SPOILER ALERT: King Kong

Is King Kong gonna hafta choke a bitch?

Greg:

There are just two words you have to say to get me into a theater: giant monkey.

To put a capper on the Christmas holiday, I finally went to see King Kong (reasoning that the holiday crowds were gone by now) and lemme tell ya this: it rules. ROOLZ! Yeah, the story is poop. Yeah, Naomi Watts and Adrian Brody need some real dialogue. And maybe a sandwich or something. Christ, those people are thin! And yeah, the monkey dies. But WOW! And HEY! And SHEEZUS H, HOWDEYDOODAT? Here's my synopsis:

King Kong (not his real name), is one endangered-all-to-hell species who lives on the last stick of land on the ass-end of the South Pacific (the ocean, not the musical). His neighborhood sucks, populated as it is with rabid dinosaurs, surly giant bats; and louche, insalubrious aborigines who need a serious bubble-bath and some third-degree orthodonture...and perhaps a good creme rinse. In short: real estate prices on Skull Island must be at an all-time low. And the only job that Kong can find is to kick loads of giant lizard ass day in and day out. Reminds me of our boyhood in the 313. Hard times, to be sure.

Along comes a group of well-meaning honkies with a movie camera and about three gross of Tommy guns. Together they decide that what Kong really needs is to be bused to a better neighborhood. (Again, reminding me of our youth in the 313.) Since the crew fails to establish a simple, congenial dialogue with the giant ape, they resort to the two weapons that have been the cornerstone of every American military campaign: poontang and firewater. Distracted by the willowy form of a breathless honkette, Kong is subdued when the crew's cockswain slam-dunks a jug of Thunderbird into his snout.

Cut to midtown Manhattan. (You call this a better neighborhood?) Kong has now been hornswoggled into working as a backup singer for a minstrel show. Oh, the sheer indignity of it all! Woefully underpaid, and unable to locate his Actor's Equity representative, Kong abandons the gig halfway through, deciding to take his talents to a theater where they'll really be appreciated.

On his way to the Apollo, woefully unaware of the city ordinance regarding unescorted apes on the upper east side after 10PM, Kong gets himself in Dutch with a hilariously quaint 1930's edition of the US Mechanized Cavalry. A heated confrontation ensues. You get the feeling that what Kong would really like to do is crap in his paw and send a monkey turd the size of a metro bus rocketing at that truckload of Army chumps at about Mach 3. (That would've been some OSSUM footage!) But no, what a bruthuh really wants is to get five minutes with his girlie, so he opts to go ice skating in Central Park...where it's safe and quiet.

As whitey is compelled by his evil nature to always keep a good man down, the cavalry drives Kong and his homechicken out of Central Park and up to the penthouse of the Empire State Building. Again, unaware of the city ordinance regarding giant apes in the high rent district, the mayor's airborne goon squad punctuates the letter of the law with a hail of bullets. The big monkey gets not one but several "caps" in his "ass", and does his best impression of Greg Lougainis in the throes of narcolepsy as he plunges to his death. Boo hoo. The End.

I know I probably just ruined the whole thing by giving the plot away, but go see it anyway! S'good! Giant monkey! GIANT MONKEY!

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus