Bored of the Rings

by The Harvard Lampoon

  “Rings go better with hocus-pocus,” replied Goodgulf imperiously.

  “But what does that mean?” asked Bromosel, rather annoyed that he was being referred to in the dialogue as “the man with the pointed shoes.”

  “There are many interpretations,” explained Goodgulf. “My guess is that it’s either ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ or ‘Don’t tread on me.’”

  No one spoke, and the room fell strangely silent.

  Finally Bromosel rose and addressed the Caucus. “Much is now clear,” he said. “I had a dream one night in Minas Troney in which seven cows ate seven bushels of wheat, and when they were finished they climbed a red tower and threw up three times, chanting, ‘Say it now and say it loud, I’m a cow and I’m proud.’ And then a figure robed in white and bearing a pair of scales came forward and read from a little slip of paper:

  “Five-eleven’s your height, one-ninety your weight

  You cash in your chips around page eighty-eight.”

  “This is grave,” said Orlon.

  “Well,” said Stomper, “I guess it’s time we all laid our cards on the table,” and with that he noisily emptied the contents of a faded duffel into a heap in front of him. When he was finished, there was a large pile of odd objects, including a broken sword, a golden arm, a snowflake paperweight, the Holy Grail, the Golden Fleece, the Robe, a piece of the True Cross, and a glass slipper.

  “Arrowroot, son of Arrowshirt, heir of Barbisol and King of Minas Troney, at your service,” he said rather loudly.

  Bromosel looked up to the top of the page and winced. “At least another chapter to go,” he groaned.

  “Then the Ring is yours,” cried Frito, and eagerly tossed it into Arrowroot’s hat.

  “Well, not exactly,” said Arrowroot, dangling the band at the end of its long chain. “Since it’s got magic powers, it belongs to someone more in the mumbo-jumbo, presto-chango line. To wit, a wizard, for example,” and he neatly slipped the Ring over the end of Goodgulf’s wand.

  “Ah, yes, verily, in truth,” said Goodgulf quickly. “That is to say, yes and no. Or perhaps just plain no. As any fool can see, it’s a clear case of habeas corpus or tibia fibia, since although this particular gizmo was the work of a wizard—Sorhed, to be exact—this sort of thing was invented by elves, and he was only working under a license, you might say.”

  Orlon held the Ring in his hand as if it were an annoyed tarantula. “Nay,” he said, gravely, “I cannot claim this great prize, for it is said, ‘Finders keepers, losers weepers,’” and, brushing away an invisible tear, he looped the chain around Dildo’s neck.

  “And ‘Let dogs lie if they are sleepers,’” said Dildo, and slipped it into Frito’s pocket.

  “Then it is settled,” intoned Orlon. “Frito Bugger shall keep the Ring.”

  “Bugger?” said Legolam. “Bugger? That’s curious. There was a nasty little clown named Goddam sniffing around Weldwood on hands and knees looking for a Mr. Bugger. It was a little queer.”

  “Odd,” said Gimlet. “A pack of black giants riding huge pigs came through the mountains last month hunting for a boggie named Bugger. Never gave it a second thought.”

  “This, too, is grave,” declared Orlon. “It is only a matter of time before they come here,” he said, pulling a shawl over his head and making a gesture of throwing something of a conciliatory nature to a shark, “and as neutrals, we would have no choice . . .”

  Frito shuddered.

  “The Ring and its bearer must go hence,” agreed Goodgulf, “but where? Who shall guard it?”

  “The elves,” said Gimlet.

  “The dwarves,” said Legolam.

  “The wizards,” said Arrowroot.

  “The Men of Twodor,” said Goodgulf.

  “That leaves only Fordor,” said Orlon. “But even a retarded troll would not go there.”

  “Even a dwarf,” admitted Legolam.

  Frito suddenly felt that all eyes were on him. “Couldn’t we just drop it down a storm drain, or pawn it and swallow the ticket?” he said.

  “Alas,” said Goodgulf solemnly, “it is not that easy.”

  “But why?”

  “Alas,” explained Goodgulf.

  “Alackaday,” Orlon agreed.

  “But fear not, dear boggie,” continued Orlon, “you shall not go alone.”

  “Good old Gimlet will go with you,” said Legolam.

  “And fearless Legolam,” said Gimlet.

  “And noble King Arrowroot,” said Bromosel.

  “And faithful Bromosel,” said Arrowroot.

  “And Moxie, Pepsi, and Spam,” said Dildo.

  “And Goodgulf Grayteeth,” added Orlon.

  “Indeed,” said Goodgulf, glaring at Orlon, and if looks could maim, the old elf would have left in a basket.

  “So be it. You shall leave when the omens are right,” said Orlon, consulting a pocket horoscope, “and unless I’m very much mistaken, they will be unmatched in half an hour.”

  Frito groaned. “I wish I had never been born,” he said.

  “Do not say that, dear Frito,” cried Orlon. “It was a happy minute for us all when you were born.”

  • • •

  “Well, I guess it’s good-bye,” said Dildo, taking Frito aside as they left the caucus room. “Or should I say ‘until we meet again’? No, I think good-bye sums it up quite nicely.”

  “Good-bye, Dildo,” Frito said, stuffing a sob. “I wish you were coming with us.”

  “Ah, yes. But I’m too old for that sort of thing now,” said the old boggie, feigning a state of total paraplegia. “Anyway, I have a few small gifts for you,” and he produced a lumpy parcel, which Frito opened somewhat unenthusiastically in view of Dildo’s previous going-away present. But the package contained only a short, Revereware sword, a bulletproof vest full of moth holes, and several well-thumbed novellas with titles like Elf Lust and Goblin Girl.

  “Farewell, Frito,” said Dildo, managing a very convincing epileptic fit.

  “It’s in your hands now, gasp, rattle, o lie me under the greenwood tree, ooooo. Ooog.”

  “Farewell, Dildo,” said Frito, and with a last wave went out to join the company. As soon as he had disappeared, Dildo sprang lightly to his feet, and skipped into the hall humming a little song:

  “I sit on the floor and pick my nose

  and think of dirty things

  Of deviant dwarfs who suck their toes

  and elves who drub their dings.

  I sit on the floor and pick my nose

  and dream exotic dreams

  Of dragons who dress in rubber clothes

  and trolls who do it in teams.

  I sit on the floor and pick my nose

  and wish for a thrill or two

  For a goblin who goes in for a few no-nos

  Or an orc with a thing about glue.

  And all of the while I sit and pick

  I think of such jolly things

  Of whips and screws and leather slacks

  Of frottages and stings.”

  “I grieve to see you leave so soon,” said Orlon quickly, as the company stood assembled around their pack sheep some twenty minutes later. “But the Shadow is growing and your journey is long. It is best to begin at once, in the night. The Enemy has eyes everywhere.” As he spoke, a large, hair-covered eyeball rolled ominously from its perch in a tree and fell to the ground with a heavy squelch.

  Arrowroot drew Krona, the Sword that was broken, now hastily reglued, and waved it over his head. “Onward,” he cried, “on to Fordor!”

  “Farewell, farewell,” said Orlon impatiently.

  “Excelsior,” cried Bromosel, blowing a fierce blast on his duck whistle.

  “Sayonara,” said Orlon. “Aloha. Avaunt. Arroint.”

  “Kodak khaki no-doz,” Gimlet cried.

  “A dristan nasograph,” shouted Legolam.

  “Habeas corpus,” said Goodgulf, waving his wand.

  “I have to go poo-po
o,” said Pepsi.

  “So do I,” said Moxie.

  “I’d like ta poo-poo the both o’ ye,” said Spam, reaching for a rock.

  “Let’s go,” said Frito, and the party set off down the road from Riv’n’dell at a walk. In a few short hours they had put several hundred feet between them and the lodge where Orlon still stood, wreathed in smiles. As the party passed over the first slight rise, Frito turned around and looked back over Riv’n’dell. Somewhere in the black distance lay the Sty, and he felt a great longing to return, as a dog might on recalling a long-forgotten spew.

  As he watched, the moon rose, there was a meteor shower and a display of the aurora borealis, a cock crowed thrice, it thundered, a flock of geese flew by in the shape of a swastika, and a giant hand wrote Mene, mene, what’s it to you? across the sky in giant silver letters. Suddenly Frito had the overpowering feeling that he had come to a turning point, that an old chapter in his life was ending and a new one beginning. “Mush, you brute,” he said, kicking the pack animal in the kidneys, and as the great quadruped staggered forward, tailfirst into the black East, there came from deep in the surrounding forest the sound of some great bird being briefly, but noisily, ill.

  * * *

  1 Orlon was the world’s first acrylic fiber. Its creation left millions of sheep unemployed.

  2 A political and military leader of twentieth century China. Though renowned for his influence, his chicken remains inferior to General Tso’s.

  3 Bromo-Seltzer, a brand of antacid, directly prevented four hundred chili-related deaths in 1958.

  4 Disgraced former president Richard Milhous Nixon once famously declared “I am not a crook,” proving once and for all the dangers of having televised speeches on Opposite Day.

  V

  Some Monsters

  For many days the company traveled south, trusting to the eyes of the Ranger, Arrowroot, the keen ears of the boggies, and the wisdom of Goodgulf to lead them. A fortnight after their departure they arrived at a great crossroads and halted to determine the best way to cross the towering Mealey Mountains.

  Arrowroot squinted into the distance. “Behold the grim Mount Badass,” he said, pointing to a large milestone a hundred yards down the road.

  “Then we must head east,” said Goodgulf, gesturing with his wand to where the sun was setting redly in a mass of sea clouds.

  A duck flew over quacking loudly. “Wolves,” cried Pepsi, straining to hear the fading sound.

  “It is best that we make camp here tonight,” said Arrowroot, dropping his pack heavily to the ground, where it crushed a hooded cobra. “Tomorrow we must seek the high pass across the mountains.”

  A few minutes later the company sat in the middle of the crossroads around a bright fire over which one of Goodgulf’s stage rabbits was merrily roasting. “A proper fire at last, and no mistake,” said Spam, tossing a rattlesnake on the cheery blaze. “I reckon none o’ Master Pepsi’s wolves is likeable to bother us tonight.”

  Pepsi snorted. “A wolf would have to be pretty hard up to eat a road apple like you,” he said, flicking a rock at Spam, which missed him by feet and stunned a puma. Circling far overhead, unseen by the company, the leader of a band of black spy-crows peered through a pair of binoculars, cursed in the harsh tongue of his kind, and swore off grapes for the rest of his life.

  “Where are we, and where are we going?” asked Frito.

  “We are at a great crossroads,” answered the Wizard, and producing a battered sextant from within his robes, he took sightings on the moon, Arrowroot’s cowboy hat, and Gimlet’s upper lip. “Soon we will cross a mountain or a river and pass into another land,” he said.

  Arrowroot strode over to Frito. “Do not fear,” he said, sitting on a wolf, “we will guide you safely through.”

  • • •

  The next day dawned clear and bright, as is so often the case when it does not rain, and the spirits of the company were considerably raised. After a frugal breakfast of milk and honey, they set out in single file behind Arrowroot and Goodgulf, with Spam bringing up the rear behind the pack sheep, toward whom he expressed a boggie’s usual fondness for fuzzy animals.

  “Oh, for some mint sauce,” he lamented.

  The party traveled many leagues1 along the broad, well-paved highway that led east to the odorous feet of the Mealey Mountains, and later in the afternoon they came to the first of the low kneehills. There the road quickly disappeared in a mass of rubble and the ruins of an ancient tollbooth. Beyond, a short, steep valley as black as coal stretched ominously to the rocky slope of the mountains. Arrowroot signaled for a halt, and the company gathered to look at the forbidding landscape.

  “This is an evil place, I fear,” said Arrowroot, slipping on the sticky black paint which covered every inch of the land.

  “It is the Black Valley,” said Goodgulf solemnly.

  “Are we in Fordor already?” asked Frito hopefully.

  “Do not mention that black land in this black land,” said the Wizard darkly. “No, it is not Fordor, but it seems that it has been touched by the Enemy of all Right-Thinking Folk.”

  As they stood looking over the dreary vale, there came the howl of wolves, the roar of bears, and the cry of vultures.

  “It’s quiet,” said Gimlet.

  “Too quiet,” said Legolam.

  “We cannot stay here,” said Arrowroot.

  “No,” agreed Bromosel, looking across the gray surface of the page to the thick half of the book still in the reader’s right hand. “We have a long way to go.”

  After trudging down the steep, rock-strewn slope for more than an hour, the party arrived, weary and blackened, at a long ledge that led between a sharp cliff and a pond whose surface was entirely covered with a thick oil slick. As they watched, a great, heavy-winged waterbird landed in the foul water with a soft plop and dissolved.

  “Let us press on,” said Goodgulf. “The pass cannot be far.”

  With that he led the way around a stony ridge which jutted into the pond in front of them and obscured the rest of the mountain slope from view. The ledge grew narrower as it wound around the outcropping, and the company had to inch their way along. As they passed the bend, they saw in front of them the face of the mountain rising unbroken for hundreds of feet above them. Cut into the rocky wall was the entrance to some underground cavern, cunningly hidden by an enormous wooden door with huge wrought-iron hinges and a giant knob. The door was covered with a strange oath gracefully written in the Palmer runes of the dwarves, and so marvelously had it been constructed, that from a hundred feet away the tiny crack between wood and stone was completely invisible.

  Arrowroot gasped. “The Black Pit,” he cried.

  “Yes,” said Gimlet, “the fabled Nikon-zoom of my ancestor Fergus Fewmet.”

  “Dread Andrea Doria, curse of the living nipple,” said Legolam.

  “But where is the pass?” asked Frito.

  “The face of the land has changed since I was last abroad in this region,” said Goodgulf quickly, “and we have been led, perhaps by Fate, a bit astray.”

  “It would be wiser to seek again the pass, I judge,” said Arrowroot. “It cannot be far.”

  “Three hundred kilometers give or take a shilling,” said Goodgulf, a little sheepishly, and as he spoke, the narrow ledge which led back to the valley slid into the dark pond with a low grunt.

  “That settles that,” said Bromosel testily. “Yoo-hoo,” he cried, “come and eat us,” and from far away a deep voice echoed, “Me beastie, me do that thing.”

  “It is a grim fate indeed that would lead us here,” said Arrowroot, “or a gonzo Wizard.”

  Goodgulf remained unperturbed. “We must find the spell that opens this door, and soon. Already it grows dark.” With that he lifted his wand and cried:

  “Yuma palo alto napa erin go brae

  Tegrin correga cremora olé.”

  The door remained in place, and Frito glanced nervously at the mass of oily bubbles tha
t had begun to rise in the pond.

  “If only I’d listened to my Uncle Poo-poo and gone into dentistry,” whined Pepsi.

  “If I’d stayed home, I’d be big in encyclopedias by now,” sniffled Moxie.

  “And if I had ten pounds o’ ciment and a couple o’ sacks, you’d a’ both gone for a stroll on that pond an hour ago,” said Spam.

  Goodgulf sat dejectedly before the obstinate portal, mumbling spells.

  “Pismo,” he intoned, striking the door with his wand. “Bitumen. Lazlo. Clayton-Bulwer.”2 Save for a hollow thud, the door made no sign of opening.

  “It looks grim,” said Arrowroot.

  Suddenly the Wizard sprang to his feet. “The knob,” he cried, and leading the pack sheep over to the base of the gate, stood on its back on tiptoe, and turned the great knob with both hands. It turned easily, and with a loud squeaking the door swung open a crack.

  Goodgulf quickly scrambled down, and Arrowroot and Bromosel tugged the door open a few more inches. At that moment, a great gurgling and belching arose from the center of the pond, and a large corduroy monster slowly lifted itself above the surface with a loud hiccup.

  The company stood rooted to the ground in terror. The creature was about fifty feet tall, with wide lapels, long dangling participles, and a pronounced gazetteer.

  “Aiyee!” shouted Legolam. “A Thesaurus!”

  “Maim!” roared the monster. “Mutilate, mangle, crush. See HARM.”

  “Quick,” cried Goodgulf. “Into the cavern,” and the company hurriedly slipped one by one through the narrow crack. Last of all came Spam, who tried to squeeze the protesting sheep through the opening. After two frenzied but unsuccessful attempts, he picked up the annoyed herbivore and threw him bodily into the beast’s gaping mouth.

  “Eatable,” said the giant creature between munches, “edible, esculent, comestible. See FOOD.”

  “I hope ye choke on it,” said Spam bitterly, as a clear image of a winged loin of lamb fluttered across his mind. He wiggled through the doorway and joined the rest of the company in the cavern. With a loud belch that shook the ground and filled the air with an aroma such as one meets concurrent with the rediscovery of a cheese that has long since gone to its reward, the beast slammed shut the door. The heavy boom reverberated into the depths of the mountain, and the little party found themselves in total darkness.