The future wife and I spent the weekend knee deep in errands for the impending nuptials, so we decided to take it easy on Saturday night, throw back some Fat Tires and watch Peter Jackson’s King Kong. At first I was smitten with the film, enjoying the mindless action, the undertones of bestiality and watching Naomi Watts scream and run about in her moist camisole. The movie than degenerated into a never ending orgy of agony as the final hour dragged on like an introductory statistics course and I found myself wishing Kong would plummet to his death from the Empire State Building like the stupid primate he was. Thanks for taking the mantle from Spike Lee on not knowing how to end a film, Peter Jackson. The future wife tried to keep steam from blowing out of my ears by cheering for Naomi’s naked breasts to make an appearance for the sake of my sanity. Alas, it was not to be. I reminded her that epic blockbusters historically never show the naughty bits and that if I wanted to see Naomi’s exposed fun bags I would watch 21 Grams. Unfortunately one has to endure a nude Sean Penn, a soul crushing plot and a depressing sex scene for the pay off, but I think it is worth it. At least it is not Monster’s Ball. Or Requiem For A Dream.