A Three Hour Tour of Conspiracy
the commune's Omar Bricks asks you to check your phones, your lights and your motor car at the door 

Monday, Nov. 26, 2001
The other day I found myself sitting on the roof of my house, throwing outdated eggs at some old women who were taking their daily afternoon walk up the sidewalk across the street. One particularly well-flung egg ricocheted off the oldest woman’s temple, striking a nerve cluster and causing her to completely lose bowel control in an extremely messy fashion all over my vegetarian neighbor’s lawn. And the thing is, when the detox van showed up to take her to the drunk tank, all I could think was: “You know what? I think Ginger and Mary Ann were lesbians.”

Practically all my life I’ve been nagged by the question of why anybody would want to get off of Gilligan’s Island in the first place. They had great weather, a lagoon, plenty of food, and last but not least: two fine pieces of ass in Ginger and Mary Ann. Damn! You can bet your mini-skirted dollar that Omar Bricks would have been starting his own civilization in that sandy paradise. The tiny gene pool would surely have necessitated some serious wife-swapping, and you’ve always known Omar is down with that. Unless it involved either of the Howells, but my grade-school understanding of biology tells me that contingency wouldn’t be very useful for procreation. The Professor on the other hand… well, that would be just for fun.

Now, I’m not saying everybody would like it there at first. I’m sure there were sand crabs and no TV and other hassles, and I’m sure everyone would get tired of the Professor constantly bitching about not having any outlets for his hair drier.

And of course the pickings were pretty slim romance-wise. I’m sure Ginger was saving herself for some high class sugar-daddy to snatch her up before her looks went, and I don’t blame her. Once she hit the island, her only prospect in that area was Mr. Howell, and that meant finding some non-suspicious way to bump off Mrs. Howell. But she was a resourceful girl, I imagine with time she would have worked out some kind of coconut car bomb or at least a shiv, or she could have cut a deal with the cosmonauts, or the Russians, or even those apes in that one episode. Hell, with a couple of well-placed innuendos, she probably could have gotten Gilligan to skin Mrs. Howell alive.

Ginger definitely would have out-cat-fought Mary Ann for Thurston’s withered affections, so that leaves the Skipper, Gilligan and the Professor for Mary Ann to choose from.

Now, everybody knew the Professor was gay, so he’s out of the running straight away. No pun intended there. He was also sweet on the Skipper, and it probably would have been in Mary Ann’s best interests to avoid going toe-to-toe with the one mug on the island who knew how to make plastic explosives out of coconut mash. And it’s not like the Skipper was anywhere near worth it either, he’s so goddamned fat the last Willie he saw was Gilligan. And with a name like his, she probably wasn’t exactly chomping at the metaphorical bit to become Mary Ann Grumby, or even Mary Ann Skipper, depending on whether or not it was a formal occasion. That leaves Gilligan, who’s a total nimrod but at least she could crush his spirit and mold him into a decent lapdog-style husband who would kiss her ass for thirty years and take her to the opera.

So that leaves us with everyone paired off pretty nicely: Gilligan and Mary Ann, the Professor and the Skipper, Mr. Howell and Ginger, and Mrs. Howell face-down in the lagoon. Who wants to go back to city living when they’re living the sweet life island-style? Not this cast-away. So the only thing that makes sense in the context of the show, with everyone wanting to leave so badly and all, is that Ginger and Mary Ann must have been big-time fuzzbumpers. I’m talking about skinny-dipping in the lagoon, secret rendezvous by the cave, and lots and lots of coconut milk being poured over naked bodies. I can just picture it now…

Nope, still picturing it. Come back in five minutes.

Now I’m sure some sensitive types will take offense at my theory, calling it all sorts of bad voodoo. But I’m just telling it like it is, or rather like it must have been. I challenge any of those politically-correct drones out there to present a competing theory that makes as much sense. I mean, what the hell do I know about how a woman's mind works? Maybe they were waiting for the Harlem Globetrotters. Bricks out.