The Lord of the Rings is an amazing set of movies, yes. It has won international acclaim, yes. It has won a bunch of Oscars, yes. But where would be the fun if we couldn't parody it?

As a rule, anything wrong in this story in regards to canon, characterisation, setting, space, time and/or continuums is meant to be that way, hence the parody part of, well, parody.

If I owned the Lord of the Rings I would buy my own island and a pack of ostriches with x-ray vision. Alas, I do not. Let this story be known as a result of numerous late nights, very random MSN conversations and a few too many cans of a certain caffeine-infused beverage.



It all began really with this kid called Sauron. Now it's never been easy for a horny pubescent dark lord having to endure the horror that is high school. But to go through all that as a giant flaming eye? I mean, that's like walking around with a giant 'kick me' sign on your back, and boy did it make Sauron bitter to the end of his days.


He concocted an evil plan, which involved a bunch of rings, and knowing the vanity of the Elves, and of Men and the… um… Dwarves, he gave to them this mystical jewelry and ensnared them in his power. For another ring was made, in secret, in the fires of Mount Doom. And into this Ring he poured his cruelty, his malice, and his will to get back at anyone who had ever called him Eyeball.

One Ring to rule them all.

One by one, free lands in Middle-Earth fell to the power of the Ring. But there were some who resisted. A group of Elves and Men got together and had a cup of tea, and decided that they really didn't like this Sauron chap, and thought it right and proper to march over to his gate, politely knock, and ask him to stop killing and raping and pillaging their lands kthanxbye! But things don't always work out the way you want them to, and Sauron got rather mad, and there ended up being this epic battle called the Last Alliance, where the race of Elves and Men fought for the freedom of Middle Earth, right on the slopes of Mount Doom.

One part of said Alliance To End All Alliances was led by the Lord Elrond, wisest of all elves, who sported a disarming scowl and a wandering eyebrow that could put The Rock to shame. Despite the rather epic and bloody battle occurring around, beside, below and on top of him, he was not wearing a helmet. Chalk it down to elven machismo.

"Tangado haid!" he cried. "Hado i philinn!"

And it was at that moment that a certain percentage of the audience became wide-eyed. The… characters… aren't… speaking… English? Several made a desperate charge for the exit. But there stood a figure there, wrapped in a grey cloak and wielding a staff. He lifted stern eyes and glared at these runaways.

"You shall not pass!"

They all scurried back to their seats.

Meanwhile, a line of elven archers sent a volley of arrows at the approaching orcs; ugly, hulking beasts of assorted shapes, sizes, colours and flavours. This did nothing to dissuade the enemy however, and in a beautiful synchronistic display the elves wielded their double edged swords and proceeded to hack and slash at the oncoming beasts quicker than you can 'Yrch!'

It seemed victory was near. The orcs began to flee from this fierce onslaught of Elves and Men. But suddenly a shadow of fear came upon all. Before them rose a dark figure, wielding a rather nifty mace. He looked down at all of the men before him, quivering with fear, and a little smile alighted upon his lips.


They all backed away, cowering. Sauron feinted with his mace. They all cowered again. He feigned left, then right, then back and forth and around in a little circle. Tens of thousands of warriors across the plains of Mordor all performed a perfectly synchronized pirouette. But then there stopped forth a man called Elendil. He was a fearsome warrior of great renown, tall, strong, and wielding a huge sword (not that kind you perverts!). Narsil it was called, and a fire was in its blade. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Sauron turned to face Elendil and frowned.

"Where's Gil-Galad?"

Elendil shrugged.

"They decided he was so superfluous that they cut him out of the movie altogether." Something caught his eye. "He's lying over there." He pointed. "And there." He looked down. "And I think there's some of him on my shoe."

Sauron looked glum.

"That's a shame. What about all of his crazy obsessed fangirls?"

Elendil bowed his head.

"Alas! for the fangirls!" Then he seemed to realise something, and lifted his head. "So, wanna have a really anticlimactic one second battle?"


There was a flash and a bang and Elendil lay sprawled upon the floor, dead. His son, Isildur, rushed to his side.

"Well," he said, frowning, "that was rather anticlimactic."

Sauron just shrugged, and stomped upon Isildur's fingers as he tried to lift his father's sword. The blade broke beneath him.

Isildur's face fell.

"How in Eru's name can this sword be the most amazingly fantastical blade in all of existence if it can be broken by SOMEONE'S SHOE?" He sighed a long suffering sigh, and then lashed out, and cut the Ring from Sauron's finger. It fell to the ground, smouldering. Sauron looked at his severed finger. His eyes widened.

"Thank Eru I wore the thing on my finger!"

Then he exploded.

Isildur lay there, slightly windswept. He looked at the sword, and then at Sauron, and then at the sword again. He was a pretty slow guy.

"Wait a minute," he said. "This is Sauron isn't it? Lord of the Ring, Master of the Earth, the Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named, The Giant Flaming Eyeball himself?" He frowned. "And I defeated him by cutting off his BLOODY FINGER?"

He threw down the broken sword, and stormed off to his trailer.


And so Sauron was defeated, and the Ring passed to Isildur, who could've just chucked it into Mount Doom and been done with it. But oh no, that wouldn't do, because then there would be no Lord of the Rings trilogy, and the bucket loads of money and perfume endorsements and action figures that are sure to follow.

But yeah, like I said. Isildur may have been an idiot, but he knew a good movie franchise when he saw it. He secretly schemed to keep the Ring so that he could be conveniently ambushed en route to Gondor, wherein he would be slain and have the Ring slip off his finger and into the river. It would then be picked up by the creature Gollum, who would take it deep into the Misty Mountains, and become quite scarily obsessed with it. Not to the degree that some fangirls obsess, but, y'know, somewhere just below that.

Anyways, one day a hobbit called Bilbo Baggins would just happen to be walking through Gollum's cave, and would conveniently find the Ring, put it in his pocket, and wander back home to the Shire. And there, you see, we have the very plausible (wink, wink) set up to a very profitable movie franchise, named the Lord of the Rings.

For the time will soon come when Hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.

Or something.


In an idyllic landscape, under an idyllic looking tree, there sat a hobbit. His nose was buried in a book, the title of which was quite plainly The Communist Manifesto.

A few passers by threw him odd looks. This was Frodo Baggins, heir to Bilbo Baggins, who was himself a rather queer hobbit everyone tended to avoid. Frodo had dark hair and big, bulging blue eyes. If astonished or scared, they would probably fall out of his head.

Frodo cocked an ear. The sound of singing could be heard upon the breeze. He stood up, and grinning widely, hurried off to find the source of the noise. After a moment, he stopped on a grassy slope above the road. Around the corner there came a cart laden with fireworks. Driving it was an old man, dressed in grey robes and a pointed hat. His beard was as long as his nose was large.

"The road goes ever on and on," he sang. "Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the road has gone, and I must follow if I can…"

Frodo folded his arms.

"Who's that singing blatantly obvious lines from the book to appease the purists?"

The cart stopped, and the man in it peered at Frodo from under the brim of his hat. His gaze was stern.

"And why," he said, "would I need to be appeasing the purists?"

"Well," said Frodo, ticking off on his hands, "I look about twenty years younger than I should, the back story of the Ring has been atrociously condensed, Gil-Galad and Elendil were presented as idiots, and your hat should be blue, not grey. And that's only in the first two scenes of the movie. Do you want me to go on?"

They both stared at each other for a moment. Then they burst into laughter. Frodo jumped into the cart and glomped the wizard.

"It's wonderful to see you Gandalf!

"You didn't think I'd miss your Uncle Bilbo's birthday?"

He raised his eyebrows provocatively, then clapped a hand on Frodo's shoulder. The hobbit brushed his hand aside with a stern glance. Gandalf went back to driving the cart.

"So?" asked Frodo, as they rolled along. "How 'bout that outside world, huh?"

Gandalf shrugged.

"Y'know, the usual. Couple of battles, some plagues… ooh, and I got a tattoo!" He pulled up his sleeve, and brandished it with a grin.

"Er," said Frodo, peering at his arm, "why does it say Gondalf?"

The wizard did a double take, and twisted his arm, so he could see the tattoo more clearly.


The cart continued to trundle through the sleepy little region of land known as the Shire. All about them stretched fields of crop, snatches of trees, flowers, and many a hobbit hole with their little rounded doors, some extravagant, some not so extravagant. A little gathering of hobbit children began to follow the cart. Gandalf shot off some fireworks at them, which chased them down the road and out of sight, nipping at their heels with golden stars.

"I never did like children," said Gandalf, off Frodo's confused glance.

They passed a field, where a huge pavilion was being set up for Bilbo's birthday party. Gandalf grinned.

"So how is the old rascal?" asked the wizard. "I hear it's got to be a party of special magnificence."

Frodo nodded.

"It's gonna be bigger than Mardi Gras, I'm telling you. Bilbo's got the whole place in an uproar. Half the Shire's been invited." A rotten tomato came whizzing over their heads. "The other half are a bit testy."

"Good gracious me!"

Frodo frowned. "He is up to something…"

Gandalf gave a secret smile.

"Oh really…"

Frodo laughed.

"All right then keep your secrets. Before you came along we Bagginses were very well thought of."


"Never had any adventures or did anything unexpected."

"If you're referring to the incident with the dragon, I was barely involved. All I did was give your uncle a little nudge out of the door."

Frodo snorted.

"Oh please. You bashed a hole in his front door, sent him running out to Eru-knows-where without a pocket handkerchief and disappeared at the most inconvenient of times in order to heighten the tension of the story."

Gandalf looked about shiftily.

"Well, I'm definitely not going to be doing that a lot in this film, no siree."

Frodo clapped a hand on the wizard's shoulder.

"Gandalf, I'm glad you're back."

And he jumped off the moving cart and dashed merrily away.

"And that," muttered Gandalf, shaking the reins with a sigh, "is one of the last times you will ever see that boy smile in this entire trilogy."


A few minutes later Gandalf rumbled up the hill and came to a stop outside Bag End, the residence of one Bilbo Baggins. Upon the gate there hung a sign: 'Piss off, I'm hung-over'.

Gandalf ignored this sign, opened the gate, plodded up the path and knocked on the front door with his staff. And once again, he knocked a hole through Bilbo's front door. Whistling innocently, he chucked his staff into the bushes as the door was opened.

"No thank you!" came a groggy voice. "We don't want any more visitors, well-wishers or distant relations!"

Gandalf chuckled.

"And what about very old friends?"

The door swung open all the way. On the threshold there stood a small hobbit, with greying curly hair and beady eyes. He squinted in the morning sun. A bottle of brandy was in his left hand.

"Gandalf?" he said, rubbing at his head.

"Bilbo Baggins!" The wizard knelt down and wrapped his arms about the swaying hobbit. Then he backed away, with a look of long suffering upon his face. "Y'know Bilbo, you should really stop going on these all-night benders. It can't be good for you, especially at your age! One hundred and eleven years old… who would believe it?" Then he looked at the hobbit in wonder. "You haven't aged a day."

Bilbo laughed, and took a swig from his brandy.

"Well, I guess I must be doing something right then! Come on, come in! Welcome, welcome!" He ushered Gandalf inside and closed the door. "I was just doing a nice greasy fry-up. You want some?"

Gandalf shook his head: "Just tea, thank you."

And Bilbo bustled off to go and check upon his bacon. Gandalf walked into the study. The desk by the window was cluttered with letters, papers and maps. Gandalf picked one up and looked at it with a smile. It depicted the Lonely Mountain.


"Hmm?" The sound of sizzling pork rashers drifted in from the kitchen.

"Why is it called the Lonely Mountain? I mean, it's a mountain right? How can a mountain get lonely?"

Bilbo came back in, a plate of bacon and eggs in hand.

"You know, I never really thought about it…" There was an obscene amount of banging upon the front door. The hobbit threw himself against the wall and whispered: "I'm not at home!"

Gandalf nodded, and then put down the map and walked to the front door. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was waiting on the front step, with her hands upon her hips.

"Sorry," said Gandalf. "Bilbo is not at home."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, how convenient! Bilbo Baggins decides to take a trip the day after throwing up all over my flowerbeds!"

Gandalf turned towards the hidden Bilbo.

"Did you?"

The hobbit made a slashing motion across his throat.

Gandalf coughed.

"I, er, I mean… did he? Really? Hmm. Well, I'm sure he'll be back to make amends soon. It's not like he's hiding in the study or anything!" Bilbo slapped himself in the forehead. "Well, um, bye!"

And he shut the door in her face. Bilbo watched her storm off down the path with a sigh.

"I've got to get away from these confounded relatives hanging on the bell, never giving me a moment's peace!" He collapsed into a seat by the table, and began waffling down his breakfast. "I want to see mountains again, mountains Gandalf! And then find somewhere quiet where I can finish my book." The kettle whistled. "Ah, tea!"

He leapt up and poured Gandalf a mug. The wizard sat down and had a sip. His face screwed up in disgust. Then he swiped Bilbo's bottle of brandy off the sideboard and gave it a kick.

"So, you mean to go through with your plan, then?"

"Yes, yes. It's all in hand. All the arrangements are made." He pointed to a suitcase in the corner. "Been packed for days."

Gandalf frowned.

"Frodo suspects something."

"Er, yes," Bilbo coughed. "Well, I was phoning up the travel agents the other day to book tickets to Hawaii and I accidentally dialed his number…"


"So you see, I took him on a bender and plied him with drink until he'd forget." The hobbit grinned. "I think it worked."

Gandalf nodded.

"He certainly looked bright-eyed and bushytailed just a little while ago."

"Yes, well the lad can handle his drink. Damned youth."

"You will tell him eventually, won't you?"

"Yes, yes."

"He's very fond of you."

Bilbo's eyes widened.

"Is he? I-I mean, I know we are related, but only distantly…"

Gandalf clouted him.

"There are enough fangirls in this godforsaken world! Do not make a slip of the tongue and create more of them with your incestuous remarks!"

Bilbo rubbed his head.

"Sorry." He had a sip of tea. "He'd probably come- I- I mean, he would follow me if I asked him. I think in his heart Frodo is still in love with the Shire. Stupid friggin' tree hugger he is. I wouldn't be surprised if he ran off and joined Green Peace." Bilbo got up and walked to the window. His face became sad. "I'm old Gandalf. I know I look a million dollars. But it's not the botox, it's something else. I'm beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel thin… sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. I need a holiday, a very long holiday, and I don't expect I shall return. In fact, I mean not to!"

The wizard frowned.

"Well, nice to see you again too!"


Later that night, once Bilbo's pounding headache had subsided a bit, they both stumbled outside and sat on the porch, taking in a bit of the night air. Gandalf looked about shiftily.

"Umm, Bilbo?"


"Is it okay for us to…" He lowered his voice. "Smoke?"

Bilbo frowned.

"Don't be absurd! Of course it's okay for us to smoke!" He slipped his pipe out of his jacket pocket and began to light up. "Why do you ask?"

Gandalf shrugged.

"Peter Jackson gave me these…" He fished out a bag of toffees. "And apparently I'm meant to chew them instead of smoking my pipe."

"But why?"

The wizard looked forlorn.

"Apparently the censors don't look too kindly on so many characters in this trilogy smoking, let alone the good guys."

"So if Sauron smoked it would be ok?"

The wizard shrugged.


Bilbo scowled.

"Bloody double standards."

Gandalf reached into his pocket and fished out a pipe and some tobacco weed.

"Hmm, well the props department has given me this, so I suppose New Line backed down." He lit up, and smoked in silent thought for a moment. "I suppose if we don't make smoking seem really cool and trendy then it'll be okay."

A pause.

"Wanna blow smoke rings?"

"You're on!"