a rhino horn surgically grafted on to a dog? Might be easier.

  48. Beyoncé isn’t very supportive when it comes to my interest in exotic pets.

  49. Toothpaste tubes look all ugly.

  50. No one sells a toothpaste tube encrusted in diamonds.

  51. Jerks at Crest don’t take my ideas seriously.

  52. Rap mags try and use my black ass so advertisers can give ’em more cash for ads.

  53. Do I sometimes come across as a little arrogant to people?

  54. Constant thoughts that I should go back and get my bachelor’s degree just in case.

  55. Shamrock Shake only available once a year.

  56. Beyoncé might be too pretty all the time, if that’s actually a thing.

  57. Sometimes I don’t know what’s actually a thing.

  58. No one’s written a “These Are Things” book or made a “These Are Things” rap video.

  59. Sucker MCs.

  60. Tim Conway films only sporadically available on Blu-Ray.

  61. Solid gold helicopter can’t even get off the ground because it’s too heavy.

  62. Same with solid gold hovercraft.

  63. Solid gold submarine sinks just fine, but can’t get back up to surface without being pulled by a solid gold cable.

  64. Purchased Argentina but I lack a real understanding of the country’s politics and culture.

  65. Started several wars with other South American nations modeled on rap beefs.

  66. Responsible for the deaths of thousands of citizens.

  67. After I resigned as President of Argentina, Justin Timberlake wouldn’t accept the position no matter how nicely I asked.

  68. Neither would Kanye.

  69. Or DMX.

  70. Or LeBron James.

  71. Going to have to sell Argentina at a loss and play two or even three concerts to make back money.

  72. Fear of ants (they don’t have faces).

  73. Can’t get that “I Want My Baby Back” Chili’s jingle out of my head.

  74. Can’t figure out a way to at least rap over it and release it as a single to pay for a new head.

  75. Cat keeps looking at me weird.

  76. Cat won’t wear diamond-encrusted mask.

  77. Am a werewolf.

  78. Body may be rejecting transplanted spine made of gold.

  79. Gold spine sometimes sets off alarms at airports.

  80. Can’t find a good novel to read. John Grisham just seems to be repeating himself.

  81. The mumps.

  82. Damn public radio pledge drives.

  83. Subscription to McSweeney’s Quarterly ran out and Dave Eggers never told me (will take it up with him at book club.)

  84. Worry someone will discover that I’m secretly a member of Bon Iver.

  85. Making sure Beyoncé and I buy Blue Ivy the right school.

  86. Concerned that my daughter will feel like she has to go into entertainment like her parents. She can do anything she wants as long as she’s the best in the world at it.

  87. Giraffes sure look freaky. What if one gets into the house and chases me?

  88. Can’t find anyone to kill all the giraffes.

  89. Can’t find anyone to cover all the giraffes with thick black curtains.

  90. Can’t find anyone to affix electronic sensors to giraffes so that if they get too close to the house a big WHOOOOOP-WHOOOOOP sound goes off.

  91. −12x − 4 = −103

  92. Can’t figure out bus schedule.

  93. These hover beans don’t work because I can’t hover.

  94. When I’m chewing the finest gum in the world—which costs $10,000 a stick—and someone asks me for a piece of gum and I give it to them and that’s fine but maybe they don’t appreciate how fancy and valuable that gum is.

  95. Plot holes in Gremlins that I’m going to have to address before the feature film marionette reboot I’m directing.

  96. Never going to out-cool Evel Knievel.

  97. Robo-Jay android doppelgänger keeps malfunctioning, attacking fans.

  98. Climate change.

  99. Can’t get the hang of Ultimate Frisbee.

  DG®

  FROM THE DESK OF DOROTHY GALE

  Dear Glinda,

  I am safely back home in Kansas now and wanted to take a moment to drop you a line. It’s funny: Kansas has kind of a reputation as a boring place. Flat, featureless, tedious. And it is those things. In many ways Kansas is awful. Everyone here is frankly pretty screwed up. People can only take so much Dust Bowl, you know? But I will say this for Kansas: at least there are no wicked witches trying to kill me here. Repeatedly. And cackling over the proposition because my imminent murder gives them such hysterically humorous joy.

  Obviously, that was the challenge I faced in my recent trip to Oz: supernatural beings trying to kill me for actions that were in no way my fault. And Glinda, I will always remember what you told me about going home just before I transported back to Kansas. “You’ve always had the power, my dear,” you said. “You’ve had it all along.”

  I think about that a lot now, Glinda, because it helps me crystallize my feelings for you. I hate you. I had the power to go home all along? From the point I put those slippers on my feet back in Munchkinland, I could have gone home? I could have avoided the death threats, the flying monkey attacks, the near-fatal narcotic overdose in the poppy fields (you know poppies are what they make heroin out of, right?), the imprisonment by the witch from which I escaped only as a result of pure luck? If I had just done that click-my-heels thing at the start, none of that would have happened.

  And as I recall, Glinda, you were RIGHT THERE in Munchkinland and could have shared that important bit of information right there on the spot.

  Fuck you, Glinda.

  After you finally did tell me how easily I could have avoided all that mortal danger, Scarecrow even asked you why you didn’t tell me before. You said I wouldn’t have believed you. The hell I wouldn’t. I had already landed in a strange world, committed manslaughter, was surrounded by munchkins, and visited by witches. I would have believed literally anything at that moment. Or at least tried anything.

  But no, you said, I had to find out for myself. Again: fuck you. And fuck you once more. Apparently “finding out for myself” means forming relationships with scarecrows and metal men who have come to life, as well as Bert Lahr in a lion suit. None of that—NONE OF THAT—is my idea of a good time. I’m fucking sixteen years old and wandering the woods with those creeps? What the fuck is wrong with you, Glinda?

  Yeah, Kansas at its very dullest at least has some vague principles of honesty and decency.

  All that being said, I confess I do hope to return to Oz one day. Not to visit my traveling companions, mind you; they scared me. I hope whatever Satanic witchcraft animated and anthropomorphized them will wear off and they will be dead or otherwise obliterated. No, I hope to return so that I can somehow find a way to burn down your whole horrible world. Good witches, bad witches, Munchkinland, Land of Oz, whatever other twisted villages and hamlets I come across, flying monkeys; the whole lot of it must be incinerated in the name of biblical justice.

  That’s right: I’m a Kansas girl from early-20th century America. My religion is strong and my God is a wrathful and powerful one who doesn’t look kindly on “magic” and “witches.” It’s idolatry and it must be punished. I will lay waste to all of it and watch it burn.

  I’m coming for you, Glinda. And so is Jesus. And so is pain.

  Dorothy Motherfucking Gale

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

  UPDATES ISSUED BY SPECIAL AGENT “GILLIGAN” FROM ISLAND PROJECT

  September 25, 1964

  All details appear to be in order for the mission to begin tomorrow. I have spent the past several months performing a variety of charmingly dunderheaded stunts at the local marina as a means of endearing myself t
o Jonas Grumby, who captains the tour boat S.S. Minnow. Psych 101 stuff but he’s a simple man. Last week, I offered to perform the duties of first mate on the Minnow for a wage that was dramatically lower than the industry standard. This, combined with the pleasing contrast of his perpetual blue shirt to my perpetual red shirt has landed me the job.

  Other agents in the field have conspired to bring our test subjects to the boat tomorrow for a 3-hr tour (a three-hour tour). Unless I receive a cancellation signal by the time we sail, I’ll assume the mission is a go.

  Thank you for all your hard work.

  SA Gilligan

  * * *

  September 26, 1964

  Success. Our associates in the Department of Weather Manipulation provided what could only be described as a perfect storm, which, combined with the precision sabotage of the Minnow, has indeed left us on this desert isle, which is charted only on classified government maps. There’s already talk of naming it Gilligan’s Island. Damn right it’s my island.

  The final roster of study participants is as follows:

  • Myself

  • Jonas Grumby, who is referred to by all participants as “Skipper.”

  • Thurston Howell III, a millionaire industrialist whose participation in the experiment was approved by a secret cabal of ill-tempered board members of Howell Industries.

  • Eunice “Lovey” Wentworth Howell, wife of the above.

  • A grifter, con artist, and presumed sex addict, real name unknown, who has convinced everyone else that she is a movie star named Ginger Grant, even though no such movie star exists.

  • Mary Ann Summers, a young woman from Kansas whom all the men on board agree is way hotter than “Ginger.” All the men seem to think this ranking is very important though I’m not sure why.

  • Professor Roy Hinkley of our own research team who, like myself, is operating undercover.

  Subjects seem sanguine about being stranded, confident they will be rescued soon. They have no idea how wrong they are.

  Hinkley and I are excited to learn how people will react in a close-knit situation.

  * * *

  January 3, 1965

  Observation: when people believe they are stranded on an island (and not part of a highly monitored experiment sponsored by the Department of Defense, the Central Intelligence Agency, Harvard University, the Trilateral Commission, the Council on Foreign Relations, and Procter & Gamble), they are willing to suspend certain tenets of reality. For instance, no one questions why the Howells have a seemingly limitless supply of clothing even though they originally set out for a three-hour tour on a small boat. Even the Howells themselves seem oblivious here. I suppose rich people are simply used to things being easy for them. Thank you to operatives who have been supplying items from the Howells’ own wardrobe.

  Also, no one has questioned how an island less than three hours away from a Hawaii marina can be uncharted.

  * * *

  March 18, 1965

  My work as experiment facilitator is becoming a strain. Though I can retreat to my own secret underground bunker from time to time to enjoy the comforts of civilization, I still feel burdened. I have a doctorate in behavioral psychology from Princeton in addition to several years as a military tactician on behalf of the government, yet I must play the role of bumbling fool.

  Admittedly, the “Gilligan” character is useful: On numerous occasions, the experiment subjects have come close to figuring out how to get off the island, only to have those attempts scuttled by a series of staged bungles that I have executed. Fortunately, either through poor intellect or growing madness, no one has established a pattern and simply kept me away from the rescue attempt.

  I do wonder, however, if I am truly Dr. Gilligan or the dunderheaded first mate Gilligan. When a man spends all of his time in character, does he not become that character?

  I like bananas.

  * * *

  June 21, 1965

  Professor Hinkley is no help at all. While I fully inhabit the role of the inept naif, he insists on displaying his intellectual acumen by constructing radios out of coconut shells and so forth. Fortunately, none of the subjects have asked him why, if he can make a coconut radio, can he not make a FUCKING RAFT? Or a patch for the Minnow?

  Still undetermined: What makes the subjects so dim that they do not ask these simple questions themselves? Is there something in the water? Is it connected to my suspicion that the insects we see around here are the souls of people we have known and they are punishing me for my sins?

  * * *

  October 3, 1965

  Have had little contact with research team in recent months. I keep forgetting to check in and also whether any of this is real. In the meantime, I’ve become quite close to test subjects. I confess to feeling great affection when Skipper calls me “Little Buddy.” Intellectually, I recognize the moniker as belittling, but you learn to take what you can around here in terms of affection.

  Island life is sexless. “Ginger” seems to constantly perform the role of sexpot nymphomaniac, but it is just that, a charade, and she never makes any real advances toward anyone. The Howells are in a sexless marriage. I’m not sure what Hinkley is up to. You’d think that, left on an island with nothing to do, people would screw all day long. No.

  I masturbate almost constantly.

  I also notice I’m not as intellectually sharp as I once was. I am less like Dr. William Gilligan, PhD, and more like dumb ol’ Gilligan. I had to look up how to spell William.

  * * *

  December 20, 1965

  No one swears. Ever.

  * * *

  July 19, 1967

  I found a journal with a bunch of silly things written in it!

  Here’s what’s really funny: They all appear to be written in my handwriting! Something about an experiment? I don’t know what that means.

  We almost got off the island and I screwed it all up again! Skipper chased me into the lagoon and hit me with his hat!

  That keeps happening.

  Coconuts for dinner.

  * * *

  April 21, 1973

  Ate the Howells. It was time.

  * * *

  November 2, 1978

  My crown is fashioned from the head of Skipper. At least from the last earthly form Skipper took. Skipper is god, Skipper is god.

  I am new ruler of island. I am commander of monkeys. I am Gilligan. I am Skipper’s chosen vessel.

  Evil force lives on other side of island. Mariannnn and Perfesser and there children.

  All uthers dead.

  * * *

  Gilligan 90, 19 Gilligan

  Gilligan.

  I will have vengeance.

  To: All staff

  From: Management

  As many of you know, our hotel recently hosted notable musician Don Henley. I wish I could say things went well but they did not. Mr. Henley registered his dissatisfaction not only in a letter to me but in a song that is fast on the way to becoming a classic rock staple, bound to be in heavy radio rotation for decades to come. And I fear that it will NOT help us attract new guests, aside from the occasional customer wondering if our hotel could really be as bad as it has been described to be.

  We can’t go back in time and change things, but we can demonstrate that we know how to make adjustments to make our guests more comfortable.

  Here is the list of changes to come:

  • Update room décor. This applies especially to the ceiling mirrors, which will be removed.

  • Restock alcohol supplies. Encourage Captain to offer guests other options when a particular spirit or wine is unavailable. Do not simply say that we have not had that particular variety in many years and hang up the phone.

  • Acquire steelier knives and/or less resolute beast. We should be doing as little stabbing as possible, you guys. I would like to explore the idea of maybe not even using live beasts that need to be stabbed to death in the restaurant. The time may have arrived to simply p
urchase meat like everyone else does.

  • Emphasize “heaven” image over less desirable “hell” alternative. This is way overdue and dates back to a decorating dispute at the founding of the hotel. The Hotel California, as you know, was a joint project between the Catholic Archdiocese and the Church of Satan. After all these years of guests being unsure about theme, we should pick one. Heaven. No one wants to sleep in hell.

  • Install electric-light system in hallway. The candles used by bellhops are supposed to be cool and mystical but they’re just weird. Let’s just put some fluorescents up there.

  • Discontinue recorded announcements. This includes voices down the corridor welcoming guests to the Hotel California, as well as the voices who wake guests up in the middle of the night just to say “Welcome” once more. No one likes this practice and we will stop it. There are better ways to make guests feel welcome.

  • Upgrade music selection. Keep in mind that some guests dance to remember and others do so to forget. Neither practice works, of course, but we should have some variety.

  • Improve courtyard air conditioning. We ought to try to reduce occurrences of sweet summer sweat. Gross.

  • Encourage nightman to be less cryptic when talking to guests. Apparently the nightman told Mr. Henley to relax and that we are “programmed to receive.” What does that even mean? Just be friendly. And no more quaaludes, folks. I’m serious this time.

  • Clearly mark passage back to places guests have been before. No one likes being lost. A few signs would be nice.

  • Emphasize core strengths in our marketing. Our hotel is a lovely place, there’s always plenty of room, and any time of year, you can find us here. The hotel doesn’t move around from place to place. Granted, no hotels do, but we should make the most of our limited selling points.