Fade up on the Galpex-Orpheus Platform, an oil rig 158 miles off the coast of Texas in the Gulf of Mexico. It's the dinner hour; inside the rig, the oil workers are eating meat and watching hockey. That's writer's shorthand for "Manly," by the way. All of them are kind of greasy, which I guess makes sense, what with all the oil all over the place and everything. The oil workers holler at the TV screen. Interesting that this crew -- who are, I assume, from many places around the globe -- are all united in cheering for one team. Maybe oil is some kind of uniting force. Maybe this particular oil is a uniting force, anyway. The mess hall here in the rig looks like a sports bar -- a sports bar with a big old slab of roast beef where the beer nuts usually are, and let me just tell you, if such a bar were anywhere near my house, I would be there every single night, because I like meat and I love sports. It's true. And yet, I have no boyfriend. It puzzles me. Now that I'm unemployed, I have a lot of time to think about things like that; like, why don't I have a job, or a boyfriend? Am I undesirable in every single aspect of my person? Then I go to the kitchen to eat some Pirate's Booty to cheer myself up, but I don't have any left, because I ate it all for breakfast. I weep for the future. But enough about me (as if). Two crew members exchange wild and furtive glances. These guys appear to be the only Hispanic guys in the mess hall, and actually look very much alike. One has Curly Hair, so I'll call him...wait for it...Curly. So as to differentiate him from, um, Not Curly. Curly and Not Curly toss each other the most obvious "we're in cahoots -- don't tell!" looks since Rebecca and Gwen teamed up to destroy Ethan and Theresa's engagement on Passions. I can only hope that Curly's and Not Curly's plan, like Gwen's and Rebecca's, leads to a fancy dress ball, a couple of people being disowned, a miscarriage, the dissolution of two marriages and, indirectly, half of the town's being sucked into the depths of hell. Mid-furtive glance, the TV loses reception. The oil workers yell in frustration. One of the workers bangs the top of the television, the way we used to have to do at my parent's house if we wanted to get decent reception before my Mom and Dad gave in and got cable. The picture comes back in. The workers cheer. The one who fixed the TV does the Dance of Joy. I remember, back in 1993, I was a freshman at UCLA and our football team was in the Rose Bowl and the TV went out on New Year's Eve (the day before the game) and my entire family had a heart attack en masse and had to run out, again en masse, and buy a new TV immediately. My dad did that same dance when we got the new set home and plugged it in. While the oil workers rejoice, Not Curly watches as the rig's cook stabs his carving knife into the heel of the roast beef and wanders over to watch the game. Not Curly and Curly look furtively at one another and then at the knife.