‘Going to Mordor with an achin’ in my heaaaarrt.’ Sez Mr. ROBERT plant.
He was is a big Tolkien fan.
Is he dead yet?
Mr. ROBERT plant, not Tolkien. Tolkien was dead even when he was alive.
What do I know. Am I even alive— or simply a fuckless, airtight hologram? Fail. I’m dwelling on the fail. I’m leaning into the fail, locked in a limbo world, have been for a while now.
Some would say yes. My methane emissions might tell a different story.
‘And she’s buying a staircase… to Mordor…’
I had an exlover that met Mr. ROBERT plant in a bar in town. Apparently, he, Mr. ROBERT plant, was touring. The ex never listened to ‘that type of music’ so had NO idea who the guy was. Keep in mind, Mr. ROBERT plant is STILL revered as a RELEVANT musical DIETY in these parts. In my corduroy youth, I fell under the spell. After all, I came of age in the ‘Twilight of the Gods’. I remember when the frontman for Led Zeppelin was mysterious and effeminate, but all the hometown, cornfuckt kweers and tough guys alike tried to emulate him. It was pretty ridiculous and boner inducing.
Well, let me say, that Mr. ROBERT plant was so blown away that someone on this fart smothered planet didn’t know who he [or Led Zeppelin] was that he bought my ex drinks and talked so much that my ex had to leave. He said later he found Mr. ROBERT plant to be annoying and more than a little full of himself. Unbeknownst to my ex lover, he and the tambourine playing frontman shared an interest in those wretched Lord of the Rings stories. I honestly don’t know if he ever read those books, either RP or the ex, but he watched those movies every night to fall asleep. The ex did. I’d think Mr. ROBERT plant has more sophisticated methods of sleep induction than watching that threadbare Weinstein abortion unfurl night after night.
*Although I feel like I know with unwavering certainty that Mr. ROBERT plant’s no stranger to abortions both literally (come on… seriously) and creatively (see Tall Cool One).*
Another friend uses the Harry Potter series as his Sominex. Admittedly, I can fall asleep to them insofaras they’re tedious af. Those years that all that dialogue entered into my subconscious when I slept… yeah… I’m almost sure it fucked me up more than I already was. I’m turning into that hairless Golem creature the longer I work in the office I call ‘job’. Much like Froblow Baggins, my life is a deathmarch into a volcano of nonsense, weighed down by a precious I can’t begin to afford and a blood sugar sacrifice to boot.
Mr. ROBERT plant’s moose knuckle was trailblazing. Dinosaur rock arenas across the world shone their spotlights on the Hammers of the Gods in the newkyooler dusk and you can inspect it all in the archival footage.
Sometimes watching something on repeat- til it becomes static between stations or like watching your toenails grow- is comforting. Sometimes, it makes me want to implode sucking the world into prolapse with me. Can I tell you that I hate Lord of the Rings? I would rather watch the original Tomorrow People when moose knuckle for men was a thing. Seventies media is full of titty-lating bulges, camel-toe and nubbins, but, here in 2022, following the tracks of two young hobbits, I find myself thrice bored and homicidal towards little people and homosexual wizards [because Potter’s got them, too]. It isn’t fair, I know. Leave all that, all the fair things in life- as well as the remains any tiny, vagabond hairy fairies- to Mr. ROBERT plant.
Imho, clothes are too loose fitting with capes and cassocks or whatthefuck ever else they’re wearing in Mordor. I don’t like things left to my imagination because, frankly, I have none left.
One of the conclusions I’ve drawn thus far? The trick, as one ages, is to NOT become a deformed and toothless parody of oneself. Artists rot into parodic behaviors naturally, so this danger increases exponentially with these types; I’ve severed all emotional ties to Mr. ROBERT plant as a result. I’ll cast my die with John Paul Jones. He at least worked with Diamanda Galas.
‘THIS IS NO PLACE FOR A HOBBIT!’ Sez the Homosexual Wizard. He’s talking about concerts. Orc places where drugged rapings and drunken tramplings happen.
Don’t mind me. I’m sitting in a dried up fountain in the center of an abandoned mall. Gandalf’s water-damaged cardboard standup leans jauntily adjacent to the central fountain- the nexus of former anchor stores cum rat’s nests- making me feel judged and belligerent. He’s got black mold growing down his beard, onto his robes. Pernicious molds, you understand. Sister substances with The Black Goo. It’s in there. A ‘wet ingredients’ pack.
Amid the picturesque lameitude, some sort of a wedding or something happens during some part of Lord of the Rings. Some broham’s marrying Steven Tyler’s daughter who is lit up like Times Square to cover her age spots. Did she give Holywood the kissoff after this movie? Haven’t seen her on the screen much.
Always gotta screw up a perfectly good narrative with a love story. It’s making me want to kick the plasma out of the screen and onto the wall in gorgeous technicolor splatter patterns. It takes an entire day to watch this shit. Doe eyed furries dancing in the blurries. No wonder there’s a pedophilia epidemic!
Help me. Us? You don’t need help. Lord of the Rings doesn’t give you these thoughts and feelings. I can’t keep my eyes open, so wrap me in Orc skin and roll me into a volcano. I do protest. A lot. And loudly. Lord of the Rings still sucks. I can prove it