What Gives?

Last year, at about this time on ABC's All My Children, Dr. Gregory Madden, the world-renowned fertility expert, was still alive, and was discovered to have been operating a tropical-island resort inhabited by his specially selected patients. Yes, it was an island with a population consisting entirely of pregnant women. Unbeknownst to them, these women were producing children for Dr. Madden's waiting list of ideal parents—ideal according to his own twisted standards. This story arc was reminiscent of Aldous Huxley's 1932 novel, Brave New World, only stupid and not well written.

Dixie Martin, former wife of Tad Martin, had been a patient of Dr. Madden's after she had had a car accident somewhere in the Alps. Yes, those Alps. Dr. Madden told Dixie that she would not survive her injuries and that she should put her child up for adoption. Reluctantly, Dixie agreed.

But Dixie survived, and returned to Pine Valley, in search of Dr. Madden, who had, for some reason (plot convenience?), established a practice in Pine Valley. Dr. Madden really gets around. Apparently, he had some sort of international medical license, yet seems to prefer establishing medical practices in Swiss mountain villages and mundane Pennsylvanian suburbs. His preference for Pine Valley was due to his decades-long obsession with its homegrown international superstar (who also prefers living in mundane Pennsylvanian suburbs) Erica Kane.

Through the magic of flashbacks, Erica remembered that Dr. Madden is the same doctor who had performed her landmark abortion in 1973. Of course, last year, it was revealed that Dr. Madden had in fact removed the fetus and implanted it into his own wife, which explained the origins of Josh Madden, son of Erica and Dr. Jeff Martin (Tad's brother and Erica's first husband, who had returned last year to reclaim his extremely annoying 34-year-old baby).

After Dixie had finally located the not-so-clandestine Dr. Madden, she demanded from him the location of her missing daughter. Madden refused to answer due to client confidentiality. Not one to back down, Dixie recruited the assistance of local tough guy and casino kingpin, Zack "Attack" Slater. Eventually, through their combined efforts, Dixie and Zack found their way to Dr. Madden's tropical island resort, off the coast of...New Jersey? Yes, apparently so. And it was inhabited entirely by pregnant women (the tropical island resort, not New Jersey), who, when questioned by Dixie, have nothing but praise for the good doctor.

Before they left the island, Dixie and Zack found a video recording of Erica's abortion, and learned the secret connecting Dr. Madden, Josh, and Erica. Eventually, Tad Martin, who had fathered Dixie's baby, decided he had enough circumstantial evidence to kidnap and torture Dr. Madden. What? Yes, Tad drugged Madden and then buried him alive inside a coffin, in the park where two-thirds of the show's "outdoor" scenes are filmed. But Madden would not give into Tad's demands and, thanks to a rare Pennsylvanian earthquake, Madden died. Oops.

Anyway, my question is this: what the hell happened to the Island of Pregnant Women?

"Favorite Friendly's Memory?"

Recently, the Boston Globe's website, boston.com, posted a topic on its message boards entitled, "Favorite Friendly's memory?" I of course chose the hepatitis outbreak in Arlington, Massachusetts.

Back in the late spring of 2004, I moved to Somerville—Union Square, to be specific. A friend of mine—who shall remain nameless (other than the moniker "friend")—helped me move in the final few items. Afterward, we decided to get something for supper, and down the street from her apartment was a Friendly’s. Why Friendly's? We were tired, and Friendly's was fast and cheap, just like your momma—SNAP! A few days later, during my commute to work, I heard a report on the radio stating that an employee at the Friendly's in Arlington had been diagnosed with hepatitis! And anyone who had eaten at that particular Friendly's was in danger of contracting the disease! Not much of a Happy Ending™, aye? Great.

After I arrived at work, I called my doctor in a mild panic and asked him if had the vaccine, to which he replied, "Where do you think we live? In Congo? I don't have that stuff. Go to the hospital. Bitch." He then kindly informed me that on the very next day a hospital in Arlington would be giving away free vaccines, among other fabulous prizes, to anyone who had eaten at the Arlington Friendly's. Hooray. I called "friend," and we made plans to go to the hospital. The next day, as we arrived at the hospital, we saw something that caught us off guard: a line of more than 4,000 people. I couldn't believe that all these people had eaten at that one Friendly's within the past week; I soon considered that these were all the people who had ever eaten at any Friendly's.

After creatively parking my car on a grassy incline in a manner that defied the known laws of physics, "friend" and I got in line behind the world's most horrible human being (I think it was his official title). This young man couldn't have been more than 21 years old. He had a wife, somehow, and three—yes, three—not-so-adorable "children." He was the last person I would have chosen to disseminate DNA to future generations. He had a tiny, rodent-like head and a Paul Snider (of Star ’80 fame) moustache. I deemed him Rat Boy.

Four hours later, literally, after our section of the line had finally entered the hospital, a nurse was dividing the line in two: one for people with children on hand, and one for people without. The nurse came up to "friend" and me, and told us to get into the childless line, which immediately set off Rat Boy: I had only taken one step forward when he stuck his puny arm in front of me and said, "You're not going in front of me!" Rat Boy was under the impression that "friend" and I were receiving some sort of special treatment. Why is that? Why do the ignorant always think everyone is getting "special treatment" but them? For fuck's sake, I had eaten supper at a goddamn Friendly's! Hadn’t I been standing in the same goddamn line behind you? Prick.

Anyway, Rat Boy was about five foot seven and weighed almost 100 pounds, if you included his belt buckle, so I considered taking his tiny head and ramming it into the concrete wall. But the nurse saw this lame confrontation and repeated her instructions again, directly into Ray Boy’s stupid pointy face. After that, "friend" and I were inoculated and on our way out within five minutes.

So, die Friendly's die, for making me stand in that Bataan Death March-like line with Rat Boy, his mate, and their litter. I hope Rat Boy caught hepatitis.