Bored of the Rings

by The Harvard Lampoon

  Goodgulf hastily withdrew a tinderbox from his robes, and frantically striking sparks off the walls and floor, he managed to light the end of his wand, producing a flickering glow about half as bright as a dead firefly.

  “Such magic,” said Bromosel.

  The Wizard peered ahead into the darkness, and perceiving that there was only one possible route, up a flight of stairs, he led the way into the deep gloom.

  • • •

  They traveled a considerable distance into the mountain along the passageway, which after the long flight of stairs leading up from the gate worked its way for the most part down, with countless changes of direction, until the air became quite hot and stuffy and the company very confused. There was still no source of light save the flicker from Goodgulf’s sputtering wand, and the only sound came from the sinister patter of following footsteps, the heavy breathing of North Koreans, the rattle of gum ball machines, and the other hurly-burly of deep, dark places.

  At length they came to a place where the passage divided into two, with both leading down, and Goodgulf signaled for a halt. Immediately there came a series of ominous gurgles and otherworldly tweets that suggested that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were having a friendly rubber of bridge not a yard away.

  “Let’s split up,” said Bromosel.

  “I’ve twisted my ankle,” said Pepsi.

  “Whatever you do, don’t make a sound,” said Arrowroot.

  “Wa-zoo,” screamed Moxie, sneezing violently.

  “Now here’s my plan,” said Goodgulf.

  “Bullets won’t stop them,” said Bromosel.

  “Whatever happens,” said Arrowroot, “we must keep a close watch.”

  The company, as a man, fell asleep.

  When they awoke, all was quiet once more, and after a hasty meal of cakes and ale, they addressed themselves to the problem of which passage to take. As they stood debating, there came from deep in the earth a steady drumbeat. Dribble, dribble, dribble, shoot, swish.

  At the same time the air began to get hotter and thicker, and the ground started to tremble beneath their feet.

  “There’s no time to lose,” said Goodgulf, jumping to his feet. “We must decide and quickly.”

  “I say to the right,” said Arrowroot.

  “Left,” said Bromosel.

  Upon closer examination, the left way proved to be lacking a floor for some forty feet, and Goodgulf quickly set off down the other, with the rest of the company following close behind. The passage led precipitously down, and there were omens of an unappetizing nature along the way, including the whitening skeleton of a minotaur, the body of the Putdown Man,3 and a rabbit’s battered pocket watch with the inscription “To Whitey from the whole Wonderland crowd.”

  Before long the passageway sloped more gently down until with a final plunge it led into a great chamber lined with huge metal lockers and dimly lit by a fiery glow. As they entered, the rumblings grew louder: Dribble. Dribble. Fake. Dribble. Fake. Shoot.

  All at once a large body of narcs burst into the hall from the passage the company had followed and charged at them, waving hammers and sickles.

  “Yalu, Yalu,” shouted their leader, brandishing a huge faggot.

  “You dieth, G.I.,” cried the faggot.

  “Stay here,” said Arrowroot. “I’ll scout ahead.”

  “Keep me covered,” said Legolam, “I’ll head them off.”

  “Guard the rear,” said Gimlet, “I’ll take the passage.”

  “Hold the fort,” said Goodgulf, “I’ll circle around.”

  “Stand fast,” said Bromosel, “I’ll draw them off.”

  “Pyongyang panmunjom,” shouted the narc chieftain.

  The company stampeded across the hall and out a side passage with the narcs at their heels. As they rushed out, Goodgulf slammed shut the door in the narcs’ faces and hastily put a spell on it.

  “Hawley Smoot,”4 he said, striking the door with his wand, and with a smoky foof the door disappeared, leaving the Wizard face-to-face with the puzzled narcs. Goodgulf quickly produced a lengthy confession, signed it, and thrusting it into the chieftain’s hands, raced away up the passage to where the rest of the company stood at the far end of a narrow rope bridge which spanned a sharp chasm.

  As Goodgulf stepped onto the bridge the passage echoed with an ominous dribble, dribble, and a great crowd of narcs burst forth. In their midst was a towering dark shadow too terrible to describe. In its hand it held a huge black globe and on its chest was written in cruel runes “Villanova.”

  “Aiyee,” shouted Legolam. “A ballhog!”

  Goodgulf turned to face the dread shadow, and as he did, it slowly circled toward the bridge, bouncing the grim sphere as it came. The Wizard reeled back and, clutching at the ropes, raised his wand. “Back, vile hoopster,” he cried.

  At this the ballhog strode forward onto the bridge, and stepping back, the Wizard drew himself up to his full height and said, “Avaunt, thin-clad one!”

  Arrowroot waved Krona. “He cannot hold the bridge,” he shouted and rushed forward.

  “E pluribus unum,” cried Bromosel and leaped after him.

  “Esso extra,” said Legolam, jumping behind him.

  “Kaiser Frazer,” shouted Gimlet, running up to join them.

  The ballhog sprang forward, and raising the dread globe over his head, uttered a triumphant cry.

  “Dulce et decorum,” said Bromosel, hacking at the bridge.

  “Above and beyond,” said Arrowroot, chopping a support.

  “A far, far better thing,” said Legolam, slicing through the walkway.

  “Nearer my God to thee,” hummed Gimlet, cutting the last stay with a quick ax stroke.

  With a loud snap, the bridge collapsed, spilling Goodgulf and the ballhog into the abyss. Arrowroot turned away and, stifling a sob, ran along the passage with the rest of the company close behind. As they rounded a corner, they were dazzled by a sudden shaft of sunlight, and after dispatching a sleeping narc guard in a few short minutes, they scrambled out the gates and down the eastern stairs.

  The stairs ran along a syrupy stream in which large gobs of multicolored goo were ominously bobbing. Legolam stopped and spat in it wistfully.

  “It is the Spumoni,” he explained, “beloved of the elves. Do not drink of it—it causes cavities.”

  The company hastened on into the shallow valley and in less than an hour stood on the west bank of the river Nesselrode, which the dwarves call Nazalspray. Arrowroot signaled for a halt. The steps that had led down the mountain came to an abrupt end at the river’s edge, and on either side of the narrow way the hills sloped off into wide, barren plains filled with wind gods, dolphins in sailor hats, and street directories.

  “I fear that we have come to an uncharted region,” said Arrowroot, peering under his hand into the distance. “Alas, that Goodgulf is not here to guide us.”

  “These are indeed tough bananas,” agreed Bromosel.

  “Yonder lies Lornadoon, land of the Gone Elves,” said Legolam, pointing across the river to a scruffy-looking forest of Dutch elms and knotty pines. “Goodgulf would have surely led us there.”

  Bromosel dipped a foot into the oozing river, and a fish stick and a side order of fried clams leaped into the air.

  “Sorcery!” cried Gimlet as a tuna burger flew past his ear. “Witchcraft! Deviltry! Isolationism! Free silver!”

  “Aye,” said Legolam, “the river is under a spell, for it is named after the fair elf-maid Nesselrode who had the hots for Menthol, God of After-Dinner Drinks. But the evil Oxydol, Goddess of Quick Tricks and Small Slams, appeared to her in the shape of a five-iron and told her that Menthol was two-timing with the Princess Phisohex,5 daughter of King Sano.6 At this Nesselrode became wroth and swore a great oath to kick Phisohex in the gut and get her mother, Cinerama, Goddess of Short-Term Loans, to turn Menthol into an Erector set. But Menthol got wind of the plot and came to Nesselrode in the guise of a refrigerator, turned her
into a river, and went west to sell encyclopedias. Even now, in the spring, the river softly cries, ‘Menthol, Menthol, you are one wazoo. One day I’m the elf next door and then poof I’m a river. You stink.’ And the wind answers, ‘Phooey.’”

  “A sad story,” said Frito. “Is it true?”

  “No,” said Legolam. “There’s a song, too,” and he began to sing:

  “An elvin-maid there was of old,

  A stenographer by day;

  Her hair was fake, her teeth were gold,

  Her scent was that of cheap sachet.

  She thought that art was really ‘keen,’

  The top ten she could hum;

  Her eyes were full of Maybelline,

  Her mouth, of chewing gum.

  Her head was full of men and clothes,

  Her hair, of ratted curls;

  Her legs she wrapped in fine Supp-Hose,

  For nights out with the girls.

  She met one morn an elvin-lad,

  Who took her to the fights,

  And said he owned a spacious pad,

  And went to law school nights.

  And so that night she gave her all

  In back of his sedan;

  So rich, she thought, so sharp and tall,

  A perfect family man.

  But then he told her with a smirk,

  That he loved another,

  And was a part-time postal clerk

  And lived home with his mother.

  A silver tear rolled down her cheek

  As she bussed home by herself;

  The same thing happened twice last week,

  (Oh, heaven help the working-elf!)”

  “It is best that we cross before nightfall,” said Arrowroot finally. “There are tales of fungo bats and bloodsucking umpires in these parts.” Picking up his toilet kit, he waded into the soupy water, and the company followed behind. The water was nowhere more than a few feet deep, and the boggies had little difficulty making their way across.

  “This is indeed a queer river,” said Bromosel, as the water lapped at his thighs.

  • • •

  On the far bank of the river they found a thick strand of dead trees covered with signs in Elveranto which said, COME TO FABULOUS ELF VILLAGE, VISIT THE SNAKE FARM, DON’T MISS SANTA’S WORKSHOP, and HELP KEEP OUR FOREST ENCHANTED!

  “Lalornadoon, Lalornadoon,” sighed Legolam, “wonder of Lower Middle Earth!”

  At that, a door in the trunk of a large tree opened, revealing a small room filled with postcard racks, loudly clicking cuckoo clocks, and boxes of maple-sugar candies. A greasy-looking elf slipped out from behind a taffy machine.

  “Welcome wagon,” he said, bowing low. “I am Pentel.”

  “Come hither, conastoga,” said Legolam.

  “Well, well, well,” said the elf, coughing importantly, “we are a bit out of season, aren’t we?”

  “We’re just passing through,” said Arrowroot.

  “No matter,” said Pentel. “Plenty to see, plenty to see. On the left, your petrified tree, to the right your Echo Rock and your Natural Bridge, and just ahead your Old Wishing Well.”

  “We’ve come from Doria,” Arrowroot continued. “We’re on our way to Fordor.”

  The elf blanched. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit to Lornadoon, Land of Magic,” he said quickly, and handing them a sheaf of folders and pack-horse stickers, he leaped into the tree and slammed and bolted the door.

  “These are troubled times,” said Arrowroot.

  Legolam opened one of the folders and pored over a map. “It isn’t far to the Elf Village,” he said finally, “and unless the place has changed hands, Orlon’s kin, Cellophane and the Lady Lavalier, still dwell there.”

  “Elves,” grumbled Spam. “Now I’m not saying Sorhed is right, but I’m not a-saying he’s wrong, neither, if you get my drift.”

  “Shut up,” said Legolam gravely.

  • • •

  After a hasty meal of frankincense and myrrh, the company set off down a wide path which Legolam identified on the map as Horror Lane, and from time to time mechanical dragons and goblins lurched unsteadily from rubber shrubs and yawned and grunted. But even the boggies remained unperturbed by these assaults, and in a few short hours the travelers arrived at the edge of a small grove of very petrified-looking trees from whose oddly symmetrical branches heavily corroded copper leaves dropped in unconvincing bunches.

  As they stood wondering, the head of an elf-maid appeared at a bay window in the nearest tree and cried in the ancient tongue of the elves: “Greetings, ye olde wayfarers.”

  “Are there any more at home like you?” said Legolam, making the correct reply.

  A moment later the door to the great tree swung open, and a short elf stepped out. “Cellophane and Lavalier await you abovestairs,” he said, and led the company into the wide trunk. The tree was completely hollow, and the inside was covered with brick-design wallpaper. A circular staircase led through a hole in the ceiling to an upper story, and the elf motioned for them to ascend the narrow steps. As they reached the top, they found themselves in a room decorated much as the one below, but brightly lit by great wagon-wheel chandeliers which hung from the lofty roof. On a pair of tree stumps at the end of the room sat Cellophane and Lavalier, arrayed in rich muslin.

  “Welcome to Lornadoon,” said Lavalier, rising slowly to her feet, and it seemed to the company that she was as fair as a young sapling or scrub oak. She had magnificent chestnut hair, and when she shook her head, handfuls of magnificent chestnuts dropped to the floor like rain. Frito toyed with the Ring and wondered at her great beauty. As he stood, as if in a trance, Lavalier turned to him and saw him toying with the Ring and wondering at her great beauty.

  “I see, Frito,” she said, “that as you toy with the Ring, you wonder at my great beauty.”

  Frito gasped.

  “Do not fear,” she said, solemnly tweaking his nose. “Nasties we’re not.”

  Cellophane then rose and greeted each of the travelers in turn, and motioning for them to sit down on the rubber toadstools arranged around the room, bid them tell the tale of their adventures.

  Arrowroot cleared his throat. “Once upon a time,” he began.

  “Call me Ishmael,” said Gimlet.

  “Whan that Aprill,” started Legolam.

  “Hear me, O Muse,” commenced Bromosel.

  After some discussion, Frito told the whole story of the Ring, Dildo’s party, the Black Schleppers, the Caucus of Orlon, Doria, and Goodgulf’s untimely passing.

  “Woodja, woodja, woo,” said Cellophane sadly when Frito had finished.

  Lavalier sighed deeply. “Your journey is long and hard,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Cellophane, “you bear a great burden.”

  “Your enemies are powerful and merciless,” said Lavalier.

  “You have much to fear,” said Cellophane.

  “You leave at dawn,” said Lavalier.

  • • •

  After a hearty feast of cherubim and seraphim, Cellophane and Lavalier showed the weary travelers to rooms in a small tree nearby, and as Frito was preparing to enter, Lavalier drew him aside and brought him to a sheltered vale nearby, in the center of which stood a soiled birdbath in which a pair of sparrows were floating upside down.

  “Poison,” explained Lavalier, flinging the feathered corpora into the bushes. “It’s the only thing that even slows them down.” Thereupon she spat into the water, and a goldfish leaped into the air and cried, “Give me your sevens.”

  At that she leaned over the surface and whispered, “Wilmot Proviso,” and the water began to boil, filling the air with a light odor of beef gumbo. Then it seemed to Frito that the surface became smooth, and there appeared the picture of a man squirting something into his nose.

  “Commercials,” said Lavalier irritably.

  In a moment the water cleared, and there came scenes of elves and dwarves dancing in the streets, wild revels in Minas Troney, happy d
ebauches in the Sty, a large bronze statue of Sorhed being melted into tie clips, and finally Frito himself sitting on a pile of costume jewelry and smiling broadly.

  “This bodes well,” declared Lavalier.

  Frito rubbed his eyes and pinched himself. “Then it is not all black?” he asked.

  “The bath of Lavalier never lies,” said the Lady sternly, and leading Frito back to the rest of the company, disappeared in a heavy haze of Jungle Rape perfume.

  Frito pinched himself one last time, then stumbled into the tree house and fell into a deep sleep.

  The surface of the basin remained black for a while, then flickered and showed the triumphant reception of the RMS Titanic in New York harbor, the repayment of the French war debt, and the inaugural ball of Harold Stassen.7

  • • •

  In the eastern sky, Velveeta, beloved morning star of the elves and handmaid of the dawn, rose and greeted Noxzema, bringer of the flannel tongue, and clanging on her golden garbage pail, bade him make ready the winged rickshaw of Novocaine, herald of the day. Thence came rosy-eyeballed Ovaltine, she of the fluffy mouth, and lightly kissed the land east of the Seas. In other words, it was morning.

  The company rose, and after a hurried breakfast of yaws and goiters, Cellophane and Lavalier and their attendants led them through the wood to the banks of the great river Anacin where three small balsa rafts lay.

  “It is the sad hour of parting,” said Lavalier solemnly. “But I have for each of you a small gift to remind you of your stay in Lornadoon in the dark days to come.” So saying, she produced a large chest and drew out a handful of wondrous things.

  “For Arrowroot,” she said, “crown jewels,” and handed the surprised king a diamond-shaped pear and a plover’s egg the size of an emerald.

  “For Frito, a little magic,” and the boggie found in his hand a marvelous crystal globe filled with floating snowflakes.

  She then gave each of the other members of the company something rich and strange: to Gimlet, a subscription to Elf Life; to Legolam, a mah-jongg set; to Moxie, a case of Cloverine Brand Salve; to Pepsi, a pair of salad forks; to Bromosel, a Schwinn bicycle; and to Spam, a can of insect repellent.