August 30, 2003

The Picnic: A Parody of Tolkien
Lilly

This parody, by Paulette Carroll, was the shortest one I could find that I liked. I wanted to share with you a parody that didn't depend on crude humor. Okay, so It's not the funniest, but it's amusing, and like I said, I chose it for its length, not it's quality.

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After an hour or so, the Company came to a small hill called Nemladrass in the Elfin tongue, and Doidrir in the dwarf language of Dane, that is, “small hill.” There, Gandalf paused. “We must stop now,” he said, “for our feet are weary and many miles lie still ahead of us. Who knows if we shall ever find a better spot in this dreary land?”
At these words, a shudder passed through the Company. “’Tis about time we halted, isn’t it, my lad,” said Sam, unloading Bill the pony. The poor beast looked at him as if it understood, as Sam lifted the picnic basket from its back. Gandalf quickly examined the contents, as the hobbits eagerly watched him, not daring to move. He seemed absorbed in his thoughts, and a dreary silence fell of the Company. Finally, the wizard spoke. “The hour is grave,” he said in a low voice. “This is much worse than anything I foresaw. The pickles are missing.” “I didn’t forget them, not me, Sir,” said Sam defensively. “I thought of them all day long, and I wouldn’t leave without pickles any more than without my master, bless me. I put them in the basket, didn’t I, Bill, my lad?” The poor beast nodded, as if it understood. So did Gandalf. “Orcs took them perhaps,” said Pippin. “I’ve always heard that they were fond of them.”
Silence fell upon the Company. Even Bill seemed to avoid making a noise, as if he understood. The great shadow of the basket lengthened, and nobody dared touch anything. Straining his ears, Frodo thought he could hear the mournful growling of his stomach getting louder and louder…. Then Gandalf rose. “This is a wicked picnic indeed,” he said, “since the pickles seem to be lost beyond any hope of recovery. But let us not despair. The onion rings are still here, and the Dark Lord shall not get them while we are alive. Let us eat.”
And so they sat for hours, partaking of food, and the first bologna came to pass, and after it came many others. But still there was no sign of the pickles, or of what might have become of them. Nevertheless, their mood became gayer and gayer, and they sang old songs and told many a story, all at the same time and in different languages, none of which were still used at the time. Bill nodded, as if he understood. Finally, Gandalf rose. “We must make haste,” he said, “for already the sun is sinking in the west, and we have not yet reached dessert. The halflings are very slow to fill indeed. There is more to them than any of you realize.”

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And that is amusing, isn't it?

Eager-to-get-balrogs-off-your-minds-edly yours.

~Lilly