The Battle of Mrs Fields

Mrs Fields is what Americans call a 'soccer mom', aka a homely woman who takes the kids to soccer practice, drives a minivan, lives in a normal house, enjoys baking things and has a perfect life, complete with a golden retriever and a white picket fence. Mrs Fields is NOT that company, nor does she work for it. Forgive me for poking fun at American 'soccer moms.'

I don't own Lord of the Rings.

"There's a my apple cider..." sang Théoden, king of some stupid country called Rohan. " la la la! It's in my cup...climbing up...because it's a my apple cider! LA...LA!"

He was riding into battle with his stupid army of stupid people from Rohan. It was a lovely morning before sunrise. The otters were chirping, the unicorns were eating their young, and the lizards were howling at the moon as he rode past. Théoden never would have guessed that this morning would be his last.

Just then, Snowmane reared and Théoden fell to the ground like a girl scout on the fourth night of Hanukah. He blinked and tried to get up, but Snowmane was on top of him...and he liked it. Snowmane neighed and tried to get up as well, but he was hurt badly from the Nerf dart that had struck him in the groin.

"Muahahaha!" something shrieked. Théoden closed his ugly eyes and took a nap. Merry, who heard the evil laughter, put down his porno magazine featuring Gandalf and Elrond's eyebrows and ran out to see what made that freaky noise.

Merrykins was shocked at what he saw. There was a nazgûl, but it was covered in pink feathers and shiny Christmas lights. On top of that freaky nazgûl was a scary woman with short, obviously dyed red hair in khaki slacks, Keds trainers, and a frilly apron. She was holding her son's soccer ball on a swingy stick and a Betty Crocker cookbook. Merry knew who this was. She was Mrs Fields, the most feared soccer mom of Angmar.

"Strip off his flesh," Mrs Fields commanded her nazgûl. She was talking about Théoden, everyone's favourite greeble. "And then bake him into a delicious pie that I can give to Billy's soccer coach!"

"Begone, foul soccer mom, lord of carry-out dinners from Boston Market!" yelled Dernhelm. "Leave the dead in peace!"

"Don't come between a vicious soccer mom and her prey," whispered Mrs Fields. "Come on, come and get me!"

The nazgûl randomly fell over and died of constipation. Merry giggled because he would love to see a fight between a soccer mom and Dernhelm. He took out a portable microwave and made popcorn. The popcorn went 'crunch crunch crunch' as Merry and a random Easterling ate and viewed the showdown between a creepy soccer mom and a constipated Rohirric person.

Mrs Fields laughed evilly and swung the soccer ball around like a giant squid at a Broadway play. "No man can hinder me," she said maliciously, farting in Dernhelm's face.

"I AM NO MAN!" Dernhelm pulled off his/her mask and revealed his/her true identity... Éowyn. Merry cried and tossed the bucket of popcorn at her in frustration. He had been looking forward to seducing Dernhelm because he was supposed to be a man.

"Shit," muttered Mrs Fields. "I think I just soiled myself."

There was a long silence, but that silence was broken by Mrs Fields' loud screams. She grabbed her knee and hopped around like a jupiter bunny on cocaine. Alas, Merry had given her a belly button ring in the back of her knee with an old nail gun that he had stolen from the Home Alone kid. Mrs Fields staggered and leaned forward, giving Éowyn an opportunity to whack her with the inflatable pink dolphin that the author won at a fair in Gettysburg.

The inflatable dolphin squeaked and squeaked and squeaked and freaking squeaked some more as Éowyn repeatedly hit Mrs Fields with it. Merry made some more popcorn, and just when it was done, Éowyn stabbed Mrs Fields with an unripe strawberry named Gerard. Mrs Fields fell to the ground and died.

Merry jumped for joy as Éowyn collapsed as well. War was fun, even more fun than senile geezers with unibrows, photographing lemons, and even watching a catfish play a banjo. He suddenly remembered that Théoden was still alive, and he quickly crawled over to him. Théoden obviously forgot about Merry because he was making love to Snowmane like there was no tomorrow...and there wouldn't be a tomorrow for him anyway.

"Oooh, do me harder!" exclaimed Théoden. "Where's Éomer? He must be king after me."

"Up your arse," replied Merry.

"What a shame," Théoden said sadly. "I would like to poop him out, but there's so much pressure on me. I feel like a punk rocker during mating season. Oh, Eru, wouldn't it be cool if I met a breadstick with legs? What would I do? I mean, I can't consume a fudgy judge! My butt is tingly...yes, sir, I did indeed prank the Domino's delivery man. I slept with his mother, too. GUACAMOLE!"

"Théoden King, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Good question. Would you like some igfrads?" Théoden asked. "Kraxxiesmdf Islam...I FOUND NEMO!" And with that, Théoden died, passed on to something better, met his maker, went to Davy Jones' locker, and became worm chow.

Éomer rode up on his pink tricycle and saw Merry standing over Théoden and Éowyn's bodies. He shoved Merry aside like a prostate gland in a boring calculus class. "Muahahahaha! I am king now. Take my uncle's body and sell him to Applebee's. They can make pie with him."

"What about your sister, you birdlike bastard?" asked a random Rohirric man, who was wearing Spongebob Squarepants slippers and a metallic blue tankini.

Éomer thought for a moment. "Cover her in glue, roll her around in a pile of feathers, strip off her feathery skin and make a kingly boa for me to wear to Sauron's Halloween party. I'm going as a nun," he paused and turned to Merry. "Do you Yahoo?"

Merry shook his head and gave Éomer the middle finger. "No, I Google."

"I ask Jeeves!" said Éomer happily. "What do you think his answer would be if I asked him out? Would he say no, or would he just pout? What would happen if I choked on a granola bar? Surely I'd run out and buy an expensive car..."

"That's enough poetry for now, Éomer King," one of his follower dudes said. "You're supposed to be mourning and fighting, if it's even possible to do that at the same time."

"Diabetes," he said simply, riding off into the sunrise, unaware that he had a giant period stain on his rear end. Merry stood where he was and blinked. No, the king and Éowyn couldn't be dead, they just couldn't. Merry did not want to accept the truth. He would never see them again, never poke them with gel pens or stuff illegal substances up their noses again. This made Merry feel heartbroken like a husky in a pair of Puma trainers that were originally worn by a Ukrainian newscaster with three arms and an electric green unibrow.

Merry began to sing the following song because the author had nothing better to do with him at the time. Fo sho, yo.

Come with me, Ryder truck
Dance with me, Ryder truck
Over the valleys and through the plains
We'll frolic along beside a train...

"Éowyn's a-notta dead," interrupted a random Italian dude that Merry recognised as Imrahil. "She a-sleeping!"

Merry stared at Imrahil as he consumed numerous mouldy canolis. This man couldn't know about being a doctor. This was indeed true. The only thing that Imrahil knew was the price of platypus noses that were exported from Bora-Bora and South Africa.

"Holy, holy, I need a canoli!" Imrahil said.

Then the author got extremely lazy. Aragorn, who was still the heir of the non-important king guy, rode into battle with the dead people. Everyone joined hands and sang a song that went like this:

Newts! For breakfast, lunch and dinner
Newts! For breakfast, lunch and dinner

Oven fried newts for breakfast
Chilled newts for lunch
Flame-broiled newts for dinner
And little toasted newts for a midnight snack!

Newts! For breakfast, lunch and dinner
Newts! For breakfast, lunch and dinner

Honey glazed newts for breakfast
Roasted newts for lunch
Salted newts for dinner
And little toasted newts for a midnight snack!

Newts! For breakfast, lunch and dinner
Newts! For breakfast, lunch and dinner

We all love newts!

"Worrrrrd," said Aragorn.