GAME OF TRUMPS?

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Not sure how I missed the epidemic, but in 2011 when HBO broadcast the first episodes of Game of Thrones, I was not infected with the virus. For the next eight years, I was bewildered by the attention paid, and when cocktail party conversation turned to the latest killing and/or change of power on the show, I was inclined to break in with, "How about those Mets!"

But the press and conversational hullabaloo about the finale of the new "greatest show on earth" piqued my curiosity, and yesterday, after sending out my latest blog piece about President Donald Trump, I was determined to see what I was missing, and spent three solid hours watching first three episodes.

I need to repeat: these episodes were aired in 2011. Watching them eight years later reveals the secret of the show's remarkable success. No, the series' popularity was not predicated upon in its unconventional imagery. It was not because of the dragons, the incessant public fornication, or the fact that despite the cold that required the men to wear layers of furs, the women walked around naked or wearing monokinis. Nope, the secret of success was hidden so deep in the script that the realization of its brilliance took half a decade to be born.

What am I talking about? The writers were fortune tellers, that's what. They saw into the future and wrote it into their play.

It was all revealed in Episode Three. When I saw it, I gasped, ran for my notebook, and replayed the scene again and again so I could make a note of the colloquy.

Here's the set-up for this one of the myriad of plot points: An obnoxious kid, the son of the King, is slated to make a politically advantageous marriage. One day, the snotty Prince happens upon a mock sword duel between two young sisters who are (I think) daughters of the King's right-hand man. The Prince intercedes and ends up being disgraced by his incompetence and cowardice. What's more he is bitten by the protective pet dog of one of the sisters. (It's actually a dia-wolf, but that's a distraction)  The sissy-Prince runs off. The King decrees the dog who bit his son must die, and the girls' father reluctantly does the awful deed.

In the next scene, the Prince's minor wound is being tended to by his mother, the Queen, whom we already know is bad. (Don't ask!).

The kid is whining to his mother about his poor showing in the sword-play contretemps, and this colloquy ensues:

Queen: You did well, my son. You killed that dog.

Prince: No, I didn't kill the dog. I ran away.

Queen: No, you killed the dog. SOME DAY YOU'LL SIT ON THE THRONE AND THE TRUTH WILL BE WHAT YOU MAKE IT!

Then the Prince whines about the plans for his future. He complains about the marriage in store for him.

Prince: I don't like her. Do I have to marry her?

Queen: Yes. All you have to do is just make a baby or two, and if you'd rather fuck painted whores, you'll fuck painted whores.

No, I cannot remember the name of the Prince -- the one in the show, that is.

A bientot.

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