Indy Left Me Short, Round, and Alone
Summer blockbusters don’t always have happy endings. Just ask the once-sidekicking, Short Round of “Temple of Doom” fame what his opinion on the fourth installment of the Indiana Jones quadrology is. He provided a copy of this letter sent previously to his former colleague, and we’re happy to share it with you.
Dear Dr. Jones,
I may be short (don't you dare bring up the rest of my name, which is a cruel misnomer), but my memory is that of an elephant (like the ones that frequent the small village I saved with your help), and I shan’t forgive your insult as long as I shall live. What the Nazis and Russians say indeed is true; you are as hollow as a bamboo shoot, as tired as the wilted Lotus Blossom and as unrealistic as the dreams of an Asian child actor with a lovable accent turning into a grown-up Hollywood Icon.
Oh how I remember those days of frolicking in airplanes and mine carts without a care in the world. Together we were the stuff of legends, the idols of millions, on top of the world which we criss-crossed as if it were but a small map. But where are we now? Well you… YOU… You are again in the spotlight, another of your quests is memorialized in film, and I am nowhere to be seen.
What happened to us?
I thought you would be honorable; that you would stay in touch or simply “throw me a bone” as the masses may say. But no, of course not, you have no time for the child who saved your ass from a pit of fire and being on the wrong end of a one-directional heart transplant.
How dare you leave me on the sidelines as you continue your adventures? I made you, Indy. You think you’re one of a kind?!?!?!
I have two words for you: Allan Quartermain!
Do you remember a certain band of Triads that were intent on cutting your fingers off one-by-one? Do you remember a certain loyal (ex) friend that had to strap wooden blocks to his feet and drive your Eurocentric ass out of there? I do. I remember him well.
Don’t you worry about me, though. I’ve come a long way since you and I ventured into the Temple of Doom with that insipid and ridiculously-named woman. But, to be perfectly frank, I feel as young and naïve as ever. I am reminded of the sage words I uttered to you, before saving your ass for the umpteenth time, “this is no time for love.”
Celebrity really has gotten to you, Indy. Remember the soft-leather days of academic misadventure? You taught me to play poker. You taught me how to misunderstand women in a loving way, and ruin relationships by getting romantically involved with daughters of academic peers. You taught me about fair play, and justice. You taught me about love.
What happened to our love, what happened to us?
Three letters: W.T.F.
I wasn’t going to bring her into this, but honestly, Indy. Marion Ravenwood? She’s an alcoholic. I’m telling you like you didn’t already know, but I suppose those are the sorts of slatterns you run with aren’t they? I hope you get nine stripes of Siberian herpes. I hope your “Staff of Ra” rots right the eff off.
Dr. Jones (the title frankly disgusts me. Who gave you your PHD? The University of Impossible Rope Swings? The College of Circular Boulder Building), you’ve completely marginalized me in favor of the next hot young sidekick. I’m not just a late-model import, you can’t trade me in and nobody can replace me, especially one named after a canine. But that makes sense too, weren’t you named after the family dog? Your father always said so in between his senile ramblings about chalices and prostitutes.
A thousand curses on your house too, Mutt. I spit on you.
I hear he’s addicted to drugs, this new sidekick of yours, and that his father was a dealer (of drugs, not cards.) Is that the sort you look for in a sidekick? Do you think he’d wait outside a supper club to save your tired ass? Of course not, he’d probably be inside the club trying to score chicks.
But, of course, you’ve moved on. Heaven forbid you show the bravery to share the spotlight with me. Oh no, the spotlight should never, never, ever wander off old Indiana. Well, here’s a tip, that spotlight is fleeting, baby. Trust me.
You’re so addicted to fame and notoriety you’ll never let it go. I bet in 10 or so years you’ll still be seeking the starring role. Hunting androids gone bad, or something derivative like that.
You constantly surround yourself with people you think you’re better than, Indy. That’s why you had to demean me with “Short Round.” What the hell kind of nickname is that? I wish I had the gumption to call you White Boy Cracker, but manners and mores stopped me. I can only imagine your next adventure will be in search of the Fountain of Youth, dare I forecast the name of your companion on that self-serving journey? Sewer Boy? Pond Scum? Joe Dirt?
Enjoy the fame, the women, the money, the professorship, the propeller-plane lifestyle, the stupid crystal skulls and your lame father who couldn’t even handle a Nazi Bullet to the gut, you backstabbing twit. Now I know how the Congolese tribe of the Neetha felt when you swept in – with your false machismo and stupid hat – and snatched their idol.
But do you know? Do you know where are you going? Do you like the things that life has been showing you? Where are you going to? Do you know? Will you get what you're hoping for? .Let me prognosticate: You’ll be in drug-fueled orgies where the average age of the participant will be raised three-fold by your presence. You’ll be waking up to self-important dreams about saving wrongly accused me from mysterious one-armed assailants. And when this happens, and this is the most important thing, you won’t have Short Round to kick around anymore.
I hope you die a horrible death, like being slowly digested over a thousand years.
Your friend no more,
p.s. - I’m an Oxford Don now, ass.
p.p.s – Google Percy Fawcett!