In the end

How could Flav not pick Deelishis? She has constantly proven herself to be a lovely and level-headed young woman, well educated and well spoken. There was some heady competition on "Flavor of Love 2," but Flav made the right choice. How he let New York in to the top two is mystifying, unless he was ONLY searching for good TV -- but Flav, dawg, it's all good TV. You could have had Buckwild Becky and Like Dat in the top two, and we still would have watched. Brigitte Nielsen could have been on top of the brass dinosaur shooting flaming arrows with a crossbow at Toasteee, and we still would have watched. Actually, that scenario would have made the show even better.

And to end the show in Belize -- great choice, VH. You've thusly sold me and my wife Redd Snappah on an all inclusive to that beautiful country. If only New York (who is from Utica, by the way, and not the metro area as she might have you guess) could have ratcheted down the drizzama at the end, when Flav picked Deelishis, and walked her anger off with a last stroll around that bomb-ass resort in Placencia. I'd yank chicken entrails at a soul-food joint to earn a clock from Flav if it would get me a night at that seaside retreat. He'll, I'd clap my ass for Warren G. if it would have gotten me a date aboard the Queen Mary in Long Beach.

In summation, the hero of the fall T.V. season is the bomb-diggity Deelishis, a.k.a. London Charles. The show turned to something it was unintended to be -- sincere and sweet -- every time she got the camera. Good on you. Meanwhile, New York (a.k.a. Tiffany Patterson), there is a date with Nicolas Cage waiting for you in Pismo. Sorry about the hair plugs, but he'll be just about all the crazy you could possibly be looking for, in the personage of a wealthy Coppola scion.

The clarion call of service

Do you hear that? Do you smell it? That's the call of service! Serve your nation! America needs you, yogic flyers!

Isn't this a doozy? The New York Times took money from these people to run an ad in its Thursday edition. When the chips are down, and we're just lucky to be alive, we should consider thanking the yogic flyers of the Iowa area for conferring all that invulnerability on us. If only they had gotten their act together back in 2001; or in Madrid; or in Darfur.

A yogic flyer, by the way, is a devotee of transcendental meditation who believes that all of your fucking om powers can be channeled into levitation if... you... eat... a bunch of pori bread. I guess. Or some shit. Long story short, it's just more imaginary bunkus that people waste their time on when they could be busying themselves with recycling or tightening their bathroom fixtures, so they don't waste so much water. You know, something that doesn't involve unicorns and leprechauns making me a poached egg while the yeti reads the opening night NHL box scores to me wearing a pair of bifocals.

I'll ask it again -- is the material world so bereft of wonder that people need to curl up into lotus position and not experience the magic of John Mayer's music, or the haunting cry of a 31-year-old man?