“Did you see that hitcher?” asked Hill’s Sophia Bush.
“No,” said her boyfriend, Zachary McAnybody. “I was too busy admiring my reflection in both the rear view and side mirrors.”
“Let’s go back and pick him up,” she helpfully suggests.
“As long as he’s not Boromir, the eldest son of Denethor II, the last ruling Steward of Gondor,” Zach replied, “but what are the odds of that?”
They pull up alongside the strange gentlemen.
“Where are ya headed?”
“To Middle-Earth in time for second breakfast,” said the stranger. “Can I have a lift?”
“Of all the luck!” screamed Zach.
“Should we pick him up?” asked Sophia.
“Not unless you want to go on a quest for the One Ring that Rules them All.”
“I’d prefer the One Really Cute Pair of Shoes that Rules them All.”
“Let’s take off,” he said, “before this guy realizes we’re talking about him like he isn’t here right in front of us.”
And off they squealed down the street.
But much to their surprise and in the time it takes to go from 0 to 60, the hitcher had acquired not only a speedy Camaro, but a shotgun and the skill of a sharpshooter.
“We’re in trouble! Slip into a skirt and let’s get out of here!” Zach screamed.
“I have just the thing!” Sophia replied, shrink-wrapping herself into an itsy bitsy cocktail napkin that shines all-new perspective on the terms “cock” and “tail.”
“There’s something on my face,” says Sophia. “It’s either a subtle beauty mark or a zit.”
“In that skirt it’s strictly an afterthought,” said Zach. “By the Golden Touch of Peter Jackson, I shall overcome this emissary of the Dark Lord Sauron!”
But our heroes, such as they are, are no match for Boromir the Evil. Sophia discovers her boyfriend chained to two trucks, both intent on traveling in opposite directions.
“Look at it this way, Zach, you always said you wanted to get rid of your ass,” she assured him. “Let me strut about and take matters and a really big gun into my own hands so that teenaged lonely-hearts can take hold of their own big guns while they watch me.”
“But what if Boromir the Evil shoots you in the head and splatters your brains all over the road?” asks Zach.
Sophia cocks a rifle.
“In this movie, the only brains are the ones on the seats in the theater, and you can count those on two fingers,” she said, raising three fingers.
With that, Sophia heads down the highway, rifle under one arm, artistic integrity hanging by a thread from her teeny weeny skirt.
And there is the Hitcher!
“Before I kill you, Boromir, tell me…why did you do it?” she asked.
“How many others have you killed?”
“Hard to say.”
“Who wrote your dialogue, the Magic 8-Ball?” she screamed, spitting onto the dirt road and drowning a scorpion.
“Your saliva just killed that scorpion!” shouted Boromir, “and he’s just a background player!”
“I have no time for this! These constantly overturning Police cruisers are interfering with my teeth whitening appointment,” said Sophia.
And off she went, down the dirty, lonely road, headed back to the hill with the one tree and the wardrobe that doesn’t expand from a capsule being dropped in water.
“Note to self: Pants.”