If we've learned anything from awards season besides Lea Michele announcing via epidermis that she's joining a new race called "bronze" and how quickly Anne Hathaway can make people really fuckin' hate her, it's that we did a prettttty bang-up job of capturing a terrorist, and in general, are all up on our detective shit as a United conglomeration of States. Together, we Americans have plucked Osama Bin Laden out of a pile of sticks, figured out who our former president got a blowie from based on Gap dress data, created Justin Timberlake, collectively decided to make a Korean man famous for simply air-lassoing and made robot vacuums a phenomenon. We've left the planet and come back hundreds of times, have created so many food products that we're all getting allergic to grains, and after all that, I still have more knowledge about why planes don't fall out of the sky than who stuck a flesh sword inside January Jones.
I'm pretty appalled at us as a people. How could we, a country who legally allowed any bit of personal information to be exploited for the sake of terrorism, a land where any smart stranger can crack my unbreakable Gmail password, not have the slightest clue whether the married director of X-Men or Bobby Fage Flay plooped one out and made this adorable pile of mystery?
We've done so much digging into the subject of Michelle Obama's forehead whiskers that even I'm thinking about getting a dangle comb of hair strings in front of my eyeballs, but what, everyone's just cool assuming Fat Betty had an immaculate conception by possible but improbable way of Jason Sudekis? Bullshit.
Hollywood's Greatest Mystery is one I can tolerate on a low level for day-to-day living, but now that the Mad Men press rocket is fired up, I can't ignore it. Everywhere I look, from the shit websites I get my "news" from to all the Sundance junkets, there's that mop of blonde hair prettier than mine, that goofy-toothed grin that Ashton Kutcher once liked like a bazillion years ago and a gigantic, pulsating question mark just screaming "WHHHOOOooooOOO?!?!?" in the sound of my voice out into the night.
For someone whose brain has reorganized itself to retain every story ever read on Daily Mail but absolutely no important notices on when I need to be anywhere at any time, this one will forever be my cold case. Sorry, Bobby Flay — my flash-frozen case. Now will you just admit it's yours already?