If LotR had been written by someone else!?

[Nar]

Dear dear oh dear ... great last line!!! [img]smilies/biggrin.gif[/img]

*sniff* poor Sam! Can't decide who I'm sorrier for, the very surprised Balrog from Lostgaeriel's or your throttled Sam ... they're both so innocently appealing!

[Kalimac]

Diamond - that was FANTASTIC! (sound of thunderous applause) [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]. I almost had a flashback to when I was trudging through "Frankenstein" in high school...oh lord...

Another effort (this one's a little long too).

LORD OF THE RINGS, by H.P. Lovecraft (surely people still remember him?)

THE HOBBITON HORROR

When a traveller in the West Farthing takes the wrong fork in the path at Crickhollow, just beyond the Village of Bree, he comes upon a lonely a curious country. Scattered, sparse and lonely houses built beneath the earth are the sole mark of living habitation in this desolate place, and somehow the traveller hesitates to ask directions of the surly and seldom-seen figures who populate this dreary landscape. Gnarled and small they are, with an abundance of a coarse, degenerate hair, and smaller than other men, and furtive and skilled at disappearing. Fields are many, but signs of health and cultivation are few. It is always with a sensation of relief that the traveller finds the signpost marking the end of the region and returns to friendlier haunts. Sometimes, afterwards, he learns that he has been to Hobbiton.

Outsiders now seldom visit Hobbiton. Since a certain season of horror all talk of Hobbiton has been whispered, all signs pointing in its direction have been taken down. Men and Elves alike shun it without knowing wherefore they do so. In the Third Age, when legend was not mocked, reasons were customarily given for this, but in our sensible age they can only say that they do not wish to go to so evil-seeming a place, a blasted shell of a village whose natives have become little better than degenerates.

*******************************

It was at 5 AM on the morning of 27th February, sixty years ago now, that Frodo Baggins was born. This date was remembered because at the hour of his birth, all the dogs began howling throughout the Four Farthings, and several alarums were sounded, though none could discover their source. His mother was Primula Brandybuck, a strange and, some said, little better than an idiot. Her husband was Drogo Baggins, a stranger to his wife's native Brandy Hall, and from whence he came none could say.

Their child proved prodigiously clever, and indeed took great delight in all that was cruel and malicious. It is said that he early - early! - discovered that Book which his half-mad hermit of an uncle, Old Bilbo Baggins, kept hidden fearfully - the Necronomicon, that grim collection of writings by the mad Arab Abdul Al-Sauron. Little doubt there is that the young Frodo - an unattractive, pale, and lumpish boy - studied keenly the ravings of the mad Al-Sauron, and soon learned many secrets of which we yet know nothing. No doubt there is that Drogo and Primula Baggins died by water before their precocious child's twelfth birthday. Now he was taken to live with Old Bilbo, shunned and feared by the town of Hobbiton, and could study the secrets of the Necronomicon to his heart's fullness.

All this was known. And yet it was whispered that stranger things still were concealed by the dark hole of Bag End in which Old Baggins and his silent, dull-eyed nephew lived. Whispers grew of a - thing - an object of some kind, so men say - which they found by the vile sorceries of Al-Sauron, and which they worshiped with a fear only matched by their burning delight in subsuming their souls to the workings of Al-Sauron. None knew what this would be, but rumor spread slowly that this thing was called "Precious."

[Diamond18]

[img]smilies/smile.gif[/img] Very funny! [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img] I don't really know who H.P. Lovecraft is, but those descriptions of Blibo and Frodo are priceless!

Edit: Wow, not only did I not know who Lovecraft was, but I didn't even bother to Google or Wiki or whatever it was that people did in 2002 to find out information. What makes this worse is that I worked in a library at the time.

[Kalimac]

Diamond - H.P. Lovecraft was a horror-story/scifi writer who wrote about 10 million short stories in the 20s and 30s, all of them with titles like "The Dunwich Horror" "The Lurking Fear" "The Dreams of the Witch-House" and similar. Mostly they involve characters who are either fatally tainted by some "degeneracy" in their family tree, or who have friends who are tainted. They're definitely fascinating reads, but you
have to be in a certain mood. It's probably not a good sign if your significant other has a shelf lined with Lovecraft books, let's put it that way.

LORD OF THE RINGS by HAROLD PINTER

"The Last to Go"

[scene opens with an elderly Samwise Gamgee sitting in the Green Dragon. Only other character there is a hobbit Bartender (Hob)].

SAM: Oy, Hob. Another beer.

HOB: Aright. Delving or Eastfarthing?

SAM: Eastfarthing.

HOB: [hands him the beer, turns back to dusting bottles, which are far more interesting in his opinion].

SAM: Have a good day?

HOB: Good as any other. Same as ever.

SAM: That's how it is since Rosie died. Get up, garden, see the grandchildren...at least I think I see them.

[pause. Hob doesn't say anything]

SAM: I don't see my grandchildren. I don't see them. Little Fairbairns and Gardners. My kids, they don't remember their old Dad. They've moved away. Tom was the last to go.

HOB: Eh.

SAM: I used to wonder which one would be the last to go. Only little Bilbo and Tom and Ruby left now, I'd think. Which one'll be the last to go? Some days I'd bet with myself, it'd be Ruby. Other days I thought Bilbo. Sometimes Tom.

[pause]

SAM: It was Tom. He was the last to go. He went today.

HOB: [looks glum]

SAM: Some o'that Miruvor brand beer, if you like.

HOB: [hands it over]

SAM: Ah! Nothing like the real stuff. You know, I still play that game sometimes o'nights.

[pause]

SAM: Except it's not the kids anymore. It's the friends. The Fellowship.

HOB: Fellowship?

SAM: Ancient history. Back in the day, we were young and adventurous, nobody'd believe what I went through - [stops, as Hob is obviously not listening. Instead he's bending down behind the counter and lighting a pipe].

SAM: Anyways, Frodo and Gandalf went first. Boromir before any o'them. And now I've been wondering, who'll be the last to go? Elessar, maybe.

SAM: But maybe not. He's a deal of life left in him. Merry? Pip? Nay, they'll go toget

[Gwaihir the Windlord]

It doesn't matter who it was written by, as long as they wrote like Tolkien did. He was just the one who was able to, that's all. Could have been someone else.

[Diamond18]

Everyone is a unique individual, so no one can write exactly like someone else. Only Tolkien could write Tolkien. Others can copy, but only because Tolkien already wrote it in the first place. Same goes with all these spoofs. I could never have written that Mary Shelley spoof by myself. I used my copy of "Frankenstein." (Good lord, I wouldn't want anyone to think that grammar was mine!)

That aside, you're missing the point of this thread. The point being humor. It's supposed to be funny.

[Diamond18]

So! For more humor:

"The Lord of the Rings" by Herman Melville (author of "Moby Dic.k")

Call me Legolas. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no arrows in my quiver, and nothing particular to interest me in Middle-earth, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of Arda. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I feel myself involuntarily pausing before the gravesites of Men, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately crouching in the bushes, and methodically shooting people with arrows—then, I account it high time to get to Sea as soon as I can. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all Elves in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same longings toward the ocean as me.

This opening paragraph would be followed by chapters of detailed instructions on how to:

• Make Rings of Power
• Forge Special Swords
• Re-forge Special Swords
• Bake Lembas
• Weave Rope Out of Hithlain
  Plus
• Directions on the Finer Points of Archery
  And
• Building Your Own Boat to Sail to Valinor

[Nar]

Great, Kalimac! I knew there was something fishy about that queer Hobbiton place!

It's probably not a good sign if your significant other has a shelf lined with Lovecraft books, let's put it that way.

Uh-oh. Guilty. The titles alone... 'The colour out of Space'! 'The rats in the walls'! Just who or what was 'Pitman's model', anyway? Favorite phrase: 'From the cold mad spaces between the stars!' Your Pinter's scarier though. Poor Sam. Care to take a crack at Merry and Pippin in 'Waiting for Frodo' by Samuel Beckett? Or did someone already do that?

Diamond, I loved that picture of Legolas battling his impulse to skulk in the bushes shooting at people with arrows! Including chapters on both 'Forging' and 'Re-forging special swords' was beautiful.

[ November 14, 2002: Message edited by: Nar ]

[Nevfeniel]

Okay, I went through this thread and although there are a few Monty Python versions, I don't think this scene has been done yet. Believe it or not, I found an actual Monty Python excerpt in my English Textbook! That's a very odd place for it to be, isn't it? Anyways, on with the humor!
Sam: Look, Aragorn!
Aragorn: Rivendell!
Frodo: Rivendell!
Sam: Rivendell!
Pippin: It's only a model.
Aragorn: Shh! Hobbits, I bid you welcome to the Last Homely House. Let us ride to Rivendell!
Elves (singing)
We're the elves of Rivendell,
We sing and dance real well.
We keep Narsil of Elendil
And we never have bad smells.
We dress well here in Rivendell,
Our clothes and shoes are really swell!

I would add more, but I can't think of anything else that rhymes with Rivendell. Maybe later I'll do Gondor, or Hobbiton. That would be fun. [img]smilies/biggrin.gif[/img]

[ November 15, 2002: Message edited by: Nevfeniel ]

[Gwaihir the Windlord]

Anyway, you're missing the point of this thread. The point being humour...

The dangers of passing through and posting without actually reading anyone's posts... I'm going to have to stop doing that.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

If you like these LotR parodies, you might want to check out the Downs' first parody RPG, The Revenge of the Entish Bow! Enjoy reading!

[ January 13, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Balin999]

I can assure you guys that Estelyns German one is really great!
Many compliments on that!
I wish I could do sth like this.

[Rumil]

Nefveniel -
[img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]
-let us leave Rivendell for it is a silly place'

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

LoTR by Lemony Snicket

As Sam crept around desperately trying to find Frodo, he thought about the argument between Shagrat and Gorbag that he had overheard. He felt certain they must have been quarreling over Frodo and the “spoil”. “Spoil” here does not mean to leave something on the kitchen counter until it doesn’t look or smell anything like it should. And it doesn’t mean to pamper. “Spoil” in this instance means something that Frodo might be carrying that someone else might think of as valuable, such as an unopened pack of trading cards, dental floss, precious jewelry or mithril chain mail.

He also remembered the day the Gaffer retired leaving him to take over the garden at Bag-end. “It is your responsibility now, Sam, to look after Mr. Baggins,” the Gaffer had said kindly but firmly. Even though the Dark Lord was of course the cause of all this misery, Sam felt as if he had broken his promise, and vowed to make it right.

Sam disappeared into the shadowy entrance to the tower. He had very few materials at hand to make a rescuing device, but didn’t want to risk arousing attention by wandering around. Above the doorway was a study metal curtain rod, which he took down. Using a rock he broke it into two pieces. He then bent each piece of the rod into several sharp angles, leaving tiny cuts on his hands as he did so. Sam took down a painting of The Eye. On the back of the painting, as on the back of many paintings was a small piece of wire to hang on a hook. He removed the wire and used it to connect the two pieces together. Sam had made what looked like a large metal spider.

Working quickly and quietly he began tearing the curtains into long narrow strips and to tie these strips together. Among Sam’s many useful skills was a vast knowledge of different types of knots. The particular knot he was using was called the Devil’s Tongue. A group of female Umbar pirates invented it back in the fifteenth century, and named it the Devil’s Tongue because it twisted this way and that, in a most complicated and eerie way. The Devil’s Tongue was a very useful knot, and when he was done he had formed a sort of rope. He tied one end of it to the metal spider, and looked at his handiwork. What he made is called a grappling hook, which is used for climbing up the sides of buildings, usually for a nefarious purpose.

[Diamond18]

*giggle* Thank you for the different definitions of "spoil". [img]smilies/biggrin.gif[/img]

I swear, this thread is funnier than the whole of Middle-earth Mayhem combined! I mean, with the link to REB and everything... [img]smilies/wink.gif[/img]

[Aldaron]

Well done, everyone. I've been away for quite a while and this was a delightful way to re-enter.

Aldaron

[Lostgaeriel]

Thanks Hilde for that. Until now I had been blissfully unaware of Mr. Snicket's existence.

But I must say that now I'll picture Sam as MacGyver! (Richard Dean Anderson before Stargate SG-1.)

I believe that the "Bagenders" segment might be referring to James Joyce's Dubliners.

This thread is excellent fun!
Cheers, all!

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Yes, MacGyver did cross my mind, kind of amusing to think Snicket's MacGyver is not a hobbit but a young orphan girl named Violet!

shameless plug for Lemony Snicket's website

[ March 08, 2003: Message edited by: Hilde Bracegirdle ]

[Guinevere]

Hey, this was really great fun to read!
How come I haven't come across this earlier? Thank you Estelyn, for putting this thread again to the top!

Of course I can only appreciate those parodies whose authors I have read and know their style.
I liked the Jane Austen one especially!

Dear Estelyn, here comes at last another German-speaking reader who can appreciate your brilliant version of "Der Erlkönig" by Goethe!
I know the poem and the Schubert-song very well indeed, I even have the music (piano accompaniment) in my book of Schubert songs (I've been trying to play it, but it's beyond my skill, I'm afraid) Do I guess rightly if I assume that you're playing the piano as well?

Anyway, your parody is really well written (your German must be very good if you can write poetry in German!) My compliments!

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Thanks for the compliment, Guinevere - I'm delighted that a few people at least can read and appreciate that poem parody! Yes, I do play piano, and used to accompany that song; however, I recently tried again and found that it would take some practicing to be able to play it well now - it's been awhile! As to writing in German, I often find it easier to do than in English, since my daily life takes place in German. I am very happy to have two languages to enjoy and use.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Estelyn, since you have a wonderful command of English, I only wish that I could read German as well!

[Elanor]

Thank you Guinevere, for saying you like my Austen version. I'd forgotten all about this thread, I've just spent a very pleasant time rereading the entries. What a talented lot of people frequent the Downs! [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]

[Niluial]

Ha ha ha ... "rolls on flour laughing and laughing*, she stops breathing and her face turns red.... he he he that was so funny all of the stories! Yikes, that makes me think, I am glad JRR Tolkien wrote LOTR, I am REALLY glad..

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

I love the Gene Rodenberry ones!

Dear Barrow-Downers, (is that right?)

I am the webmaster of a LOTR site, "What if The Lord of the Rings had been written by someone else..." (http://www.teemings.com/extras/lotr/index.html). The project started as a thread over at the Straight Dope Message Board which ran onto about 40 or so pages, so we decided to index it for easier reading on the sister site, "Teemings." (http://www.teemings.com)

It came to my attention this morning that one of the posters there had plagerized some of the entries on this thread. Consequently, when we moved them over to the Teemings site they were attributed to the person there and not to the correct author who originally posted them over here.

Firstly I would like to offer my humble apologies for having this happen. I am currently fixing the attributions on my site and have alerted the administrators on the other MB about the plagerization.

However, since the door has been figuratively opened to a few of these posts being reprinted over there I'm wondering if anyone would have any objection to adding the wonderful posts here to the site there as well?

If anyone would like to talk to me about this privately, my e-mail is Eutychus55@cox.net.

Thanks, and once again, my most sincerest apologies.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Eutychus,

I am the chief Wight over here, and I appreciate you taking the time to give credit to the original authors of those excellent parodies. I also thank you for your kind post of explanation. As for the parodies that you find here, I think it would be great if you included them in your collection with that dandy little 1.

Unfortunately, now that I've found your collection, I have no more time to continue this post as I am too busy reading the nearly 500 entries on your list [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]

[Mister Underhill]

Eutychus, since you're setting the record straight, looks like Fingolfin nipped my Hemingway and Mark Twain entries as well. Thanks for the heads-up.

It's hardly a matter to get steamed about, though, since these entries are virtually all shamelessly cribbed from the original authors anyhow.

[ 8:05 PM January 25, 2004: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]

[Kalimac]

Eutychus, thank you. Feel free to put up any of my parodies that you want - my Tom Wolfe parody was nabbed by the Straight Dope poster, but if you want the others, feel free. (Odd that the Wolfe one was picked, since IMO it's the weakest one I did. Ah well, the ways of the internet are inscrutable).

Mister Underhill - you know, you're right. I doubt our feelings are anything at all compared to the horror of the original authors [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img].

Thanks again for everyone's kindness and understanding. I think I've got all of them changed now, but if anyone sees any others be sure to drop me a line. I will be adding the entries here to the site but I've still got about 20 more pages to put up from OUR site, so please be patient.

[Kransha]

Here's some styles unmentioned

The Bible! (as a mighty reader of all literature, I HAVE READ THIS)
The Book of Stewards: 5:16
And Denethor was begotten, and with Finduilas he begot Faramir, who with Eowyn begot Elboron, and Elboron begot Baragir. And Denethor, upon that of Faramir, begot Boromir. And Boromir to Rivendell went while Faramir begot some people. And Sauron smote down Elendil from the rock and fought with him a fight. And Elendil fell and begot Isildur after falling. And Isildur chained Sauron and thrust him into the Land of a Thousand Lemurs! But Isildur took the ring of the begot of the begotten of Sauron as Sauron begot Morgoth who actually begot him. And Isildur was smitten by the begotten hordes of darkness and fell, sacrificing his father and brother and some guy, and then the orcs killed all the first-born hobbits who retaliated with hobbit plaques to smite the orcs! And they all got smitten by various plagues!

and.......
Teletubbies!

Deagol: Smeagol, Oog!

Smeagol: Oogieeeeee!

Deagol: Oogie Boogie *dives into lake*

Smeagol: Daegol doogie?

Deagol: *surfacing with One Ring* WOOOOO

Smeagol: Wooo goog limi nimi?

Deagol: Noogie

Smeagol: Me wantie!

Deagol: *hoarding* Nooogo no no

Smeagol: Birthdoogiday!

Deagol: Oh, please SHUT UP!

*The two fight, Smeagol wins*

Deagol: Doogie moogie boogie dead *dies*

Smeagol: *looking at Ring* Gaa.....Gaa-gum....Gaaa-lummm.....Gaalumm....Gollum! *dances with Deagol's corpse*

Boromir: BOOOOOGIE!! *begins disco dancing*

Wow, that last one really was a travesty.

[Son of Númenor]

And Denethor was begotten, and with Finduilas he begot Faramir, who with Eowyn begot Elboron, and Elboron begot Baragir. And Denethor, upon that of Faramir, begot Boromir. And Boromir to Rivendell went while Faramir begot some people. And Sauron smote down Elendil from the rock and fought with him a fight. And Elendil fell and begot Isildur after falling. And Isildur chained Sauron and thrust him into the Land of a Thousand Lemurs! But Isildur took the ring of the begot of the begotten of Sauron as Sauron begot Morgoth who actually begot him. And Isildur was smitten by the begotten hordes of darkness and fell, sacrificing his father and brother and some guy, and then the orcs killed all the first-born hobbits who retaliated with hobbit plaques to smite the orcs! And they all got smitten by various plagues!

Kransha, that sounds eerily similar to

The sons of Hador were Galdor and Gundor; and the sons of Galdor were Húrin and Huor; and the son of Húrin was Túrin the Bane of Glaurung; and the son of Huor was Tuor, father of Eärendil the Blessed. The son of Boromir was Bregor, whose sons were Bregolas and Barahir; and the sons of Bregolas were Baragund and Belegund. The daughter of Baragund was Morwen, the mother of Túrin, and the daughter of Belegund was Rían, the mother of Tuor. But the son of Barahir was Beren One-hand, who won the love of Lúthien Thingol's daughter, and returned from the Dead; from them came Elwing the wife of Eärendil, and all the Kings of Númenor after" (The Silmarillion, "Of the Coming of Men Into the West", 173).

except for the former's extensive smiting.

This could be an excerpt from T.S. Eliot's The Lord of the Rings:

Where is the tower over the mountains
Cracks of Doom, fire streaks the smoggy air
Falling tower
Bree Imladris Moria
Morgul Orodruin
Unreal

[Rimbaud]

I know, I know. But still:

Fade in, BILBO is writing. We see his words on the page over his shoulder.


"At times one remains faithful to a Ring only because its opponents do not cease to be insipid," mumbled Gandalf moodily.

Gimli glared at him. "Oh, how tired I am of insufficiency!"

Shot moves to BILBO, talking to himself.

"It is my ambition to say in ten sentences; what others say in a whole book. "


Etc. It would have been great.

[Mister Underhill]

LotR by RAYMOND CHANDLER

An excerpt from a tale of that world-weary, hard-boiled private investigator, Philip Frodo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Book I - Chapter 13

I drove south from Overhill but I didn’t go home. At the East Road I turned east and swung out past Frogmorton, Whitfurrows, and Stock. There was nothing lonely about the trip. There never is on that road. Fast lads in stripped down buggies shot in and out of traffic streams, missing the bigger wagons by a sixteenth of an inch, but somehow always missing them. Tired Hobbits in dusty carts and carriages winced and tightened their grip on the reins and ploughed south and east towards home and dinner, an evening with the family genealogical charts, the barking of their flea-ridden dogs, the whining of their spoiled children and the gabble of their silly wives.

Behind the Bucklebury Ferry an occasional light winked from the hills. The holes of the high-class Hobbits. High-class Hobbits, phooey. The veterans of a thousand scandals. Hold it, Frodo, you’re not a Hobbit tonight.

The air got cooler. The highway narrowed. I ate dinner at a place near Rushy. Bad but quick. Feed ‘em and throw ‘em out. Lots of business. We can’t bother with you sitting over your second cup of coffee, mister. You’re using money space. See those Hobbits over there behind the rope? They want to eat. Anyway, they think they have to. Eru knows why they want to eat here. They could do better at home out of the back of the larder. They’re just restless. Like you. They have to get the wagon out and go somewhere. Sucker-bait for the racketeers that have taken over the inns. Here we go again. You’re not a Hobbit tonight, Frodo.

All right. Why would I be? I’m sitting in that Hobbit-hole, playing with a dead fly and in pops this dowdy little item from Bree and chisels me down to a shop-worn silver penny to find her brother. He sounds like a creep but she wants to find him. So with this fortune clasped to my chest, I trundle down to Bywater and the routine I go through is so tired I’m half asleep on my feet. I meet nice people, with and without daggers in their necks. I leave, and I leave myself wide-open too. Then she comes in and takes the silver penny away from me and gives me a kiss and gives it back to me because I didn’t do a full day’s work.

So I go see Aragorn son of Arathorn, retired (and how) Ranger from Lothlórien, and meet again the new style in neckwear. And I don’t tell the Shirriffs. I just frisk the customer’s toupee and put on an act. Why? Who am I cutting my throat for this time? A blonde with sexy foot-hair and too many door keys? A lass from Bree? I don’t know. All I know is that something isn’t what it seems and the old tired but always reliable hunch tells me that if the hand is played the way it is dealt the wrong person is going to lose the pot. Is that my business? Well, what is my business? Do I know? Did I ever know? Let’s not go into that. You’re not a Hobbit tonight, Frodo. Maybe I never was or ever will be. Maybe I’m an orc-spawn with a private license. Maybe we all get like this in the cold half-lit world where always the wrong thing happens and never the right.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Thanks for that glimpse of a more cynical and hard-bitten Frodo, Underhill. It now remains to be seen only how JRRT would have handled sardonic detective fiction.

Earlier on, a Middle-earth version of Blackadder was mooted. It is now possible through the magic of satire to reveal what Messrs. Curtis and Elton would have made of the great War of the Ring.

Bagadder Goes Forth Episode I, by Richard Curtis and Ben Elton. Adapted for Tolkien-vision by The Squatter of Amon Rûdh, with apologies to all parties.

SCENE ONE: BAG END

A comfortably appointed dug-out in the middle of Hobbiton. There is a general atmosphere of pipe-weed. It contains table, chair, settee, Captain Bagadder and Private Samwise Baldrick.

Bagadder is reading, but there is a tiny annoying scratching sound. He shifts slightly, trying to ignore it but finally can't.

Bagadder
Samwise, what are you doing out there?

Baldrick
I'm carving something on this Orc-arrow, sir.

That's the scratching noise

Bagadder
What are you carving?

Baldrick
I'm carving 'Samwise', sir.

Bagadder
Why?

Baldrick
It's a cunning plan, actually.

Bagadder
Of course it is.

Baldrick
You know they say that somewhere there's an arrow with your name on it?

Bagadder
Yes.

Baldrick
Well, I thought if I owned the arrow with my name on it, then I'd never get hit by it. 'Cause I won't ever shoot myself.

Bagadder
Shame.

Baldrick
And the chances of there being two arrows with my name on them are very small indeed.

Bagadder
Yes, that's not he only thing round here that's very small indeed. Your brain, for example, is so minute, Samwise, that if a hungry cannibal cracked your head open, there wouldn't be enough inside to cover a small water biscuit.

Lieutenant Peregrin Took enters, with a strange parcel and a wood-cut. He is a very enthusiastic, bright-eyed and bubble-headed young officer.

Pippin
Tally-ho, pip, pip and Bernard's your uncle.

Bagadder
In Westron we say 'Good morning'.

Pippin
(Excited) Look what I've got for you, sir!

Bagadder
What?

Samwise goes back outside into the garden

Pippin
The latest issue of Thain and Shire. Damn' inspiring stuff. "The magazine that tells the Hobbits the truth about the war."

Bagadder
Or, alternatively, the greatest work of fiction since vows of non-violence were included in the Mordorian national anthem.

Pippin
Come, come, sir, you can't deny that this fine newspaper is good for the morale of the men.

Bagadder
Certainly not. I just feel that more could be achieved by giving them some real toilet paper.

Pippin
Not with you at all, sir. What could any patriotic chap have against this magnificent mag?

Bagadder
Apart from his bottom?

Pippin
Yes.

Bagadder
Well, look at it. This stuff's about as convincing as Morgoth Bauglir's defence lawyer! The Shire Hobbits are all portrayed as four foot six with biceps the size of Bree.

Pippin
Exactly - thoroughly inspiring stuff. Oh, and look, sir, this also arrived for you this morning.

Pippin holds out a short sword wrapped in a brown paper bag. Bagadder unwraps it and handles it thoughtfully

Bagadder
Do you know what this is, Lieutenant?

Pippin
Why, it's a good old barrow-blade.

Bagadder
Wrong - it's a brand new barrow-blade, which I've suspiciously been sent without asking for it. I smell something fishy, and I'm not talking about the contents of Sam's rabbit stew.

Pippin
That's funny: we didn't ask for those new trench-climbing ladders either.

Bagadder
New ladders?

Pippin
Yes, sir. Came yesterday. I issued them to the Hobbits and they were absolutely thrilled.

He shouts out into the garden

Isn't that right, hobbits?

Pt. S. Baldrick appears at the window, suspiciously quickly

Baldrick
Yes, sir. First solid fuel we've had since we burned the cat, sir.

Bagadder goes out into the garden, followed by Pippin

Bagadder
Mmm - something's going on, and I think I can make an educated guess what it is - something which you, Pippin, would find hard to do.

Pippin
True. When I was at school, education could go hang as long as a boy could hit a six, sing the school song very loud and take a hot crumpet from behind without blubbing.

Bagadder
Yes. I, on the other hand, am a fully rounded Elf-friend, with a degree from the University of Life, a diploma from the school of hard knocks and three gold stars from the kindergarten of getting the stuffing kicked out of me. And my instincts lead me to believe that we are at last about to go over the top.

Pippin
Great Scott, sir! You don't mean that the moment's finally arrived to give Harry Uruk a darn good Tookland-style thrashing, six of the best, trousers down?

Bagadder
If you mean 'Are we all going to get killed?', yes. Clearly Field Marshal Gandalf is about to make yet another gargantuan effort to move his tobacco jar six inches closer to Barad-dûr.

[Kransha]

Pardon me, but I just realized how dreadfully illiterate my last post in this thread was. Oh, the blatant horror! I believe that was written in a drunken state (Vodka and Tolkien do not mix, m'lads). But now, I shall return to this thread with somethings a bit more on the literate end of the spctrum. Inform me instantaneously if these have been done before and I did not notice...

Lord of the Rings by George Orwell
~TA 3019: Big Balrog is Watching You~

The eye followed him, as it almost always did, the fiery eye, lidless and surrounded by prongs of fire that always struck deep into empty hearts, the ones that had fallen into that eye's thrall. Situated neatly at the terminating pinnacle of Barad-dur, the eye scanned its lands with malevolent greed, overlooking every orcish warren, every uniform apartment complex, every cubicle of living quarters for each miserable, wretched servant to the whims of Sauron. The eye, tempting and tantalizing to those wavering, unquestioning individuals who bowed their heads each day to it, swivelled in its place between two great and jagged daggers of metal, its pupil tracing the rocky countryside as an inspector would.

Argluk, a charcoal-skinned uruk of the Gorgoroth strand, genetically, leaned against the icy ebony metal of Cirith Ungol's walls, trying as hard as his feeble brain could accomodate not to look at the rectangular, smoother device that had been set precariously into the far wall. Though the screen was inevitably blank, Argluk had never entertained the thought that it was not staring directly at him, since all his days of conditioning, at what little teaching he had recieved taught him that every one of the palantiscreens was looking directly at him and no one else. The other students in his class had been told the same, that the palantiscreens focused on them, but Argluk was sure that this had just been a ruse used by his clever teacher to distract them, for it was simply obviopous that the blank screens, pools of liquid black, had been looking directly at him since the day he'd been born. He would not hear anyone question the matter, for it would be easily dismissable as a Gondorohanian lie if he was told otherwise.

He got up, slowly, though his legs were obviously trying to tell him otherwise, and walked across the room. Though he was trying not to look suspicious, he knew that trying not to look suspicious was more suspicious than being suspicious in the first place. Far away from the complex he strolled through, a cloaked man withh gauntleted fingers steepled before him, hood low over his head, sitting in a plush chair in the Department of Tenderness (better known as Minas Morgul) was watching him, him and only him, waiting for him to do something wrong...

Lord of the Rings by Joseph Conrad
~Shooting an Oliphaunt~

The sun, a luminous sphere, hovering delicately like some porcelain mobile rotating mellifluously in the oceanic heavens, began to crest the sloping horizon slowly, oozing into its familiar arc over the dappled sky, littered with the visage of many obstreperous clouds. Pellets of aimless rain caressed the front of my helm, sliding over the shimmering metal and leaving it with an impassive sheen that reflected the vague flashes of thundrous energy that resonated with reserved quietness behind the clouds' wreathing cape, overshadowing the temporary bursts of light. The crystalline droplets, sprinkling ungrateful earth with lively briskness, continued to speckle the landscape, shrugging off the ominous rumblings that swelled with dank fervor in the billowing smog distant.

As I walked, muddy earth fluctuating weakly beneath the worn soles of my boots, my dark brow was knitted and focused diligently upon the rough beast that stood, braying with an inborn fury, between the creaking stumps of monstrous trees not far off. My gloved hand, wrapped in leathery gloves and bound with tattered cloth, moved speedily to the familiar feel of my primary device, the unstrung bow of furnished, splinter-less oak that hung in neglect at my left shoulder, humming in a fashion that suggested I should pick it up. I heard the call, as so often I did, and hummed with it, thinking back to the veil that had descended over my past, the stinging pangs, poisoned and venemous, emitting gentle chimes within me to protest my actions as I plucked the wooden bow from my back and tugged fiercely upon the cord I was required to attatch. It was, as always, a process wrought with the thumping drum of tedium, which only added to my distraction.

All that I knew was, the Oliphaunt must be taken down and I, not caring of the many hapless, unwary men who lurked and scurried across the disigured hulk set upon its rough-skinned back, must be the one to take it down. As my fingers, cold and numbed by ill weather and ill worries, anxiety pulsing against the innards of my skull, found the shaft of the arrows slid into my reverberating quiver, I pulled the bolt from its holdings and set it upon my cupped hand, aiming it with acute precision as I leveled it, using each of the bow's numerous notches, at the beast. Without hesitation, a thousand fiery thoughts coursing through my mind and resounding as church bells would in a silent land, I let loose and watched the arrow fly...

Lord of the Rings by P.G. Woodhouse
~What ho, Erkenbrand!~

It was a cold day in the Westfold; so cold, in fact, that the furry creatures of the plains had taken to killing each other and manufacturing fur coats from the remains that would've turned Edoras high society invariably green with envy. Thec trees swayed foolishly, some of the younger ones rebelling against their more experienced peers and attempting to sway in the opposite direction, but the harsh justicator of wind soon put them all in their place and the trees, sighing mournfully, returned to their melancholy conformity.

Pushing aside his satin tent flap with a pale, smooth hand, Dunhere walked into the crisp breeze and sucked in a deep breath of the gentle natural wonder, pausing to spit out a rogue insect that had been basking carelessly. Flicking strands of grass from his gleaming breastplate of peacock-colored, gaudy hue that brightened and darkened so many wizened faces that glanced at him with pallid expressions as he passed, shaking their heads sadly as his own oversized cranium remained elevated, never deiging to look down on the others until he saw the only man he felt he could twist a few neglected vertebrae to look upon.

"Jolly good day, eh Erky?" he said, a cocky smile peeling across his face as the men behind him broke into peals of raucous giggling which, somehow, he didn't notice.

Erkenbrand was sitting, squat legged, beside the dead embers of what had been a roaring fireplace, sipping a chalice of smoky tea cupped between his index and middle finger conservatively and taking momentary breaks to take in ample draughts from his pipe and puff out melodious rings of fine, gray gas. "Indeed, sir, it is a fine day," he said at last, driving the conversation further into nowhere than it had been a moment ago, "Expect we'll be on the trail of the Hun again, yes?"

"Oh yes," murmured Dunhere, squatting beside his technical commander, "I don't doubt we'll be a-catching on up to the Mordor devils afore the day is out. And then we'll have a fine little bout with 'em and report back to ol' Kingy. He'll be pleased a-plenty with the job we did, wot."

"I have it, sir," replied Erkenbrand, his brow severely knitted as his spoke, nursing his libations, "from very good authority, that 'Kingy' has not been right in the head lately. Perhaps he should be duly avoided, simply until we recieve news to the contrary. T'would not be a good idea to disturb master Theoden in the troes of insanity." Dunhere shot him one of those accustomed are-you-sure-you're-not-the-one-who's-crazy? looks and nodded studiously, shaking his head when Erkenbrand's turned.

"Not right in the head? That'll be Wormtongue puttin' lies in his head, it will. Seeing as how you seem to have the know of things, we'll stick out here. We can head on down to the Hornburg in a day or so, say 'ello to that chap, Gamling, and have a jolly dip in the Entwash." Erkenbrand responded with a curt gesture of the head and slowly mounted his tired legs after Dunhere hopped nimbly onto his own. In a flash, with a veritable train of half-sleeping Rohirrim behind them, they were off...

[tar-ancalime]

Day breaks in Gondor.
Gold melts into the mountain.
The Third Age closes.

[Bekah]

Some extraordinary examples of good writing here.

I need to get off now, but I wanted to be subscripted to this thread.

Cheers,

~ Elentari II

[Mithalwen]

For the benefit of other new arrivals who may be unaware of these delights.. I am awestruck and haven't laughed so much in a long while ... suddenly the unequal struggle with German has become worthwhile...

[Lalwendë]

These are good! I had to have a go myself:

If LOTR had been written in office jargon.

Minutes of the Rivendell Steering Group, 25 October 3018, Conference Room Q.

Attendees:
Elrond - Chairperson (Rivendell)
Gandalf The Grey (Istari Representative)
Bilbo Baggins (The Shire - on secondment to Rivendell)
Frodo Baggins (The Shire)
Glorfindel (Rivendell)
Gloin (Dwarves)
Gimli (Dwarves)
Strider (Independent Representative)
Erestor (Rivendell)
Galdor (Grey Havens)
Legolas (Mirkwood)
Boromir (MinasTirith)

Apologies:
Elladan
Elrohir


1. Minutes from previous meeting
The group discussed events from the South and the wide lands east of the mountains. It was noted that the Ringbearer appeared somewhat distant during this area of discussion and began to pay attention when discussion turned to the matter of the Dwarves events since the last meeting.

2. Agenda Item 1 - Paper on The Forging and Loss of the One Ring (Elrond)
Elrond described to the group the history of the One Ring, further details of which can be found in the paper at Annex A. Boromir raised the issue of the current situation in Gondor and apologised for his late arrival - the 9.15 from Minas Tirith had been delayed for some 110 days. Gandalf asked the Ringbearer to bring forth the ring which prompted discussion between Boromir and Strider.

3. Agenda Item 2 - Paper on The Finding of the One Ring (B. Baggins)
The detail to this paper can be found at Annex B.

4. Agenda Item 3 - Strategy Paper (G. The Grey)
This paper can be found at Annex C. It became apparent to the group from a brainstorming session that S. The White, a former member of the group, has become opposed to the strategic vision of the Rivendell Steering Group. Mr G The Grey presented several options for next action to the group, including retaining the One Ring in the Rivendell vaults and casting it into the oceans. The group discussed all the options available and after much discussion, Elrond utilised power of veto and came to the decision that the ring must be cast into Mount Doom.

Action Point: F. Baggins tasked with destroying the ring.
Deadline: ASAP.

5. Any Other Business
Mr S Gamgee entered the meeting room unexpectedly and offered to assist Mr Baggins in his task.

6. Closing Remarks
Elrond took up his packet of marker pens and made a series of splodges on his Project Plan to identify the milestones which would mark the progress of the quest. The rest of the group followed Mr B Baggins to the canteen for luncheon.

Minutes taken by Arwen Undomiel, Secretary.