The new Hobbit film is a fun and eye-dazzling expansion of the classic book. Plus, Evangeline Lilly makes it truly worthy of the name Fantasy Lit. Tolkien geeks who think Lilly shouldn't have been inserted into the storyline should be thrust back into their mothers' basements. (Eight or ten frames of Evangeline should be inserted into every film ever made and eight or ten inches of me should be thrust.... No good can come from completing that sentance.) Lilly is Canada's best export and probably the reason Bill Clinton signed NAFTA. She is more delicious than all the maple syrup in Quebec.
I would trade all the beavers trapped by Hudson's Bay Company and all the beavers worn as hats by Buckingham Palace guards to don Evangeline Lilly's beaver as personal headgear. (Readers offended by my desire to wear her pelt on my head are either misogynists, haters of small furry animals, or posessors of an appropriate sense of humor, and we hold no truck with such folks here.) I would endanger all the wild salmon left in Canada to swim with Evangeline in a salmon-farming cage, then uber-gay syncronized swimming would become my favorite sport, just for bringing back the memory of our aquatic rendevouz.
All the bloodshed and drunken orgies ever perpetrated on Celtic islands are mitigated by the fact that they resulted in Evangeline Lilly. As beautiful as New Zealand is, Peter Jackson should have filmed Lord of the Rings upon the landscape of Lilly's epidermus. It would've been a better epic and could've had as many installments as she has body parts without boring me at all.
I have now changed the plan for my next nonfiction travel book to include an appearance by Evangeline in an elf costume halfway through the journey. Peter Jackson is a freakin' genius. If he decides to make an eight-part saga based on the book Tolkien would've written if he hadn't died, with Lilly as the tallest hobbit, naughtiest orc, Gollum's long-lost hot twin, and the two most voluptuous peaks in the mountains of Mordor, I predict it will be the feel-good literary masterpiece of the decade.
Evangeline Lilly is even prettier than Orlando Bloom. Tolkien's tombstone should be revised to read "This guy wrote a book that Evangeline Lilly was later written into." The only person with a good reason not to like elfin Lilly is Mrs. Santa Claus. (She already has to deal with three more hoes than any wife should.) I advise Santa to invite elfin Lilly to the North Pole and any other polar region he can persuade her to visit.
After all, the North Pole is part of Canada, as Stephen Harper will gladly tell you, despite the objections of the butter-cookie-making sugar-plum-fairies of Denmark. Although the Danish prime minister may have been asking for the Arctic as a Christmas gift, when sitting on Obama's lap at Nelson Mandela's funeral. At least one American missle was already on high alert at that time.
Isn't it cool that Mandela bravely suffered all those years in prison, so that a guy half as black and half as mature could feel-up a blonde in South Africa without getting lynched (except by his wife). Actually, I'm just kidding. If this had been a real 3-way, noone would've invited David Cameron.
Besides, Barack may have needed to relax after spending countless millions of borrowed dollars for Air Force One and decoy Air Force One and a vast luxury motorcade and a herd of secret service guys to transport him safely to the spot where he gave a sleepy eulogy standing next to a sign-language interpreter who would later explain his spastic disco-fever gestures as a result of hallucinations due to being a violent schizophrenic. Other politicians are the last people Americans should worry about their rulers screwing.
If any readers should see Evangeline sitting at a funeral looking bored and needing a companion to disrespect the departed with, please tip me off. I wish everyone a merry Christmas, though Barack Obama might want to tone down his merriment a little, avoid orgasmic noises when chewing Danish cookies, and by all means resist commenting that he prefers those white chocolate truffles topped with nipple-looking cocoa beans to the dark ones.
I traveled South Africa many years ago during apartheid. My young heart fell in love with a dark-skinned girl in a thatched-hut church, not because of her color, but because she was the only one of all God's lovely creatures who ever sat down across from me in worship bare naked from the waist up. It was what Oprah would call a hallelujah moment. My young heart was also broken by poor oppressed townships I saw and arrogant racist pricks I met.
Still, few of these S.O.B.s had any longer track record of smugness and racist associations than did Barack Obama when voters elected him. Once again, King's wise advice that people should be judged by their character not their skin color meant little in a superficial, racially-obsessed world.
My Christmas wish this year for my home country is that Barack Obama and George W. Bush recover well from filling a job they were grossly unqualified for and that America elects future leaders with both hearts for peace on earth and good will toward all mankind. Even so, if voters want to use superficial criteria and get screwed again, I cast my vote for, and wish to be done by, Evangeline.
Let me close with some tidings of great joy. Those who still believe that politicians can give you real "security" or "healthcare" in this corrupt world should have no trouble believing that reindeer can get an obese senior airborne and around the globe in one night. Thus, you can wait up expectantly till dawn with the more-literal children. However, those who have lost faith in the magic of Christmas (grown-ups), can find hope in the miracle of Christmas. Why send a naive gushing thank-you-card to a fat guy on an iceberg or a fat cat in Washington, when you can look up at the stars that once pointed the way to Bethlehem, thanking the giver of life and all good gifts? Have a merry and profound grown-up Christmas.