Bored of the Rings

by The Harvard Lampoon

  “Doan’ let Hash bug yoo,” said Tim. “Tuesday is her day to crash.”

  Somewhat bewildered by the acrid fumes and the flashing candles, the boggies sat cross-legged on a grimy mattress and asked politely for some grub, as they had journeyed far and were about to devour the ticking.

  “Eats?” chuckled Tim, rummaging through a handmade leather pouch. “Jes’ hang loose an’ I’ll fimb somp’un f’yoo. Lemmesee, oh, oh wow! Dint know we had any this left!” Clumsily he scooped out the contents and set them in a bent hubcap before them. They were among the most dubious-looking mushrooms Spam had ever seen, and, rather rudely, he said so.

  “These are among the most dubious-lookin’ mushrooms I’m ever a-seeing,” he stated.

  Nevertheless there were few things in Lower Middle Earth Spam hadn’t idly nibbled and lived to tell about, so he dived in, stuffing himself loudly. They were of an odd color and odor, but they tasted okay, if a little on the moldy side, and after that the boggies were offered round candies with little letters cleverly printed on them. (“They melt in yoor brain, not in your hans,” giggled Tim.)

  Bloated to critical mass, the contented boggies relaxed as Hashberry7 played a melody on something that looked like a pregnant handloom. Mellowed by the repast, Spam was particularly pleased when Tim offered him some of his “own speshul mix” for his nose-pipe. An odd flavor, thought Spam, but nice.

  “Yoo got about ha’f an hour,” said Tim. “Wanna rap?”

  “Rap?” said Spam.

  “Yoo know, like . . . talk wif your mouf,” replied Tim as he lit his own pipe, a large converted milk separator laden with valves and dials. “Yoo here ’cause th’ heat’s on?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Frito judiciously. “We’ve got this here Ring of Power and—oops!” Frito caught himself, but too late; he could not unsay it now.

  “Oh groovy!” said Tim. “Lemme see.”

  Reluctantly, Frito handed over the Ring.

  “Pretty cheap stuff,” said Tim, tossing it back. “Even th’ junk I pawn off on th’ dwarbs is bedder.”

  “You sell rings?” asked Moxie.

  “Sure,” said Tim. “I gotta sandal-and-magic-charm shop for th’ tourist season. Keeps me in stash for winter months, y’know whad I mean?”

  “There might not be many of us left to visit the woods,” said Frito quietly, “if Sorhed’s plans are not foiled. Will you join us?”

  Tim shook his hair. “Now doan’ bug me, man. I’m a conscienshul objectioner8 . . . doan’ wan’ no more war. Came here to dodge draff,9 see? If some cat wants to kick th’ stuffing outta me, I say, ‘Groovy,’ an’ I give ’em flower an’ love beads. ‘Love,’ I say t’ him. ‘No more war,’ I say. Anyway, I four F!”

  “No more guts!” growled Spam under his breath to Moxie.

  “No, I god guts,” said Tim, pointing to his temple, “no more braims!”

  Frito smiled diplomatically, but was suddenly stricken by a severe stomachache. His eyes began to roll and he felt very light-headed. Probably a touch of the banshee two-step, he thought as his ears started to ring like a dwarf’s cash register. His tongue felt thick, and his tail began to vibrate. Turning to Spam, he wished to ask him if he felt it, too.

  “Argle-bargle morble whoosh?” said Frito.

  But it did not matter, for he saw that Spam had oddly taken it into his head to change himself into a large, pink dragon wearing a three-piece suit and a straw boater.

  “What did you be sayin’, Master Frito?” asked the natty lizard with Spam’s voice.

  “Ffluger fribble golorful frooble,” said Frito dreamily, thinking it strange that Spam was wearing a boater in late autumn. Glancing at the twins, Frito noted that they had changed into matching candy-striped coffeepots perking away like mad.

  “Don’t feel too well,” said one.

  “Feel sick,” clarified the other.

  Tim, now a rather handsome six-foot carrot, laughed loudly and changed into a coiled parking meter. Frito, dizzy as a great wave of oatmeal flowed through his brain, grew heedless of the puddle of drool collecting in his lap. There was a noiseless explosion between his ears and he watched with terror as the room began stretching and pulsating like Silly Putty in heat. Frito’s ears began to grow and his arms changed into badminton rackets. The floor developed holes out of which poured fanged peanut brittle. A score of polka-dotted cockroaches danced a buck-and-wing on his stomach. A Swiss cheese waltzed him twice around the room, and his nose fell off. Frito opened his mouth to speak and a flock of flying earthworms escaped. His gallbladder sang an aria and did a little tap dance on his appendix. He began to lose consciousness, but before it ebbed completely, he heard a six-foot waffle iron giggle, “If yoo dig it now, jes’ wade till th’ rush hits you!”

  * * *

  1 Clean ones, at least.

  2 Evelyn Wood was an American teacher who invented the practice of “speed reading” to help people absorb books faster. SparkNotes later perfected this with the invention of “not reading.”

  3 Natalie Wood was an American actress who garnered three unsuccessful Oscar nominations before age twenty-five, making her one of few Americans to experience soul-crushing disappointment before age forty.

  4 Benzedrine was a stimulant inhaler available without prescription until 1959, at which point lottery tickets and ChapStick took over as the most dangerously addictive over-the-counter goods.

  5 Kelvinator was a prominent brand of refrigerator, while “the Kelvinator” was an incredibly cool-sounding nickname.

  6 Stanley Bostitch was a company that manufactured glue guns, staple guns, nail guns, and other ways for your dad to hurt himself while fixing the porch.

  7 Haight-Ashbury, or “Hashbury,” was the epicenter of 1967’s Summer of Love, when 100,000 hippies converged on the area after hearing it had a really cool-looking tree.

  8 Conscientious objectors are those who refuse military service on moral, ethical, or religious grounds. Those who refuse on ancient Egyptian burial grounds are usually subject to a light curse.

  9 During the Vietnam War, “dodging the draft” referred to avoiding conscription, often by faking insanity or moving to Canada, thus proving insanity.

  III

  Indigestion at the Sign of the Goode Eats

  The golden brightness of late morning was already warming the grass when Frito finally awoke, his head sore afflicted, and his mouth tasting like the bottom of a birdcage. Looking about, every joint aching, he saw that he and his three still-slumbering companions were at the very edge of the Wood, and before them was the four-lane wagon rut that would lead them directly to Whee! There was no sign of Tim Benzedrine. Frito mused that the events of the previous night might have been the idle dream of a boggie whose tummy writhed full of spoiled potato salad. Then his bloodshot eyes saw the small paper bag resting next to his knapsack, with a scrawled note attached. Curiously, Frito read:

  Dere Fritoad,

  Two badd yoo copped outt sso sooon lazt nighgt. Missed somm grooovy ttrps. Hoap the rring thinng wurcs outt awrighgth

  Peece, Timm

  P.S. Hear ar som outt of sighgt stash which I am laying onn yoo guyys. Mmust sine off as rush iss comcomcoming ohgodohgodohgodohgod$5¢%* @ + =!

  Frito peeked inside the dirty paper sack and saw a number of colored candy beans, much like the ones they had eaten the night before. Odd, thought Frito, but they may prove useful. Who knows? Thus, after an hour or so of cajoling his fellows to their senses, Frito and the party tramped off toward Whee rapping much of their adventure the previous evening.

  Whee was the chief village of Wheeland, a small and swampy region populated mostly by star-nosed moles and folk who wished that they were somewhere else. The village enjoyed a brief popularity when, through a surveyor’s fortuitous hiccup, the four-lane Intershire Turnpath was mistakenly built right through the center of the pathetic little twarf. Then, for a time, the populace lived high on the hog off the proceeds from illegal speed traps, parki
ng violations, and occasional bald-faced hijackings. A small tourist influx from the Sty led to the construction of cheap diners, flimsy souvenir stands, and prefabricated historical landmarks. But the growing cloud of “troubles” from the east abruptly ended such trade as there was. Instead, a trickle of refugees came from the eastern lands bearing few belongings and fewer smarts. Not ones to miss an opportunity, the men and boggies of Whee labored together in harmony selling the heavily accented immigrants shorter names and interests in perpetual-motion machines. They also supplemented their purses by hawking black-market visas to the Sty to the few unfortunates who were not familiar with the place.

  The men of Whee were stooped, squat, splay toed, and stupid. Heavily ridged over the eyes and prone to rather poor posture, they were often mistaken for Neanderthals, a common confusion that the latter deeply resented. Slow to anger or pretty much anything else, they lived peacefully with their boggie neighbors, who were themselves tickled pink to find somebody farther down the evolutionary scale.

  Together, the two peoples now lived on the few farthings they made off the wetbacks and the dole, a common fruit shaped like your pancreas and about as appetizing.

  The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built of wax paper and discarded corks. They were arranged in sort of a circle inside the protecting moat, whose stench alone could drop a dragon at a hundred paces.

  Pinching their nostrils, the company crossed the creaky drawbridge and read the sign at the gate:

  Two sleepy-eyed guards bestirred themselves just long enough to relieve the protesting Spam of his remaining tablespoons. Frito surrendered half of his magic beans, which the guards munched with speculation.

  The boggies beat it before they took effect and, per Goodgulf’s instructions, headed for the orange-and-green flashing sign at the center of town. There they found a gaudy plexiglass and chrome inn, whose blinking sign portrayed a boar, rampant, devoured by a mouth, drooling. Beneath it was the name of the inn, the Goode Eats & Lodging. Passing through the revolving door, the party signaled the bell clerk, whose nametag read Hi! I’m Hojo Hominigritts!1 Like the rest of the staff, he was costumed as a suckling pig with false sow’s ears, tail, and papier-mâché snout.

  “Howdy!” drawled the fat boggie. “Ya’ll want a room?”

  “Yes,” said Frito, stealing a glance at his companions. “We’re just in town for a little vacation, aren’t we, boys?”

  “Vacation,” said Moxie, winking at Frito broadly.

  “Just a little vacation,” added Pepsi, nodding his head like an idiot.

  “Ya’ll sign here please?” said the clerk through his fake snout. Frito took the quill chained to the desk and wrote the names ALIAS UNDERCOVER, IVAN GOTTASECRET, JOHN DOE-SMITH, and IMA PSEUDONYM.

  “Any bags, Mr., uh, Undercover?”

  “Only under my eyes,” mumbled Frito, turning toward the dining room.

  “Wal,” chuckled the clerk, “just leave these here sacks an’ I’ll ring a bellhop.”

  “Fine,” said Frito, hurrying away.

  “Now y’all have a good time now,” the clerk called after them, “an’ if y’all want anything, just ring!”

  Out of earshot, Frito turned worriedly to Spam. “You don’t think he knows anything,” he whispered, “do you?”

  “Naw, Master Frito,” said Spam, massaging his stomach. “Let’s grab some grub!”

  The four entered the dining room and sat at a booth near the roaring propane fireplace that eternally roasted a large cement boar on a motorized spit. The soft notes of a badly played Muzak eddied through the crowded room as the ravenous boggies studied the menu, which was ingeniously shaped like a sow giving birth. As Frito considered an “Uncle Piggy’s Oink-Oink Burger-on-a-Bun” flambéed in purest linseed oil, Spam hungrily ogled the scantily clad “piglets” who served as waitresses, each buxom wench also outfitted in fake tail, ears, and snout.

  One of the piglets sidled up to the table for their order as Spam greedily took stock of her big red eyes, crooked blond wig, and hairy legs.

  “Youse slobs wanna order yet?” asked the piglet as she teetered uncomfortably on her spiked heels.

  “Two Oink-Oink Burgers and two Bow-Wow Specials, please,” answered Frito respectfully.

  “Somethun’ t’ ring, uh, I mean, drink, sir?”

  “Just four Orca-Colas, thank you.”

  “Gotcha.”

  As the waitress lurched off, wobbling on her heels and tripping over her long, black scabbard, Frito surveyed the crowd for anyone suspicious. A few boggies, some swarthy-looking men, a drunken troll passed out at the counter. The usual.

  Relieved, Frito allowed his three companions to mix with the others, warning them to keep their lips buttoned about the “you-know-what.” The waitress returned with Frito’s burger as Spam traded some pointless anecdotes with a pair of leprechauns in the corner and the twins entertained some seedy-looking gremlins with their cunning pantomime, The Old Cripple and His Daughters, a sure-fire hit in the Sty. As growing numbers roared with mirth at their obscene posturings, Frito munched his tasteless burger thoughtfully, wondering what the Great Ring’s fate would be when they reached Riv’n’dell and Goodgulf.

  Suddenly, Frito’s grinders jammed against a small hard object in the burger. Cursing under his breath, Frito reached into his throbbing mouth and extracted a tiny metal cylinder. Unscrewing the top, he removed a tinier strip of microvellum, on which he made out the words: Beware! You are in great danger. You are embarked on a long journey. You will soon meet a tall, dark Ranger. You weigh exactly fifty-nine pounds.

  Frito drew in his breath with fright and his eyes sought the sender of this message. At last they came to rest on a tall, dark Ranger seated at the counter, a double root beer untouched before him. The lean figure was dressed entirely in gray, and his eyes were hidden by a black mask. Across his chest were crossed bandoleers of silver bullets, and a pearl-handled broadsword dangled ominously from one lean hip. As if feeling Frito’s eyes upon him, he turned slowly on his stool and met them, putting a gloved finger to his lips for secrecy. He then pointed toward the door of the men’s room and held out five fingers. FIVE MINUTES. He pointed toward Frito and then to himself. By this time half the patrons had turned to watch, and thinking it was a game of charades, were encouraging him with shouts of “Famous saying?” and “Sounds like!”

  The young boggie pretended to take no heed of the stranger and reread the note. Danger, it said. Frito stared thoughtfully into the sediment of fish hooks and the frothy head of ground glass on his Orca-Cola. Making sure no one was watching, he cautiously took the glass over to the large potted palm nearby, which accepted it and placed it carefully on the floor.

  His suspicions now fully aroused, Frito edged from the booth, careful not to disturb the decorative listening tube placed in the center of the plastic floral arrangement. Without being seen, he went into the little boggies’ room, there to await the dark stranger.

  After he had been waiting a few minutes, several patrons using the facilities began to eye Frito curiously as he leaned against a tiled wall whistling, his hands in his pockets. To allay their further inquiry, Frito turned to the vending machine that hung on the wall. “Well, well, well,” he said in a stage whisper, “just what I’ve been looking for!” He then proceeded, with elaborate carelessness, to work the machine with the change in his farthing purse.

  Fifteen bird whistles, eight compasses, six miniature lighters, and four packs of nasty little rubber novelties later, a mysterious knocking was heard at the door. Finally one of the patrons hidden by a stall yelled, “F’cryin’ out loud, somebody let the s.o.b. in!” The door swung open and the masked visage of the dark stranger appeared and beckoned Frito around the corner.

  “I have a message for you, Mr. Bugger,” said the stranger.

  Frito’s burger rose at the sound of his true name.

  “But—but I theenk you are meestaken, señor,” began Frito lamely, “I velly
solly but my honorable name not—”

  “This message is from Goodgulf the Wizard,” said the stranger, “if the name by which thee calls thyself answers to the title of Frito Bugger!”

  “I are,” said Frito, confused and frightened.

  “And thee hast the Ring?”

  “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” countered Frito, stalling for time. The stranger lifted Frito by his narrow lapels.

  “And thee hast the Ring?”

  “Yes, already,” squealed Frito. “So I’ve got it! So sue me.”

  “Be not afraid, allay thy fears, quail not, and hold thy horses,” laughed the man. “I am a friend of thine.”

  “And you have a message for me from Goodgulf?” gulped Frito, feeling his burger settling a bit. The tall one unzipped a secret compartment in a saddlebag on his shoulder and handed Frito a slip which read:

  “Three shorts, four pairs socks, two shirts, chain mail, heavy starch?”

  Impatiently, the stranger snatched the ancient gag from the boggie’s paw and replaced it with a folded parchment. Frito’s glance at the Michaelmas Seals and Goodgulf’s X-rune imprinted in hardened bubble gum verified the sender.

  Hurriedly he tore it open, saving the gum for Spam. For later. With difficulty he deciphered the familiar Palmer Method2 characters. They read:

  Frito-lad,

  The halberd has fallen! The fewmets have hit the windmill! Sorhed’s Nozdrul have gotten wind of our little dodge and are beating the bush for “four boggies, one with a pink tail.” Doesn’t take any abacus to figure out somebody’s spilled the gruel. Get out of wherever you are fast, and don’t lose the you-know-what. I’ll try to meet you at Wingtip, if not, look me up in Riv’n’dell. In any case, don’t take any oaken tuppences. And don’t mind Stomper, he’s a good egg, ut-bay ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray, if you know what I mean.

  Must close, left something on the Bunsen,