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BORED WITH THE RINGS

 

I admit it. I only suggested to the coffee shop waitress that we see Lord of the Rings because I wanted to nail her and I figured she might want to see that. Sure enough, it worked. So here we are waiting to go inside. Some Thai women still show up with a friend on the first date to assist in sizing up the farang male and to show that they are respectable. Or they don’t show up at all.

But in Thailand the times they are a-changin’. This one not only showed up and showed up on time, she looks great. Lustrous, jet-black hair way, way down her back, off-the-shoulder, blue-and-white frilly dress revealing her jade-white shoulders which with any luck I will at some point in the future sink my teeth into and lick like there is no tomorrow, and a hemline just about at her knees which, with any luck will at some point rise higher when she sits down, and shoes high enough to almost be called platform shoes which make her look even more adorable.

Over her shoulder she has a cute yellow and white purse shaped like a fish complete with big black eyes, fins and tail. I must be hungrier or hornier than I thought because I wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of that either.

We chat a bit and it is clear she is the intelligent type. She has had some higher education at some sort of university and some English training at AUA. She says she saw the first in this Ring trilogy and thought it was kind of repetitive. Good girl. It was repetitive. One danger facing the main characters after another going nowhere. No dramatic arc under which the main characters travel, etc. Neither of us bothered to see the second one. I begin to suspect she only agreed to see this last one in the trilogy to date me. If so, we are of like minds and – there being any justice in the world - should be on our way to bedside bliss soon after the show.

She sits down and sure enough her dress rises. She has what must be a perfect figure. Now we sit through one thousand ads. At last the movie starts.

I miss lots of the beginning because my writer’s imagination is focused on various bedroom scenarios with her and in trying to achieve the best sitting position so that I can glance at her curvaceous legs without it being too obvious. And, in any case, this Lord of the Rings promises to be worse than the first two.

Somebody has found a ring in the water and two guys are fighting over it. It is a plain gold ring, nothing special. Hell, Thai bargirls would take one look at that and throw it back at anybody who offered it.

Some king has just said: “I take my leave.” What is this, second rate, hand-me-down, Shakespeare? And this little disgusting creature hopping about on the rocks with his wrinkled face and oversized blue eyes and babbling to himself – the one in desperate need of a hair transplant - isn’t his character kind of pinched from that little guy in Star Wars?

Yawn. Woken up by somebody’s cellphone going off. The waitress and I exchange smiles. Jesus, her legs are beautiful. And the light from the screen is illuminating her shoulders in the dark. They are so smooth and feminine and sexy. I really feel an urge to bite them. Maybe I was a vampire in a past life.

Somebody in the movie just pointed to a pass in a mountain and said those who went in there never returned. Yeah, reminds me of Patpong in the old days. But how many more banal, hackneyed, cliched lines like that do I have to sit through while trying to hold down my lunch?

And this feeble, fainthearted, hobbit with the ring is such a wimp. He keeps fainting and needing assistance from the fat little hobbit with the pseudo-Irish accent. It seems to me the one with the ring is a main character and the thing about main characters in fiction is that they must always be the engine of the piece. Things must not simply happen to them; they must make things happen. But this pathetic, wimpy kid isn’t making anything happen. And he who violates a rule in fiction always pays a price. In this case the price is boredom because we lose interest in the character. Writing 101. So how did this inane rubbish win so many Academy awards?

Giant spiders, volcanoes, Weird enemy soldiers riding huge, semi-elephants into battle. Spectacle after spectacle. Big deal. If I had wanted to see a video game I would have bought one. And aren’t some of these characters stolen from Star Wars? Oh, Jesus, she crossed her legs and the dress has risen waaay up! She is really beautiful. Her upper lip is perfectly heart-shaped and her lower lip is full, full, full. Why do we have to stay here when I’ll bet both of us have better things to do (together) than watch this stereotyped inanity.

I feel like I’ve been sitting here for three days. Doesn’t this silly garbage ever end? Now what? We’ve got to be coming close to the end of the movie and all of a sudden we seem to be in some idealized version of Olde Ireland. Hobbitville, I suppose. There’s Irish cottages and Irish lilts and Irish type music. No wonder they’ve been babbling about “heather” and all that romanticizing of the rustics. Maybe we’ll meet up with Paddy in the pub. People who romanticize tiny villages and rustic village people never lived or worked in one.

Jesus, I suppose next we’ll see children and dogs. Where is W. C. Fields when we need him? Sure enough, a little girl just ran out of a cottage and into the fat hobbit’s arms. She’s made up like the flower sellers at Nana Plaza. Cutsie, cutsie. These film folks don’t miss a trick do they? Layer after layer of emotional overload piled on at sloooow pace in an attempt to make us feel something. Who wrote this crap? The movie version, I mean. I say again: emotion has to be earned!

Now she’s shifted position and she’s leaning back displaying her lovely neck in all its glory. The nape of her neck is almost as inviting a meal as the nape of a Japanese woman’s neck. The kind I love to bite into. God, how I would love to kiss all the way from the tip of her cute chin right on down to her well endowed breasts.

I restrain myself and look back at the screen. All these meaningful glances and insipid smiles between and among the actors and the hobbits and grown-ups with normal ears and the guy with pointed ears and the pale, white women with large nostrils and the oh-so-handsome fellah in need of a haircut might just make me throw up.

At least if the bad guys had won, there would be some interesting scenes of revenge or pillage or plunder or torture or something.

Ah, she has just stifled a yawn. We smile at one another. She’s as bored as I am. I love this woman. Her eyes are beautiful, her lips are perfectly curved, she has a cute little nose and a chin like the prow of a custom-built yacht. Come to think of it, I’d like to bite her chin as well.

Now these hobbit guys walking toward the junk; are they supposed to be going on new adventures or is this symbolic of their deaths? In any case, would they pleeaaase just get on the damn boat and sail off into the phony sunset and end this damn movie?

I can’t believe it, the credits! it’s over! Thank you, God. I will burn joss sticks and say three Hail Malee’s to some Desperate-to-be-worshipped Being-in-the-Sky sometime in the near future.

Oh my God! They’re applauding! Several of the Thais in the audience are applauding the movie! I look over at the waitress. She gives me a look which says, “These people are nutty.” God, I love her already. But my body is so cramped from sitting for so long it aches all over and even if I can get her up to my apartment there is no way I can get it up. This stupid, boring, self-indulgent, video-game movie may have killed off Mr. Happy for good. I need a massage. A real one, I mean.

I wonder if it’s possible to sue a movie studio for robbing a guy of getting laid.

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