Chapter Twenty-nine: Boromir's Big, Wet Homoerotic Sendoff
Hmmm…perhaps playing the gay card is too obvious for the last chapter of this book.
Chapter Twenty-nine: Frodo and Sam's Bogus Journey
As So-crates once said, 'Like, be excellent to each other, dude!' Totally…not!
Chapter Twenty-nine: Hey! They Left Lurtz Out of the Book!
I can't believe they couldn't find at least one hack writer to properly follow film canon! This omission has completely upended my suspension of disbelief. Well, that joke would be humorous – if the fans of the film could actually read.
Chapter Twenty-nine: Boromir's Big, Wet Homoerotic Sendoff
But then again, the general perception of the story is that there are subtle undertones – albeit unintended – of latent, frustrated homosexuality. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Chapter Twenty-nine: The Stunning Climax
Nah, I've already done that shtick in Monty Python's The Hobbit parody. Wait a moment…I've already done this repetitive chapter title bit as well. Oh dear…
Chapter Twenty-nine: The Dim Realization
Look, it's not as if I've run out of ideas. I think I've managed to variate the word puns, slapstick and literary allusions quite well…
Chapter Twenty-nine: He's Rationalizing Again
And yes, I've admittedly lifted other people's material, but it's a parody of Tolkien for Christ's sake. I mean, really, the man created one damned creature, a Hobbit, and then grabbed the entire contents of the Völuspá and the Nibelungenlied for the rest of his sordid tale! The story of Turin? It's a rip-off of the Finnish Kalevala -- right down to the maniacal, talking sword! But it's not stealing for HIM, oh no – for Tolkien it's a brilliant literary synthesis!
Chapter Twenty-nine: Fraud!
Oh, I've tried to be original. I've labored over every word, teased every last nuance, acted as the cunning linguist in matters of innuendo…
Chapter Twenty-nine: Can You Believe This Bullshit?
But it's hard trying to always be so damned funny. Always funny, funny always, funny, funny funny, funny, funny, funny, funny, funny! The word no longer even makes sense when I say it: FUN-NEE, FU-NEE, FUNNEEEEE! And the expectations are mounting. Spiraling! Tottering! Faltering! Falling! And there are still two more books in the trilogy! Oh, I know what you fanatical Tolkien freaks are smarmily muttering: it's not a trilogy, Morthoron, it was never intended to be split into three parts. Sod off! I will use French and Latin words if I want to! I will give Welsh names to all the Orcs and have Slavic Elves drunk and swearing like drunken Portuguese sailors taking advantage of a virtuous llama. Or even an underage alpaca! Yes, wanton, orgiastic Llamalette pornography! Better yet, I WILL MAKE THE ENTIRE STORY ALLEGORICAL! A FABLE OF THE ATOM BOMB! I WILL…
*Sounds of a keyboard clattering, paper rustling, chair upending, a horrific crash and intermittent groans*
Chapter Twenty-nine: The Dénouement of a Writer's Breakdown
Sonofabitch! I think I've broken my hand on the edge of the desk. I'll have to type one-handed. Where are my cigarettes?
*The Pavlovian sound of a flicking Bic, followed by a nervous inhale and then a languid, satisfying exhale*
Chapter Twenty-nine: Let's Just Muddle On with the Story, Shall We?
Frodo pulled the near-drownded and sopping Samwise into the boat. Sam wheezed and shivered and hacked convulsively for quite a while; yet when he had finally spewed out enough rank river water to speak, he instead paused for a moment and looked about dazedly. There was a creeping unease growing in his mind. Something was just not right.
"Mister Frodo," the Hobbit chittered through chattering teeth, "something's amiss, and make no mistake."
"Whatever do you mean, dear Sam?" Frodo asked in his usual annoyingly cloying manner. "It's just you and me now, heading off to Mordor. We've just reduced the superfluous dialogue and horrid accents exponentially."
"Yes…I can see…that," Sam hesitated, "but how did we get to this point?"
"Well, I rowed out to the middle of the river, and you tried desperately to swim after me. It was all quite dramatic."
"Ummm…yes…I'm sure it were, Mister Frodo," Sam said, still struggling to put a finger on the problem, "but what happened to this here story? One paragraph, the Fellership is rowing down the Anduin, trading barbs about Wetwang and Elvish dental floss, and then in the next, you and I are alone heading for the Blacklands. It just don't make sense, if you get my meaning."
"Now Sam," Frodo replied rather condescendingly, "I think you are grossly exaggerating. There were several paragraphs of meandering narrative randomness that separates us from the boat ride down the Anduin. The previous chapter was so last week."
"Still," Sam grumbled, "it seems we skipped out on a whole lot 'o' action."
"Poor, poor Sam," Frodo sighed. "Still stuck in the Shire, where every burp and fart can last several minutes. Here in the real world outside of Hobbiton there are things called time compression and editing. Out here, no one has time for six or seven meals in a day, and folks don't take all morning to mow a ten-foot strip of grass and then spend all afternoon in a pub."
"Out here sucks," Sam huffed bluntly.
"Yes…yes it does," Frodo said in glum agreement. "Would it help if we interspersed our dialogue with jarring flashbacks?"
"Nah. It's all ruinded, so to speak. It's one thing to be in the action, and another altogether to get it second-handed. It's a might like getting drunk and waking up next to a fine, young hobbit-maid saying you and her just had the best sex 'o' her life."
"I wouldn't know," Frodo replied with noticeable distaste.
Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas stood along the riverbank, watching intently as Frodo and Sam clambered up the hills on the far side of the Anduin.
"Well, that's that," Aragorn sighed in resignation as he wiped the Orkish blood and tattered shards of flesh from his notched blade.
"Awe'nt we going awfter them?" Legolas cried.
"No," Aragorn said, "I'm afraid my boots will not stand up too well in the marshes. Besides, Bilbo and Gollum should catch up to them soon, and the very thought of that dialogue makes me cringe."
Legolas eyes grew wide in fear. "That wiw be quite wetched, weawwy."
"I theenk then, eet's finito for our questo, amigos," Gimli grumbled in disgust.
Aragorn arched an eyebrow at Gimli's newfangled accent. "Must you talk like that, Gimli? It is quite off-putting."
Gimli merely shrugged. "Nuevo chapter, nuevo accent, ésse."
Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Let's at least go back and do something with Boromir's body."
Gimli frowned. "Boromir?" He spat. "We don't need no steenking Boromirs."
Legolas nodded. "He was such a whiny bitch."
"Well, I think we can all agree that Boromir is better off dead," Aragorn muttered. "I certainly won't miss him." Then the others caught a mischievous glint in the ranger's eyes. "You know what would be cool? Let's stick his body in a boat and dump him over the falls!"
Legolas smiled maliciously. "Oh, I would dearwy wove to watch that, Awagown!"
"I know!" Aragorn laughed. "It would be a viral video hit on YouTube."
So, the three comrades dumped Boromir's body in a boat, and sent him unceremoniously down the Anduin towards the Rauros.
"Now what?" Aragorn said dejectedly as the boat dropped out of sight in the rushing water of the falls. "Shall we just go home?"
"Wait, muchachos," Gimli said, "I can't help but theenk we're forgettin' sometheeng or other."
Legolas scratched his head and Aragorn looked puzzled. But then they all three shrugged and prepared to leave. Suddenly, Aragorn espied an Elven broach stomped into the mud. "This must be Merry or Pippins!" He cried.
"Not wightwy do da weaves of Wówien fawl," Legolas said in all seriousness.
"Shall we then leave the Hobbits to the endless torments of the Orcs and their malingering master, Saruman?" Aragorn asked grimly.
There was a long pause. A very, very, very, very long pause. In fact, the lapse in the dialogue amounted to a veritable interregnum of an interruption.
Finally, Aragorn mumbled, "Well, I suppose we should go hunt some Orc."
"I theenk I prefer de long pause," Gimli grumbled.
And so, the three hunters gathered up what scant provisions they could carry on their backs and sprinted off in the direction the Orcs had taken the two captive Hobbits. Meanwhile, Frodo and Sam had crested the last hill and stared out at the vast and barren wasteland that stretched for endless miles before them.
"It could be worser, Mister Frodo," Samwise said optimistically.
"How could it be any worse?" Frodo whined.
"Well, at least it aint raining."
Suddenly, the overcast skies rumbled and there was a flash of lightning. The Hobbits were quickly drenched in a torrential downpour.
"It still could get worser," Sam said, maintaining his obnoxiously oblivious optimism.
Frodo considered putting on the Ring and disappearing, and leaving Sam where he stood. But he merely grunted some curses and began slogging down the muddy hills of Emyn Muil in the general direction of Mordor, the Land of Shadow Puppets.
Thus ends the first part of the parody of the War of the Rings.
The second part is called 'Monty Python's Two Towers', or perhaps 'Fawlty Towers' in honor of John Cleese. On second thought, let's just keep it 'Two Towers' and forego any further copyright infringements. The 'Two Towers' recounts the further slapstick adventures of the members of the Fellowship as they maneuver around Orthanc, the silly citadel of the sardonic Saruman, and Minas Morgul, the mangey manse of the most mawkish minion of Mordor. Alliteration aside, please join us for further fun as the now sundered Fellowship blunders blithely through a new set of asinine adventures and tactless tales.
"Better bring your waders," Sam said. "The shit's getting a might deeper, if you follow me."