e-text parody (5-3): The Blockbuster of Rohan (Part 2)
David M. McCandless
Scene 5: Tennis, Anyone?
Dunfore: Old heroes are as competitive as young ones, and so competitive sports
remain important to the spirit of our facility.
[Shot of an old hobbit playing singles against a blancmange and getting utterly
smeared.]
Gorbadoc: (laying on the ground after one particularly brutal ace) Stop that!
Blancmange: All right.
[The man removes the blancmange costume, revealing John Cleese with pointy
ears. Going back to the line, he serves again, this time from his full 6' 5"
height.]
Gorbadoc: (whimpering) STOP THAT!
------------------------------------
Scene 6: A Snake in the Grass
[The tour group passes a closet from behind which one can hear giggling and
elbowing.]
Eonard: Hullo, what's this?
[He flips open the door, recoiling in shock at the sight of an amorous couple,
sans clothing, locked in a tight embrace.]
Eonard: Eowynifred ?
Eowynifred: Eonard ?!
Man: HeyHoDen ??!
HeyHoDen: WORMTONGUE ???!
[A hand snakes out. The door slams shut.]
Eonard: But she said she was going to the mall, to mock those who had less
money and less expensive designer clothing! Like, sure!
HeyHoDen (pounding on door): Come out of there! Come out of there at once,
young lady!
Eowynifred (muffled): No!
HeyHoDen: You're making a fool of yourself on the Usenet!
Eowynifred: I don't care!
HeyHoDen: That's it! You're grounded! Go to your room!
Eowynifred: My room is four hundred miles away!
HeyHoDen: All right then! You're... double, SECRET grounded! And forbidden to
see Wormtongue ever again!
Eowynifred: BUT I LOVE HIM FATHER!
[big pause as everyone looks at each other]
HeyHoDen: (sheepishly) By Eorl's golden chamberpot, I have no clue how to
respond to THAT one.
--------------------------------------------
COMMERCIAL: Dwarf Acrobatic Team
Dunfore (overdubbed): Here at Dunhero , we're not just any old retirement home.
There's always things to do and new skills to learn, even if you're as old as
El Rond without a face lift!
[Block letters on screen: DWARF ACROBATIC TEAM]
Dunfore: Most long-bearded dwarves take up rappelling, but why limit yourself?
[Camera cuts to eight wrinkled dwarves who dive and roll around the gymnasium,
wearing spandex shorts and tank tops, to the throbbing beat of Boy George's
"I'll Tumble For You."]
All Dwarves: Hi! Ho! Yippee-Hi-Ho!
[One at a time, each somersaults by the eye of the camera as way of
introduction, then vaults up into a precarious pyramid formation.]
Dwarf 1: I'm Balin!
Dwarf 2: And Ori!
Dwarf 3: Oin!
Dwarf 4: Thror!
Dwarf 5: Durin!
Dwarf 6: He's Gropey!
Dwarf 7: He's Dumpy!
Dwarf 8: And I'm Percival!
All Dwarves: And We! Are! The Dwarf Acrobatic Team!
[They hold the formation for all of three seconds before Ori farts, then rolls
over convulsing in laughter. The pyramid collapses.]
Balin: Okay. Break for ten.
[Dwarves grab towels, six-packs of Michelob, and Cuban cigars, and head for the
sauna.]
HeyHoDen: (sounding very much like he's reading from a cue card) As King of
Rohan and a perennial lover of horses, I must say that I respect the talents of
these skilled performers --
Eonard (off-camera): But Uncle, didn't you used to say that dwarves tumble best
when pushed off a high cliff?
HeyHoDen (whacking Eonard off-camera with flat of sword): -- and I look forward
to the many recreational activities that Dunhero has to offer old fogies like
me.
Dunhero: When your hero days are done, be a zero just for fun.
---------------------------------
Scene 7: Everyone All Caught Up
[With tempers cooled, Morrie locked in Day Care, the lovers out of the closet,
Wormtongue duct-taped to the futon, Eonard making himself a Burning Eye
egg-cram-liverwurst sandwich, no more infomercials being filmed, and HeyHoDen
wondering why it was so hard to fake his own death like everyone else and
retire secretly in peace, everyone spent some time catching up.]
Eowynifred: (repeated for the fiftieth time, as she brushes her hair and fixes
her smudged makeup) But are you SURE he's DEAD?
HeyHoDen: (crossing his fingers) Yes.
Eonard: But that makes no sense, the Door didn't lead to the Paths of the DEAD,
it led to the Paths of the LIVING --
HeyHoDen: Silence, varlot, he is DEAD DEAD DEAD!
[The bathroom door opens, and out comes Thror of the Dwarf Acrobatic Team,
wrapped in a towel.]
Thror: (gruffly) Hope you don't mind, but I borrowed your nail clippers to trim
my eyebrows. By the way, someone left this on your pillow.
[He hands HeyHoDen a small card that says, simply, "No, he's not, he's ALIVE!"]
Eonard: (curious) Didn't that come with any chocolates or mints or something?
The maid's supposed to leave chocolates or mints.
[Thror belches loudly in Eonard's face in response, then goes back into the
bathroom.]
HeyHoDen: (tossing the card in the trash so no one can see it) If old tales
speak truly, none have ventured the Paths of the Living since Balderdash, son
of Brillo, was thrown through that Door and had it barred and mortared shut
behind him, to never be seen among men again -- not even after election
officials removed that seal eighty years later to hide ballots from Palm Beach
within its dark tunnels.
Eowynifred: Then why would Aragon even go that way?
Wormtongue: (still tied up) To win the election for Al Gore?
Eonard: No one knows the purposes of the insane.
Eowynifred: (bitter) Greatly changed was that man since last I saw him in the
King's house -- a pathetic fool, lost in delusions of grandeur, unable to
accept the honest love of a passionate, intelligent, beautiful woman with good
hair, one who loved him desperately and would have done anything he wanted,
literally ANYTHING, if only he would have taken her within his strong arms
and...
[She trails away as she realizes everyone else is staring at her.]
Eowynifred (waving a fist in the direction of the Door): FIE ON THEE, mayest
thou rot in the depths of HELL forever for thy scorn! Err, I really mean that.
[There is a long pause.]
Wormtongue: So you were just using me.
Eowynifred: (nodding) Yeah. Yeah, you were my rebound. Are you angry?
Wormtongue (after a very long pause): Well, as long as we're on the same page,
how about one more rebound for the --
HeyHoDen: (interrrupting) While my heart tells me loudly that we won't be
seeing anything of Lord Aragon again, yet he was kingly, and knew how to lord
it like a king over us! So take comfort in this tale, DAUGHTER..
It is said that when Brillo and Balderdash had climbed the stair to the Door,
upon its threshold sat a man begging for cigarettes and cheap whiskey, aged
beyond years -- once tall and strong but now as withered as Jesse Helms, and
just as fit to retire.
And this man looked as gray as week-old tuna and said no word until they tried
to pass him and enter, and then a voice came from him, and it was the voice of
Barry White but with a semi-passable Scottish brogue, and it said, 'This way
you shall not pass, ach, yes, not unless you tell me what I've got in my
pockets.'
And so they halted and stared, and they saw that he was an eccentric old man
with tobacco-stained teeth and a face like a smelt.
"Hands!" exclaimed Balderdash, which the old man had just wisely slipped out
before he could be caught by such a foolish answer.
"'The way is shut," repeated the old man, "and so shall its secrets be hidden
until the riddle is answered.'
Resigning himself to having to slip the man a ten-note to find out something
useful, Brillo replied, "So, when will that time be?"
But no answer did he get, for the old man suddenly died and toppled forward
with Balderdash's dagger within his back, and then they searched his pockets
and found nothing but a pocketknife and some old string, which wasn't what he
had led them to believe with his riddle, but there was nothing to be done about
it at that point except prop him back up against the rock and pretend that
nothing had happened at all.
Wormtongue: (curiously) You know, that reminds me a great deal of what happened
to old man Marley, the polo bookie, back at Meduseld last year --
Eonard: (a bit too quickly) Alas, that such fey moods fall upon kings in their
hour of need!
Wormtongue: But --
Eonard: Shut UP. I never liked you anyway.
Wormtongue: Look, I realize you've always hated me because I'm smarter than you
and because I know where your sister's bikini lines stop --
Eonard: YARG!
Wormtongue: -- but I'm really a neat person.
Eonard: And what does that mean? You've learned how to fold your own laundry
and put it away?
Wormtongue: I've never been thrown from a horse.
Eonard: And never eaten one, either, I'll bet.
Wormtongue: But I've read all sorts of books and know all kinds of useful
things!
Eonard: Except whether or not elves have pointy ears and balrogs actually have
wings
Wormtongue: I can show you how to figure out who's going to win the second
season of Big Brother.
Eonard: Who cares?
Wormtongue: (lowering his voice) I can tell you how to become king in less than
a week.
Eonard: (one eye flickering over to HeyHoDen) Okay, I'm listening.
[As Eonard pulls up a chair, suddenly from outside is a loud sound.]
HeyHoDen: Hark! What is THAT loud sound?
Balin: (shouted from bathroom) Might be room service -- we've got steaks and
suds comin'!
Eowynifred: No, look, there! Outside! A mob!
HeyHoDen: Well, give Gandalf a wedgie, it IS a mob. (Looks at watch) And right
on time! (Throws open shutters) Greetings, pigs, err, loyal subjects! Art thou
prepared to leave?
[There's the staccato sound of projectiles hitting the wall, and an arrow
suddenly shishkabobs Wormtongue through the head, just like the old Steve
Martin schtick.]
Wormtongue: Ouch.
HeyHoDen: (slamming the window) Perhaps they'd like to stay the night?
Eowynifred: (peering through glass) No doubt the peasants are angry that we've
had our cake and eaten theirs too. They seem mostly focused on the soda
machines and the Hostess truck parked behind the kitchen. Perhaps while they
try to eat their way through tons of tempered steel in their insatiable quest
for food, we could flee!
HeyHoDen: (glancing at Wormtongue) I cannot argue, for there 'tis the Red Arrow
sticking through my ex-counselor's head, and when the Red Arrow appears in
Rohan, it has long been our tradition, from my father and his father before
him, to ride like hell out of there. So to Gondor, and away! Ride!
Eonard: But uncle, we cannot go to Gondor, Lord Denethor expects us with an
army! We have no army now!
HeyHoDen: (peeking back out through the window at the mob) How about the one
that might be right on our heels?
Eonard: Uncle!
HeyHoDen: (deciding) Lord Balin, would you care to join the heroes of Rohan for
one last quest to rid Middle-Earth of evil and thus allow future generations of
dwarves and Rohanese to meet together upon the field of battle and knock each
other senseless for the rights to deforest Fangorn's green woods?
Balin: Look, HeyHoDen, I like you and all, and you've got a decent beard for a
human, but the "Fighting the Dark Lord" thing doesn't cut it anymore. Just not
fulfilling. I'm retired, and life is too short to be wasted on such joyless
pursuits.
HeyHoDen (slyly): There's gold involved. Lots of it.
Eonard: But Uncle, the royal treasury has been emptied -- (HeyHoDen slaps him
alongside the head) -- err, for spring cleaning.
HeyHoDen: With the Gondor army distracted by Nazgul lords and the assault on
the main gate, I'd bet a seasoned contingent of dwarves could bust through the
ranks and plunder most of the High Court before anyone caught on.
[Big pause as the dwarves look amongst themselves. Then they break into song.]
Dwarves: We ride! Ho! Kill the men, kill the elves, save the gold for
ourselves! HeyHoDen, let's go!
Eonard: But Uncle, I thought we were friends with the Stewards of GondorTM.
HeyHoDen: Years ago, they whipped us in the Pinewood Derby, son. Now it's
payback time.
[And so, away from the burning food courts and landing pads of Dunhero, where
the soiled and starved faces of the peasantry looked out from their sewer
holes, on horseback and in stolen golf carts, King HeyHoDen, his nephew, the
dazed ex-counselor, and the Dwarf Acrobatic Team did ride towards GondorTM, the
City of Gold, and without horn or harp or any real semblance of melodic refrain
or consistent tempo did break into this very song!]
To Dunhero came our done hero
to set up house and fake his death
To hang the horse, kick off the boots
and enjoy his retirement!
Rawhide! (Rawhide!)
Rawhide! (Rawhide!)
The great escape is sure to chaff
his skin as he to GondorTM rides!
Raw knees! (Raw knees!)
Raw knees! (Oh please!)
The peasants eat the rocks and trees
as HeyHoDen to GondorTM flees!
He cannot leave his friend to smolder
nor give GondorTM to its foe!
With dwarves balanced on head and shoulder,
HeyHoDen rides to save the gold!
Rawhide! (Rawhide!)
Rawhide! (Rawhide!)
His long rapport with Denethor
demands he ride to watch him die
Rawdeal! (Rawdeal!)
Rawdeal! (Rawdeal!)
Dreams of revenge are soon to hinge
on dwarf gymnastics far afield!
Rawfish! (Rawfish!)
Raw --
PRODUCER: CUT! CUT! WE LOST OUR LEASE! SHUT IT DOWN! SHUT IT *ALL* DOWN!
Writer: But --
Producer: Sorry. You there, throw out those stale Twinkies; this picture's a
wrap.
Writer: (whining) But it's not done! We have three more pages to go and Richard
Dreyfuss is still in day care --
[Doors slam. Lights go out. Crickets chirp. All that is left is a bare table, a
number #2 pencil, an Olympia typewriter, and a spittoon. The writer sighs and
sits at the table, then types out the last pages of narrative, this time in
novel form.]
LAST SCENE: HOW MORIBUND CAN YOU GET?
Morrie had quickly tired of day care and of the large diapers he had been
forced to wear, and although the teachers would toss him small bits of cracker
and gumdrops if he would but gurgle and coo and stick plastic keys deep into
his mouth, he soon felt quite sick to his stomach.
"They have all left now," he grumbled. "Gandalf and Pipsqueak, Frodo and Sam,
HeyHoDen and Eonard, even the audience! And my turn will come soon enough, if I
am continued to be fed so poorly. What I need now is some REAL grub."
And so Morrie killed all of the day care staff, traumatized the children by
flushing their Rugrats dolls down the toilet, then found his way into the
kitchens and larders of the facility, looking for a nice mincemeat pie or some
carrot-whisky crème brulee to satisfy his terrible hunger for solid food.
But the refrigerator only contained mashed bananas and stewed peas, and bottle
after bottle of Zantac and Metamucil.
"Holy Fatty Bolger Stuck in a Tub of Apple Butter!" Morrie thought to himself.
"They're planning to give HeyHoDen heartburn and incontinence all at once! I
must warn the King immediately!"
But as the hobbit slipped from the refrigerator to the floor and ambled past
the trashcan, he paused and sniffed. Then sniffed again, with all the olfactory
sense of a desperately hungry hobbit.
"Bless my stars and garters," he announced, "there's a half-eaten Éclair
somewhere in that trash bag!"
Remembering what had happened to George in an early episode of Seinfeld, but
looking around and seeing no one, he scrambled up and over the side of the bag,
and disappeared like a grub worm into its depths, eating his way to the bottom
and thus to the elusive pastry.
While the barrel rocked and swayed, the door opened and Otto the groundskeeper
shuffled into the room. He was already tired from cleaning up after the Dwarf
Acrobatic Team, which had sprayed beer around most of the hallways as some sort
of hazing ritual, and most of the mops in his janitorial closet had been
mysterious broken as if in the throes of passion. Now there was trash to dump
before his day's work was complete and he could retire to the golf course in
order to gopher some grub.
His hunchback straining, Otto did not even notice the small thrashing shape at
the bottom of the Hefty garbage bag (which was made for trolls -- so tough it
could hold ten hobbits and more besides!) nor the impending plot twist's
similarity to the scene with Veruca Salt in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate
Factory."
"Ooof!" said Otto, dumping the bag down the chute.
"Aiiiiiii!" said the bag as it disappeared down the hatch.
"Whoomph!" said the incinerator as the bag hit the furnace, spelling an end to
most of Morrie's pointless angst, depression, and lack of identity in the
entire series, and ensuring that, out of the nine walkers of the fellowship, at
least one of them would taste the equivalent of the flames of the Crack of Doom
since even Boromir had already come back from the dead -- albeit with a bit of
cosmetic surgery.
Scratching his head, Otto found Morrie's discarded "I'm One Bad Hobbit" button
and, liking the sparkly colors, pinned it on his cardigan and wandered outside
-- where he was rudely intercepted by a gray-cloaked rider mounted on a
chugging Harley, who smiled grimly in recognition at the sight of his button.
"Come, Morrie!" cried the rider, who definitely resembled the pretty blonde
chick who was always in his way every time Otto went into the janitorial
closets looking for toilet cleaner but now insisted that her name was Dirthead
rather than Eowynifred.
"Aragon is alive!" s/he continued, gray eyes flashing. "He who has scorned me,
and yet still lives! Well, that misfortune must be remedied! Come to Minas
TirithTM with me, Morrie, and we shall have our revenge! Wa ha ha! Wa ha ha! Wa
ha ha!"
Otto stared at her in confusion, but once the writer whispered in his ear and
told him that someone had to carry on for poor departed Morrie, the confusion
cleared.
(AUTHOR NOTE: Due to budget constraints, the part of Morrie Brandybuck will now
be played by a big, dopey, grotesque, mostly bald hunchback.)
"Okeedokily!" said Otto, leaping upon the back of the Harley with a screech of
strained metal.
"Oh, Morrie, you've been picking again, haven't you?" noted Dirthead. "Stick
those 'ten days to thin thighs' and you'll feel much better. You know trolls
only eat chubby hobbits, they throw the rest back."
"Burp," agreed Otto.
***
And so it came to pass that when the King himself had set out, behind the
mysterious Dirthead hunched Otto the mutant groundskeeper, sitting in for poor
departed Morrie who had never stood a chance anyway, and the great bike named
Winnebago spluttered under the great burden but did not stop, for it knew that
its engine would be throttled if it did not get Dirthead to Gondor in order to
slay the breaker of her heart, the Lord Aragon, if indeed he still lived at
all.
And all of the story became chaotic and bewildering; and ever the confusion
deepened before them; and irony continued to dog their paths. Selah.
http://www.BrothersGrinn.com
"Funny in the head... where it counts."
Coming Someday -- www.elandra.com
David Sulger
[snipped]
LOL!
THat was definitely one of the funniest e-text chapters in a long
time! The movie script format was unusual, but kind of a riot. I
don't know what the hell all those dwarves were doing in the chapter,
but it was funny (especially when Thror burped in Eonard's face). And
Alatar and Pallando's appearance was funny too. Hell if Maglor can
show up, why not the Ithryn Luin?
The only disappointment was how Morrie was so unceremoniously disposed
of (literally!). The rest of the chapter was almost pure genius. How
could you not find a use for him?
Öjevind Lång
[snip]
I love this plot twist.
--------------------------------------------
>COMMERCIAL: Dwarf Acrobatic Team
Of course! :D
[snip]
>It is said that when Brillo and Balderdash had climbed the stair to the
Door,
>upon its threshold sat a man begging for cigarettes and cheap whiskey, aged
>beyond years -- once tall and strong but now as withered as Jesse Helms,
and
>just as fit to retire.
>
>And this man looked as gray as week-old tuna and said no word until they
tried
>to pass him and enter, and then a voice came from him, and it was the voice
of
>Barry White but with a semi-passable Scottish brogue, and it said, 'This
way
>you shall not pass, ach, yes, not unless you tell me what I've got in my
>pockets.'
>
>And so they halted and stared, and they saw that he was an eccentric old
man
>with tobacco-stained teeth and a face like a smelt.
This is great too. I did wonder how you'd deal with it.
[snip]
>
>[There's the staccato sound of projectiles hitting the wall, and an arrow
>suddenly shishkabobs Wormtongue through the head, just like the old Steve
>Martin schtick.]
>
>Wormtongue: Ouch.
Oh, dear! Poor old Wormtongue! Exploitd by Eowynn and then ending up as
slapstick material.
[snip]
>His hunchback straining, Otto did not even notice the small thrashing shape
at
>the bottom of the Hefty garbage bag (which was made for trolls -- so tough
it
>could hold ten hobbits and more besides!) nor the impending plot twist's
>similarity to the scene with Veruca Salt in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate
>Factory."
>
>"Ooof!" said Otto, dumping the bag down the chute.
>
>"Aiiiiiii!" said the bag as it disappeared down the hatch.
>
>"Whoomph!" said the incinerator as the bag hit the furnace, spelling an end
to
>most of Morrie's pointless angst, depression, and lack of identity in the
>entire series, and ensuring that, out of the nine walkers of the
fellowship, at
>least one of them would taste the equivalent of the flames of the Crack of
Doom
>since even Boromir had already come back from the dead -- albeit with a bit
of
>cosmetic surgery.
Do you really think Morrie will stay dead? Eh?
[snip]
>And so it came to pass that when the King himself had set out, behind the
>mysterious Dirthead hunched Otto the mutant groundskeeper, sitting in for
poor
>departed Morrie who had never stood a chance anyway, and the great bike
named
>Winnebago spluttered under the great burden but did not stop, for it knew
that
>its engine would be throttled if it did not get Dirthead to Gondor in order
to
>slay the breaker of her heart, the Lord Aragon, if indeed he still lived at
>all.
>
>And all of the story became chaotic and bewildering; and ever the confusion
>deepened before them; and irony continued to dog their paths. Selah.
Oh, dear.Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. Thank you!
Öjevind
David M. McCandless
The only disappointment was how Morrie was so unceremoniously disposed
of (literally!). The rest of the chapter was almost pure genius.
Wile E. Coyote: "GENIUS! SHEER UNADULTERATED GENIUS!"
> How could you not find a use for him?
Because I hates him, yes, my precious. ;)
Actually, I don't hate Merry. Simply, out of all the Fellowship, he is the one
who doesn't register at all with me -- he has the personality (to me) of wet
tissue paper.
Pippin was my next least-favorite, but he had that great streak of always
getting himself into trouble, which brought him to life. Merry was the most
"normal" hobbit in the sense of not seeming to have any outstanding personality
traits...
Who knows? No doubt he might easily reappear, you never know with these
stories...
thanks, I'm glad you liked it -- after I got deep into the writing, everything
stopped being as funny and so it was hard to tell anymore...
Raven
news:20010901192959...@mb-mq.aol.com...
> Actually, I don't hate Merry. Simply, out of all the Fellowship, he is
> the one who doesn't register at all with me -- he has the personality
> (to me) of wet tissue paper.
The thing is that the characters of the etext are as a rule quite
different from the originals in the LotR. Whatever personality Merry
had, Morrie had lots of it.
Still, what I did when I heretically killed Frodo in the Marshes was
much what you did when you offed Morrie: provided a replacement. I
figured Frodo had become quite a villain, and put in Boromir as a
reformed person who could do what Frodo did in the original.
Wasn't good enough. The following writers wanted Frodo back, and
they got him back. Then he got offed and returned twice more --- expect
Morrie back. If his death survives the first writer after you whose
chapter in the original book includes Merry, it won't survive the next
one.
Craban.