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Lord of the Rings, as Written By Everyone Else
sn0rt writes "A thread on Straight Dope asks what would happen if someone else had written the Lord of the Rings. Reader submissions include Ernest Hemingway, Douglas Adams, Mark Twain, HP Lovecraft, ee cumings, Milton, Mickey Spillane, Danielle Steele, Ayn Rand(!!), Ray Bradbury, Gilbert and Sullivan and Tom Clancy. My favourite is Dr. Suess: 'Gandalf, Gandalf! Take the ring!
I am too small to carry this thing!' 'I can not, will not hold the One. You have a slim chance, but I have none. I will not take it on a boat,
I will not take it across a moat. I cannot take it under Moria, that's one thing I can't do for ya. I would not bring it into Mordor, I would not make it to the border.'"
I compiled most of the variations into one message, so as to not hammer yet another poor server into oblivion.
a aa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa a aa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
a aa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
e ee eee----
! "
o tr.mov
n or,r . o/`
--VARIATION--
Ernest Hemingway
It was very late and everyone had left the hall except an old man who sat in the shadows the leaves of the old Mallorn made against the moonlight. The two elves inside the hall knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he usually was quiet and kept to himself they knew that if he became too drunk he would start setting things on fire, so they kept watch on him.
He's drunk, one elf said.
What do you care?
He's muttering about the secret fire.
Leave him alone. He used to carry a ring.
He'll stay all night. He should never have been rebodied.
The old man rapped on the table with his goblet. The younger elf went over to him.
What do you want?
The old man looked at him. Another miruvor.
You'll be drunk, the elf said. The old man looked at him. The elf went away.
Look at his bushy eyebrows, he said to his colleague. There is nothing as nasty as an old Man. He'll stay all night and I'll never get any sleep.
The elf took the bottle of miruvor from the counter inside the hall and marched to the old man's table. He poured the goblet full.
You should never have been rebodied, he said to the old man.
--VARIATION--
Mark Twain
NOTICE:
Persons attempting to resolve the question of Balrog wings by means of this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to define the nature of Tom Bombadil will be banished; persons attempting to find allegory in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.
FOREWORD:
In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Quenya Elvish dialect; the extremest form of the Rhovanion dialect; the ordinary Sindarin dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.
THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER 1
You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Red Book of Westmarch; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Frodo Baggins and his Uncle Bilbo, and they told the truth, mainly. There was things which they stretched, but mostly they told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was the Lady Galadriel, or Elrond, or maybe Gandalf. The Lady Galadriel - the Lady of Lothlorien, she is - and Elrond, and the wizard Gandalf is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.
--VARIATION--
Mickey Spillane:
I was sitting by the fire, puffing on a pipe, still nursing a hangover from the ale-fest the night before, when HE walked in.
He had a long white beard, a magical staff, and legs that youd like to eat on toast.
"Are you Frodo Baggins," he intoned.
"I might be," I said. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Gandalf, Mr. Baggins. And I need your help."
I looked him over. "Lots of people need my help. What makes YOU special?"
"Well, Mr. Baggins... there is a certain piece of jewelry. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could prove... troublesome. I need someone to take this ring to Mount Doom, where it can be destroyed."
I stuck some more weed in my pipe, and said, "Look, doll, let's get one thing straight- you can't come into my hole, tell me a fairy-tale about a magic ring, bat those pretty eyelids, and have me fall at your feet. I stick my neck out for nobody."
--VARIATION--
Smeagol writhed in corruption, his lifelong attempts to collectivize the Hobbit economy had twisted his soul and body and brought ruin to the Shire. "Precious," he muttered. "Precious colective good giving according to need." He shuddered at the thought of the unbroken individual standing proudly over a conquered plain with the Ring, and felt jealous that the wholesome power could not be his.
-Lord of the Rings, by Ayn Rand.
--VARIATION--
"Gandalf, Gandalf! Take the ring!
I am too small to carry this thing!"
"I can not, will not hold the One.
You have a slim chance, but I have none.
I will not take it on a boat,
I will not take it across a moat.
I cannot take it under Moria,
that's one thing I can't do for ya.
I would not bring it into Mordor,
I would not make it to the border."
-excerpt from Dr. Suess's FOTR.
--VARIATION--
Ray Bradbury
In which Gandalf gains a new perspective on his heretofore unexamined mission:
It was a pleasure to burn.
It was a special pleasure to see Hobbits eaten, to see them blackened and changed. With the wooden staff in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous pitch upon the Shire, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his pointed hat on his wizened head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he mumbled a Word of Command and the Great Smials jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a haunch of mutton on a spit in the furnace, while the flapping, ridiculous Hobbits died on the porch and lawn of the great Hobbit-hole. While the Hobbits went up in greasy, sparkling whirls that blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.
Gandalf grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame. Fools of Tooks! he thought with an inward chuckle, as the smell of burnt foot-hair filled his nostrils, as welcome as the smell of a fresh-baked apple pie cooling on the sill.
He knew that when he returned to Lothlórien, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the Mirror of Galadriel. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that smile, it never ever went away, as long as he remembered.
--VARIATION--
The Lord of the Rings
or The Land of Middle-earth
by W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan
SCENE. -- Front yard of Bag End in Hobbiton, the Shire. Various hobbits discovered standing and sitting in various attitudes suggested by Rankin-Bass films and trippy illustrations from the 1970s.
CHORUS OF HOBBITS.
If you want to know who we are,
We are gentlemen of the Shire;
In many an inn and bar,
By many an alehouse fire,
We dine on six meals a day;
Our attitude's bright and gay;
But we don't mean it that way, oh!
If you think we are cutesy-poo,
Like an Ewok or Jar-Jar Binks,
You don't know what we do:
When we don't smokes, we drinks!
Our dwelling is Hobbiton;
We only stand three foot one;
We use evil rings for fun, oh, oh!
We use evil rings for fun!
If you want to know who we are,
We are gentlemen of the Shire;
In inn and bar, by alehouse fire;
In many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many a bar, oh, oh, oh, oh!
In inn and bar, by alehouse fire!
Enter Gandalf in great excitement. He carries a pack of fireworks on his back and a staff in his hand.
RECIT. -- GANDALF
Gentlemen, I pray you tell me
Where a gentle hobbit dwelleth, named Frodo,
The ward of Bilbo?
In pity speak, oh speak, I pray you!
TED SANDYMAN. Why, who are you who ask this question?
GANDALF. Come gather round me, and I'll tell you!
SONG and CHORUS -- GANDALF.
A wand'ring wizard I,
A thing of spells and magic,
Of stories dark and tragic,
Of counsel I'll prophesy...
That's where inspiration flagged. Although I could post the touching "Departure from Rivendell" scene...
--VARIATION--
LOTR by Cesil
Dear Cesil: Is it true that Frodo lost the ring to Gollum? We were arguing about it during a study session at the local brewery, when these guys dressed like orcs let it slip that Frodo bit his own finger off, and pushed Gollum in Mount Doom so there was no evidence. Is Frodo the next Dark Lord? Anxious in Hobbiton
Dear Anxious,
You think if I knew the whereabouts of the ring I'd tell a puling college student? There have been crackpot doom theories (get it?) about the ring ever since it was lost in the last age. It's been a magnet for PBS loons when anyone disappears in a birthday party or a black rider is seen astride a flying saucer.
Let's set the record straight with a few facts: After Frodo was exhumed in the Grey Havens following the suspicious circumstances of his "fading," particular attention was paid to the manner in which his finger had been severed. It was the opinions of "experts" that the tooth scrapes on the joint were consistent with teeth like Gollum's--worn by gnawing and grinding on bones. However the elves, having ignored the valuable lessons on interrogation taught by the Numenoreans, failed to follow up with questions regarding similar markings on various of Frodo's toes. Hence the persisting rumors.
No doubt you're hoping that the ring was finally put to bed in the flames of Mordor--lo those many years ago--but that's not certain. There are unsubstantiated rumors that the nursery rhyme from the Middle Ages "Ring around the Rosie" is about the destruction caused by Sam Gamgee's wife Rosie when entrusted with care of the ring while Sam was off fighting wiccans and environmentalists who had risen in the ruins of the witch kingdom Angmar.
Wagner's famous Ring Cycle is held by certain cultists to be a covert reference to the growing power of the one ring--soon to be passed to the Kaiser, and subsequently Adolf Hitler. Music lovers claim the evil influence of Isildur's Bane pervades Wagner's music, but between you and me, Anxious, it doesn't take much miscalculation to make opera sound like crud.
Finally, those whacky New Age pranksters claim that the metal from the one ring flowed into the magma of Mount Doom, and is now present in minute quantities in every volcanic eruption--thereby gradually turning the whole of humankind into dark lords. This goes a long way toward explaining prime time TV.
But in conclusion we'll have to admit that unless it's hidden in a yet another unfound Nazi stash, part of the crown jewels, or that talisman the Dalai Lama keeps around his neck, the one ring of power will just remain a happy memory.
-- CESIL
--VARIATION--
a la "Doc" Smith
"QX, Sam!" Cried Frodo. "That zwilnik Gollum had just enough jets to cut me free from that blasted ring!"
Meanwhile Sam's steely gaze followed the form of Gollum into the cracks of doom. The kinetic energy of its wretched body's translation into one with the magma became heat. Heat added to heat. It piled up ragingly, frantically, equilibrating, then turning hotter. Hotter! HOTTER! "By Ulmo's carballoy bowels, ringman Frodo! We gotta get to clear ether!"
"Udun's jingling bells, Sam! Its covered. I phialed a message to Galadriel to alert our boys in Aeries we'd be needing them! They'll be here in 3.3 minutes, Eriador standard time."
And as the Grand Fleet of the Eagle Patrol blasted away from Mordor airspace with the two second-stage ringmen firmly in their grip, Frodo wondered when he would next be called upon to pull the chestnuts of the Valar out of the fire again.
--VARIATION--
By Neal Stephenson (heavily borrowed, and eerily appropriate)
Frodo, the Deliverator, belongs to an elite order, a Fellowship of nine members only. He's got esprit up to here. Right now, he is preparing to carry out his only mission that matters. His armor is silver like the light of the full moon, jangling only slightly with its decorative gems. An arrow will bounce off its dwarvenmesh weave like a hammer off an anvil, but excess perspiration wafts through it like the winds over the charred plains of Gorgoroth. All the arrows of all the hunters in the world couldn't cut it against this one.
When they gave him the job, they gave him a sword. The Deliverator never looks for trouble, but some Orc might come after him anyway---might want his armor, or his cargo. The sword is tiny, aero-styled, lightweight, the kind of sword a Hobbit would carry; it cuts quickly into load-bearing beams without visible effort, and when you get done using it around evil, you have to sheathe it, because it glows in the dark.
--VARIATION--
The King of the Nazgul (KotN) fingered the safety buckle that secured the shortsword in it's scabbard. It was modeled after the Gladius design, making it wholly inadequate for going up against Elven armour, but it was perfectly suited for being jammed in the collarbone of a Hobbit 'merc, without calling too much attention to it's owner. His XO, "Camel" Khamul had used a similar weapon in numerous CoIN missions in North Gondor, where he had been sent to disrupt "Elrond's" supply fellowships sneaking down the Is-ild-ur trail.
The KotN smiled, even without a head. This mission was almost going to be a mead-run. Taking out a squad of sleeping halflings was going to be easier than slaying Wyvyrns sitting on a tarmac...
-Hunt for the Ring, Tom Clancy
--VARIATION--
A Lost Short Story by J.R.R. Tolkien
The chicken, sunlight coruscating off its radiant yellow-white coat of feathers, approached the dark, sullen asphalt road and scrutinized it intently with its obsidian-black eyes. Every detail of the thoroughfare leapt into blinding focus: the rough texture of the surface, over which countless tires had worked their relentless tread through the ages; the innumerable fragments of stone embedded within the lugubrious mass, perhaps quarried from the great pits where the Sons of Man labored not far from here; the dull black asphalt itself, exuding those waves of heat which distort the sight and bring weakness to the body; the other attributes of the great highway too numerous to give name. And then it crossed it.
--VARIATION--
Ringlord
Frodo looked blankly at the garden. "Sam, is there a reason you pulled up all the flowers?"
"Oh yes sir, Mr. Frodo, sir. Cause a them wassits, the bugs gottem. Aye. Yessir."
Frodo turned his questioning stare back to Sam, "And I'm sure this has nothign to do with the fact that Farmer Maggot has been buying them for ten-pence a dozen, either?
"Errrr....Oh no, not a bit of it, Mr. Frodo."
* * *
About that time, the visiting Archprocurer of Old and Mostly Unwanted Documents to Stick on a Dark Shelf in the Library, Gandalf of the More-or-less-seen tower of Isenguard showed up at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. The rough and tumble Eastern men eyed him supiciously. WHich was not unusual, they eyed everyone suspiciously. Including themselves, when they were about a mirror. "Hello there, Barliman. Could you get me a pot of Ale? On my credit, if you please."
"You've been running up a good tab lately, Mr. Gandalf, sir. You sure you're good for it?"
Oh, of course, Butterbur. 'Sides, the same law goes all down to Mordor. The night watch'd have my hide if I tried to cheat you. And its not like I expect some horrible fiend from beyond the pale of mortal ken to fight me in a gigantic duel above an ancient Dwarven City, leading to both our deaths, after all.
Barliman stared at Gandalf. "Errr... that wouldn't be a Balrog you're a speakin' of, right?
"Exactly sir. I cannot possibly be speaking of a Balrog since they don't exist. Hence I must be good for my debt. Haha."
~Terry Pratchet, though he would have done a much better job than I, surely.
--VARIATION--
LotR Z
"This foe is beyond any of you... his power Level has reached at least 30,000 after fighting every Dwarf in Moria. Ki Fhy to the gate Aragorn, you must lead them on!" The muscles beneath Gandalf'sGrey Cloak strained in anticipation of the coming battle.
Soon after, when they were nearly at the gate, the Balrog launched a surprise Ki attack, knocking down Borrmir and stunning Blazing Fist Gimli.
Gandfalf turned to face him. "Fool!" said he, I don't have time for this nonsense... "Pure Flame of Arnor Shield Wall Strike!" The massive energy wall sstreaked off towards the Balrog, who was knocked flying... though no-one was sure whether or not he had wings.
"Raaaaauuuugggg! Gandalf, I have not shown you my true power!
Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...
five minutes later
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaa!
Now I am a Super Balrog 2!!!!! My power level has gone up to 3 million!"
Gandalf just smirked. "I probably shoud have told you, after you left the service of Eru, we figured out a few new tricks. Here's a good one:
Kaaaaaaaaaa------Meeeeeeee------Haaaaaaqa-----M
-The Balrog laughed in anticipation of Gndalf's feeble attack-
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
The resulting explosion threw the Balrog back agaoinst the walls of Moria. His expression turned to one of complete disbelief. "Urrrghhh.... Ahhh... Ugghhhhh.... That's...not possible...."
The rest of the Fellowship of the Z Ring stared, twitching slightly and grunting in awe at Gandalf!
Gandalf grinned, "another one of those tricks I learned... I learned how to Hide my POWER level!"
--VARIATION--
My name is Baggins. Frodo Baggins. 00Hobbit, license to quest.
Oh Frodo! Last night was magnificient! Stay with me here in Lothlorien forever.
I cahn't Galadriel. The Grey Wizard, G, gave me an assignment to infiltrate Mordor, & destroy the One Ring.
I know, and when I take the Ring from your corpse, I shall rule in glory, and all shall love me and despair. Last night was Heaven, Mr. Baggins. Now go there.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
ARRRGH!
Galadriel, a Double Agent. Well, well, well. Too bad. But, I always preferred my elves shaken, not stirred. And certainly not shot.
--VARIATION--
Of the great War of the Ring, and the tast
Of that Forbidden power, the long and
Arduous trek, thru' fiery, blasted plains
With faithful Hobbits and treacherous beasts
To Chaos' edge, and there to cast the One
To endless fire and eternal death:
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that in Rivendell did'st
First teach of the Rings of Power forgéd,
In the beginning how the Dark Lord Sauron
Brought into the world from fiery depths
Of Doom this ring of gold, pouréd into't
His Malice and his Evil; I now
Invoke thy Aid to my Adventrous song
That struggle as it might to take to th'air
Though will I drag from bottomless perdition
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime
And justifie the ways of men to Elves.
LotR, by John Milton
--VARIATION--
The Lord of the Rings
Starring Humphrey Bogart and Marlene Dietreich
Directed by Howard Hawks
--VARIATION--
A rather interesting link..
http://ringil.cis.ksu.edu/Tolkien/Movie/l
--VARIATION--
o/` Wraith-wraithery, wraith-wraithery, wraith-wraith-eree,
A Nazgul's as nasty as nasty can be.
Wraith-wraithery, wraith-wraithery, wraith-wraith-eroo,
your luck will run out when I'm looking for you.
So give me the Ring, or you're Nazgul, too! o/`
o/` Just a spoonful of lembas helps the athelas go down,
the athelas go down,
the athelas go down.
Just a spoonful of lembas
helps the athelas go down
in a most delightful way. o/`
o/` Feed the orcs, tuppence a bag,
tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag. o/`
o/` Oooh...taurelilomeatumbalemornatumbaletaurealomea
if you say it too slow then you won't make it to dinner.
Unless you've got some time on hand don't say I didn't warn ya.
taurelilomeatumbalemornatumbaletaurealomeano
-excerpts from Merry Poppins, P.L. Travers & Walt Disney.
--VARIATION--
People were always asking me, did I know Gollum.
"AAAIEEE!"
With a crazed and deformed Stoor clenching his jaw on your finger, you only speak in vowels.
With my finger, I can feel the half-chewed fish stuck behind his tongue. I totally forgot about the whole Ring destruction thing for a second and I wondered how clean his teeth were.
The cave we're standing in won't be here in three minutes. You take an ancient evil Ring of Power and add a 98-percent concentration of flaming lava. Explosion. I know this because Sauron knows this.
This is our world now. Two minutes.
Two minutes to go and I'm wondering how I got here...
Fade to a support group: "Remaining Hobbits Together."
--Openning of Chuck Pahlaniuk's LoTR
--VARIATION--
LotR by George Orwell:
"I cannot read the fiery writing," said Frodo.
"There are few who can," replied Gandalf. "It is the language of Mordor, which I will not speak here. Translated into the common tongue, it reads:
'All rings of power are equal,
But some rings of power are more equal than others.'"
LotR by Dave Barry:
At the end of the Council of Elrond, everyone concluded that 'Shards of Narsil' would be a great name for a band.
LotR by Matt Groening:
Frodo suddenly reappeared, bleeding from the hand.
Gollum triumphantly cried, "Hmmmm...hobbit finger with ring of power garnish."
But as he danced in victory, Gollum slipped and fell into the pit of fire. The Cracks of Doom echoed with his last despairing cry of "D'oh!"
--VARIATION--
We were 20 steps from the exit when the giant flaming Balrons first appeared over our heads. These weren't your normal giant flaming Balrons but some sort of interdimensional Maia that would sit and spin in mid air before dissolving before your very eyes and sneaking up behind you. Gandalf had the pipe and I had the ring which, so far, I had been able to resist trading to the local drug lords for another package of white. Gandalf was shouting random Macrohydration spells while simultaneously trying to not trip over his robes and fall face first into the local pools of goo. Legolas took another drink from his flask and, once again, began explaining how elves were different than humans and much, much mellower.
- Hunter S. Thompson
--VARIATION--
The trouble with writing an epic, I find, is knowing just where to begin. So here I am, quill and parchment at the ready, a full bowl of pipeweed and, dash it, have great difficulty in beginning! That's the trouble with epics, as I suspect old Treebeard himself would say, and wasn't he a one for insisting that every story begin at the very beginning - of time, that is, and it takes all one's memories of school training to be polite to the old boy when you're rushing to catch an Eagle.
I brought this up with Gandalf when he dropped by yesterday. "Gandalf", I said, "Do you remember that old ROP we dropped into the crack of Mount Doom?" He did, of course. It was one of those rectangular - no, I mean rhetorical - questions. How could one forget? It was a tale to freeze thy blood, to make one's hair stand on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine - though I've never understood why one says porpentine when you mean porcupine. Something to do with elves, no doubt. I had been thinking of making a start by putting one of the elven marching songs on the title page, but all I can remember os 'Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding, dong, I hurry along', which would never do. Elrond would never approve.
So Gandalf applied himself to the task at hand - and that's a sight to see that makes strong men gasp and the ladies swoon. You could see the blood whizzing through that magnificent brain of his, chock full of all that health food he grazes on with Tom Bombadil. When there's a problem to be solved, just slip a few nuts and berries to old Gandalf and stand back, I say. Frightening, really.
So after a good think, Gandalf suggested Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday, and I knew right away I held the winning ticket, cash for life with no taxation. "Perfect" I told him. "That's just precisely where I'll set the starting post. You have hit the n. right on the h."
P. G. Wodehouse
--VARIATION--
In summer, the scorching sun above Middle-earth sears the land. Perched high on the dome of the sky, it bakes everything down, forcing the Hobbits, the Elves and the men to do their work quickly and retreat to their homes, staying in the cool shade while the orb of light attacks them from overhead. During the winter, on the other hand, the sun only climbs above the horizon for a few hours each day, and then dips back and plunges the world into darkness. The snow drives downward, the winds howl, and everyone, men, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Orcs, can feel the chill penetrating to their bones.
Frodo had set out from his home in the Shire, hoping for a chance to see the real Middle-earth. While his official purpose for the journey was to destroy a magic ring in the fires of Mount Doom, he had really accepted the invitation to join the quest because he viewed it as an opportunity to experience the genuine outside world. He had heard stories, of course, about how Hobbits who left the Shire, although naïve and ambitious at first, would eventually turn against the other cultures with scorn, and would long for their cozy hobbit-holes, their elaborate tea parties, their pipes of tobacco before second breakfreast. "Is it true what they say about hobbits who journey eastward, that we all eventually lose the spirit of adventure and just want to return to our cozy homes after a few months," he asked Gandalf once as they sat around the campfire, but the wizard declined to provide a direct answer.
Regardless, he had remained inquisitive during the flight from the Nazgul and the stay at Rivendell. But as each day passed and the winter grew colder and more ominous, the dark bulks of the Misty Mountains loomed on the horizon up ahead. Their peaks seeming to be lost in the cloud cover, the mountains dwarfed everything, blotted out everything. Their massive bulks weighed on the members of the Fellowship, and the swirling snow seemed to wrap around them, cutting off and suffocating them. There, on the slopes of the Caradhras, Frodo suddenly felt small and insignificant, as if nothing that a little Hobbit could achieve would ever amount to anything more than that, snowflakes whirling in a storm.
from A Passage to Mordor, by E. M. Forster
--VARIATION--
See Frodo run,
Run Frodo run.
See Sauron search,
Gollum and Frodo are playing,
Oops, Gollum dropped the ring in Mount Doom.
Now Sauron will have to find another ring.
-- See Frodo Run
--VARIATION--
Frodo crept down the stairs of the of the castle, his invisible cloak sweeping around his legs. He simply had to get the ring into Professor Saurons office without attracting attention. The castle was quite and he made his way without difficulty. A faint light was glowing from under the Professors door but nobody appeared to be in the office. Sneaking in quietly, he saw the volcano on the ledge bubbling quietly. He was just about to throw this ring into the fiery chasm when the door burst open and the Professor strode in. Not having time to think, Frodo Potter froze on the spot, grateful for being invisible.
Professor Sauron wasn't the only person who entered the room however. A massive hulking glowing monster had also ambled in alongside him and they were now deep in a conversation. Frodo froze, although he had never met one of those before, he had heard about it enough times to know that the thing standing in front of him was a Balrog!
"I want you to send a message to Professor Saruman, Tell him that I am prepared to join forces so that we can both live our lives without worrying about prying eyes. Fly swiftly for I need the message soon"
"But I dont have no wings" said the Balrog dumbly
"Use a broomstick you fool" snarled professor Sauron and swiftly left the classroom.
So it was true thought Frodo Potter, Sauron wan't to get rid of him and he was willing to enlist the help of Saruman to do it. He had to tell his friends Pippin and Merrione, they would know what to do.
"striding out of the classroom as fast as he could, he turned down a corridor without looking and a giant flash of green light blinded him. The scar on his forehead was now excruciating with pain. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the figure of Elrond laughing madly.
Frodo gradually became aware that he was now lying in a bed. Trying to get up, he heard a gently voice in his ear.
"Ah, Frodo, it seems we are up and about already", it was the gentle voice of Headmaster Gandalf.
"I suppose you want to know what happened last night, It turns out that your last Defense against Dark Arts teacher wasn't really Elrond at all but was actually Lord Melkor's minion, Smeagol. You see, nobody actually knew what Elrond looked like before he came to HobbitWarts becuase he kept to himself. When Smeagol arrived, we all assumed it was Elrond. Quite unfortunate really."
"But I saw Professor Sauron with that Balrog, he was talking about removing those prying eyes"
"Yes, Sauron was one of the first suspect something about Smeagol, it was all those potions full of rotten fish that gave it away he said. He knew he couldn't tackle Smeagol alone so he enlisted the help of Saruman. He was the one who found you unconcious"
"You mean... Sauron is innocent?" stammered Frodo
"Yes you fool of a Took! I've been trying to tell you that for the last 4 years" snapped Gandalf rather angrily "Now get some rest so we can send you home to your awful Uncle Bilbo"
-- Frodo Baggins and the One Ring by JK Rowling ("Frodo Baggins and the Knarliest Ring" in the USA)
--END VARIATIONS--
I hope Slashdot seriously considers some sort of cache in the future. Google has it. Why not a simple cache for certain submissions?
user@host$ diff
here's a mirror of the thread, as of course any messsage board will die under a good /.
http://rufus.d2g.com:8080/lotr.html
Someone else, please mirror this as it's only on my cable's upstream.
come on, this is humour. a parody, to be more precise. you read the excepts "written" by other authors and if you know their former works you understand all the humour and the hints.
nevertheless, a lots of good parodies are a sign of being at least respected. if the original isn't good, the parodists wouldn't even care.
just for example, there is a russian parody on silmarillion, called zvirmarillion (http://lib.ru/ANEKDOTY/zwirmrlon.txt)
it is hilarious, it makes fun of all the pathos in silmarillion and it helps to understand the original lot better. i have read both books simultanous and i was astonished that zvirmarillion, although much shorter and funnier, is more understandable and skips nearly nothing of the story (unlike for example "bored of the rings").
"It's such a fine line between stupid and clever" -- David St. Hubbins, Spinal Tap
"Read the rest of this comment..." is definitely worthwhile.
The living have better things to do than to continue hating the dead.
I just want to take this space-at-the-top-of-the-page to post a warning.
- in part goes down. :(
The link in the article contains spoilers for those of you (us) who have not read the LOTR trilogy and are looking forward to the third movie with anticipation, not knowing what all is going to happen.
basically I got the final movie ruined from me, one of the posts in the thread linked writes up how LOTR would be if it was a reply to a question by Cecil of The Straight Dope, and this and the following post (i stopped there, spoiled) revealed just exactly how the whole final-moment-at-mount-doom-throw-the-fucking-ring
Also, they reversed the b's in bilbo to be dildo.
Now if that isn't as creative as Jacksons elaboration of strider and aeowyns romance (read with sarcastic grin) and striders near fatal death in the skirmish in the fields of Rohan (read with sarcastic grin) then I don't know what is (read with sarcastic grin).
Don't get me wrong, I think Jackson did a great job.
come on fhqwhgads