Jimmy Critic's Return of the King Waiting Journal

Jimmy Critic is the Filthy Critic's 17-year-old nephew. Once a rabid fantasy/sci-fi fan, he claims to have changed his ways. This is his journal of the days leading up to the release of the Lord of the Rings: Return of the King.

Day One || Day Two || Day Four || Day Five || Day Six || Day Eight || Day Nine || Day Eleven

Day One, December 6

The only reason I'm writing this is because I made a stupid promise to my dumb Uncle Filthy when he was in the hospital dying. We all made stupid promises to him. It's pretty easy to, really, when the guy asking has a bicycle spoke sticking out of his lung. You figure it makes his last few hours less painful, and once he keels over who's gonna make you do it? Sure, Uncle Filthy, we'll have your ashes scattered over the vats at the Budweiser brewery. Sure we'll get cousin Larry some "Flowers for Algernon" surgery. Yes, Uncle Filthy, I'd love to write a daily journal about getting ready for The Return of the King. Heck, the last time I wrote a journal only resulted in three jocks crapping in my locker.

I don't even like Lord of the Rings crap anymore. I'm cool now. I'm in the marching band. I mean, I'm not giving away my figurines, but I don't even hardly play with them anymore. I have a girlfriend, too. I'm cool like that.

Now I'm seventeen and I have a lot more important things going on than caring about stupid hobbits and dwarfs and magic wizards. I don't even break out in hives anymore when people call Gollum a hobbit gone bad. He's not a fucking hobbit, okay? Not like I care, but just don't sound so stupid.

My girlfriend is going to give me a blowjob. That's like sixteen times cooler than hobbits, and like seven times cooler than vampire robots. She plays tuba so you know she's gonna do it right, the old toot-toot-oompah. Right after the last game of the season on December 19, the Pomona High School marching band brass section (the badassest brass section in Denver Metro ‚ fuck you Denver East!) is having a huge party. Shari Kuda's (trombone chair one) parents are going to Hawaii and we're going to totally use their big screen to watch all our half time shows and totally rag on the woodwind section. They are so lame. Even just thinking about the clarinet section makes me want to vomit bloodÖ down their throats. We're going to have so much wine cooler at the party. Billy Sclaar's (french horn reserve) dad has almost a whole case of it.

After the party, Rachel is totally going to give me head. She said so. And then we are going to totally make out and watch the sunrise together. Well, not together, because I have to be home by 11:30, but then we will go online and chat while the sun rises. And all the losers in the woodwinds will be at home crying themselves to sleep, or jerking off with their slobbery reeds.

To summarize: Anyone already in line for Return of the King is a loser. He is not cool like me. I don't care. I don't want to see it. I'm going to be too busy getting a blowjob from my girlfriend Rachel. That's what cool people do. They don't wait in long lines with smelly losers, no matter how great the movie is going to be, or how much you sometimes wish you can escape to that fantasy world where nobody wears underwear and there are no football players to give you a wedgie.

And I will be here every day telling you I don't care until the stupid movie comes out. Are you happy now, Uncle Filthy?

Day Two, December 7

I still have no interest in Return of the King in case you were wondering. It's because my girlfriend is going to give me a blowjob.

Day Four, December 9

I totally forgot to write anything about Return of the King yesterday because I was too busy thinking about the blowjob I'm going to get, and how cool it will be. Pewter figurines don't give blowjobs, and neither do the girls in line for Return of the King. Those girls say that they don't exist in Middle Earth. Only kissing.

Today I went by the movie theater and the line is already forming. I don't care, I totally don't even want to see Return of the King. Maybe a little, but it's not like you'll catch me in line. No way. Maybe I will see it way later, like when only cool people who get blowjobs are in the theater.

Day Five, December 10

I got in a big fight at band practice today. It's weird, because the principal came running out of his office when he saw it, and the girls were all scared, but for the first time in my life I felt like a man. Before, when I was into that stupid wizards and vampyre stuff and not cool I would never fight anyone. When challenged to a fight, I would go home sulk and dream of the day when I'd get my revenge.

Now I'm cool, and fighting today made me feel like a real man. Pretty soon, I'm gonna have to move my Dragonball Z playing cards to make room for a beercan pyramid. Ha ha, that was a joke; I have the best Dragonball Z collection in the marching band and if you want it you're going to have to pry the Golden Royal Wild Card out of my cold dead hand. Anyway, it's cool to fight, my testerone boiled over, and the girls in the French Horn section respected my ferocity. For the first time in my life, I felt powerful and manly. I slapped the holy shit out of Benny Cantala, and pulled his hair too.

Benny plays the flute and he told some girls he saw me hanging out in front of the Olde Town movie theater. A lie. I would never go there. My old friends like Terry and Lloyd are losers. I feel sorry for them for already being in line for Return of the King. I heard they were in line. I would never see for myself. I'm too cool, and I'm getting a hummer, while they're playing Risk and doing Gollum impressions. How sad. I do the best Gollum, so they shouldn't even try. I don't even like playing Risk with those losers anyway.

I mean, Risk is really cool , but it's like, not my thing. Now I am totally into Strip Risk. I bet Rachel likes it too. But she's not good at Risk, and she doesn't play serious enough. She gets bored and quits. Not that I am complaining. I mean, what kind of loser would rather play risk than have oral sex? For that, you would have to be the world's biggest loser. Like my former friends.

I bet Lloyd is putting his armies in Antarctica, though. I told him not to.

Day Six, December 11

Attention Carl Spradlin: I'm cool now, so stop beating the shit out of me after school. You're not impressing anybody. Not even your buddies on the baseball team.

I will get my revenge. I swear to God, I will get my revenge.

Day Eight, December 13

I drove by the theater today and everyone was there standing in line. There's no way I'm going to wait in line because my girlfriend Rachel doesn't want me to. She wants to give me a blowjob. But, if I were to stand in line, I wouldn't dress like an orc. That's stupid. How lame can you get?

First of all, orcs are evil minions, and why would you want to look evil for two weeks? Everyone will hate you. And, trust me, from experience I know that every jerk pretending he's an elf is going to pelt you with rubber arrows. It sucks. Besides, those orc costumes are cold.

It's way better to dress as an elf. It's warmer. The pointy ears are like muffs. Or, maybe dress as Gandalf, except flowing robes are cold. You could wear longjohns underneath, but that totally screws up the authenticity.

If I were out there, I wouldn't bring a sleeping bag. Frodo never sacks in for the night. They tough it out. If I were in line, I guess I would totally teach those losers how to prepare for seeing what's going to be the greatest movie of all time.

But I couldn't even get in line if I wanted to. I would be like the 120th person, and that's for jerks and poseurs. All the real fans are in the top ten. Besides, I'm getting a blowjob, and I guess I would rather have some temporary and shallow thrill than the deep and lasting experience of waiting in line for Return of the King. That's who I am now.

Day Nine, December 14

My Uncle Filthy told me that love isn't easy. Actually, he said "Love's never easy, but I can get you a hooker on Colfax who is." I got in a big fight with Rachel last night. I guess while we were totally making out I started calling her Bilbo. I don't remember that part, but I do remember when I was feeling her up I pretended she was an elf. They have nice racks.

I barely even care about Return of the Rings. Maybe a little bit, because it's only going to be the greatest movie of all time and the firt two movies totally rocked. And maybe just a little bit I wish I were in line, playing Risk with my friends and telling really funny dwarf jokes.

So what? I'd have to be a total loser to want that more than oral sex. If Rachel really loved me, she would let me go to the movie and also give me a hummer. Who made her queen? She's not even queen of the elves.

This sucks.

Day Eleven, December 16

In case you're wondering what happened to me yesterday, fret not, young warriors. I was happily returned to the mystical land from whence I came and from where I shall always belong. Yes, I suffered a lapse of judgment, but Gandalf came to me in a vision and brought me out of my sexual reveries. I am back in my proper place. It's a magical land, full of dragons, orcs and elves. Where good battles evil for control of the earth. It is a happy place, despite the grim shadowe of death that creeps upon the horizon, for it is a land where I am number 432 in line and guaranteed a seat at the 4:15 a.m. showing of Return of the Kings.

I have returned to the scarred earth I left behind in pursuit of fleshly and shallow pleasures. Now, among my people, the people freezing thair asses off in line at the Colorado Cinema in some of the most authentic hobbit costumes I have ever seen. I, the King, have returned to benevolently ettle squabbles over which elf is hottest and whether dwarves smoke pipes.

Rachel? you ask. She was merely an earthly apparition, a smoke and mirrors trick of Sauron's to lead me away from my ultimate destiny. The blowjob she promised? Merely her magical sword, designed to sap the life-giving forces from me in a moment of misguided toe-curling pleasure. You failed,Sauron. I was not so easily fooled. I know that being one of the very first to see Return of the King is vastly more important than personal relationships, courtships and proper hygiene.

So, I wait, here at the Olde Town Cinema, in breathless and trembling anticipation for Director Peter Jackson to pop the only cherry I have worth popping. Tonight will forever be the most important night of my life, a night I will recount around the fires and while waiting in line for the next Star Wars movie, to whomever will listen and to some who won't. And that is how I want it. The King has returned! The King is here. Will you watch the king'sspot in line while he pees in the bushes?

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