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Paul Erickson
Lindon
Apr 27 2010, 10:35pm
Post #1 of 10
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The Wobbit A Parody
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Please enjoy this excerpt from my full-scale parody of The Hobbit!
1. Bulbo Meets The Wizard
In a wholly below-ground apartment there lived a wobbit. It was not as nasty, dirty, and wet as living in a hole, but it wasn’t great, either. Certainly nothing you’d brag about, not even to another wobbit, and wobbits are fairly familiar with a variety of sub-standard living arrangements, including garrets, coach houses, studio apartments, and, of course, holes.
The wobbit rented his basement apartment from Virginia, who owned the building, including the beauty parlor in front. He liked the location. There was a laundromat nearby, where he could wash and dry his waistcoats and corduroy pants.
The mother of our particular wobbit—what the hell is a wobbit? I suppose wobbits need some description, since they have become rare and shy of Big People With Good Jobs. They are short, really short, and this is accentuated by their poor posture. They have no beards, not even neck beards or patchy Van Dykes. There is little magic about them, except for the everyday sort that helps them disappear quietly if you ask them to help you move or take you to the airport. They wear no shoes, which makes it difficult for them to dine at non-wobbit restaurants.
As I was saying, the mother of this particular wobbit—Bulbo Bunkins, that is—was the famous Primadonna Dork. It was said that long ago one of the Dork ancestors must have taken a fairy husband, but this was based on several sad misunderstandings of the fairy lifestyle. The Dorks were regarded by most wobbits as “queer,” and that’s saying a lot. They were forever indulging alternative lifestyles of some sort, drifting aimlessly from comic book conventions to wargame tournaments to renaissance faires.
By some curious chance one morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more disease spread by rats and raw sewage, and wobbits were still numerous enough to be annoying all the time, and while Bulbo was standing at his door enjoying a large hazelnut latte and an even larger breakfast burrito—Pantsoff came by. Pantsoff! If you have heard a quarter of what I’ve heard about him, then I’ve heard 300% of what you’ve heard.
Not much of it is true, of course. In truth, the only remarkable thing about Pantsoff was his brilliance in self-promotion. This is why, even after his long absence, wobbits considered him legendary, like Paul Bunyan or Bigfoot. He carried a stick with a magical blue tip, and wore immense black wing-tip boots. Around his neck he wrapped a scarf that was pure affectation.
“Good morning!” said Bulbo, and he meant it. But Pantsoff just looked at him from over his long, bushy nose hair. It stuck out further than the brim of his shady-looking leather hat if he didn’t keep it trimmed. He sometimes called it a “moustache.”
“What do you mean?” he said. “What do you mean by ‘good’ and what do you mean by ‘morning?’”
“Um, what?” said Bulbo. He started walking toward his pony-cart, parked in front of his wobbit-hole. Every morning he had to move it to the other side of the street to avoid being ticketed by the shirrif.
“Enough small talk,” said Pantsoff. “I’m here to make you the offer of a lifetime! I’m looking for someone to share a short, simple adventure that I’m arranging. So short and simple, in fact, that I thought of you immediately!”
Please let me know what you think! And come back for more, or visit
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
May 2 2010, 1:29pm
Post #2 of 10
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Part 2- Borin Explains The Plan (from The Wobbit)
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(The next day, thirteen dwarves and a wizard arrive at Bulbo's hole. They have brunch, and sing a number about a dragon stealing their treasure. Bulbo hasn't been paying attention.)
“What’s this about a dragon?” asked Bulbo.
“Weren’t you paying attention to the lyrics during the banjo and mandolin number? The map? The prospectus?” said Borin. “Really, Pantsoff, is this guy the best you could do? Fine, we’ll sing our theme song again.”
The dwarves sang it again. “I’m still not getting it” said Bulbo. “Could you do an interpretive dance, instead? Or maybe just tell me?”
“O very well,” said Borin. “My grandfather, Flor, built SmithiBank up from nothing, from a little building & loan into a banking monolith. Depositors from far and wide brought us their gold and jewels. Borrowers came to us for mortgages. Through outsourcing, automation and lots of hidden fees we made SmithiBank huge and very profitable. But mortgages were the source of our greatest wealth, and our downfall. Back in those days, being in the mortgage business was like having a license to print money, which Floor also had, for a time. He guaranteed his stockholders unlimited prosperity forever, but perhaps he was being unrealistic. In any event, SmithiBank soon became the largest issuer of mortgages in all of Little Earth, especially near the Only Mountain, in Lake City.
“As happens from time to time, a dragon showed up and adjusted the market, ruining everything. His name was Smog, and he moved into Lake City. All the wise men and analysts said this would cause a huge loss of equity, and then Lake City property quickly devalued. Investor confidence failed and depositors, especially the gremlins and brownies, would have withdrawn all their gold and jewels if Smug wasn’t sitting on them.
“We tried to sell some of the loans to recover. We tried to recapitalize. Nothing worked, and all that’s left of our bank is a bunch of near-worthless loans and a corporate office plaza occupied by a dragon. My grandfather and I and the few board members you see here were the only employees to escape being arrested by regulators or eaten by Smug. We bravely ducked out the service entrance that Pantsoff mentioned. But the key was thought to be lost when my grandfather suddenly left to hike the Moisty Mountain Trail. Pantsoff, just how did you get hold of it?”
“I didn’t ‘get hold of it,’ I was given it” said the wizard. “Your grandfather was killed, you remember, in the Moisty Mountains, by Agog the Goblin King.”
“Yes, I do remember that,” Borin said. “Floor was my grandfather.”
“Yes, yes. Well, I ran into him at the Goblin King’s Moisty Mountain summer home. It turns out we were both there to, um, visit Agog’s wife, the Goblin Queen. But the Goblin King arrived unexpectedly and we thought it best to leave. I quickly took the lead, to clear a path for my friend. He was lagging behind so I went back to help. He had needlessly weighed himself down with valuables, so I took the key and some of his other heavy personal items, like the map. It was no use, but I did my best, so on the whole I ought to be praised and thanked!”
“Let me get this straight,” said Bulbo. “Pantsoff, even though you’re the brains of this outfit, you want me, a consultant and former teller, to figure out how to get rid of a dragon?”
“That’s it exactly, my boy! You’ve cut right to the heart of the matter. You’re even more perfect for this project than I thought! Look at how he’s thinking outside the strong-box!”
Realizing that this was the best job offer he’d had in a long time, Bulbo decided to sleep on it. Instead of leaving, the few dwarves that hadn’t passed out yet started to lie down and sleep where they were. Bulbo’s Dorkish side was being chased away by his essential Bunkins-ness. He was hoping that he would wake up tomorrow to discover that this was all a dream. A smelly, insulting dream.
As he folded out his Murphy bed from the wall, he could hear Borin still humming to himself. Oddly, the humming had lyrics:
Our stock will soar, champagne we’ll pour at this locality
Come have a heaping helping of our hospitality
Dwarf, that is
Sit a spell
Take your boots off
Ye all come back now, aye!
Bulbo went to sleep with the song in his ear: the song, and also one of Borin’s fingers. It was really crowded in Bulbo’s apartment. He would soon discover, to his disappointment, that the dwarves’ visit wasn’t a dream.
Please let me know what you think! And come back for more, or visit
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(This post was edited by Paul Erickson on May 2 2010, 1:35pm)
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TheNazgul
Ossiriand
May 3 2010, 2:54am
Post #3 of 10
(573 views)
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this is hillarious i hope theres more
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
May 3 2010, 3:27am
Post #4 of 10
(764 views)
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Thanks for your encouraging comment, TN! There will definitely be more, probably tomorrow. I really appreciate your feedback!
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
May 3 2010, 11:26pm
Post #5 of 10
(781 views)
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Part 3- The Trolls (from The Wobbit)
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(After a long, wet ride, the Company sees a firelight in the distance. They send Bulbo to investigate. He is quickly caught by three trolls.)
“Joe! Harry! Fellas, come here. Lookit what I caught!” said the troll, grabbing the wobbit. He held Bulbo in front of his face, barking and growling at him.
“Take it easy, champ. Say, what’s that thing you’ve caught? What are you?” asked Harry.
“I’m Bulbo Bunkins, a consultant,” said poor Bulbo, as he wondered how he would get the cleaning deposit back on the pants he’d rented from Borin.
“A consultant? What does a consultant do?” said Harry.
“Um, nothing. I mean, nobody knows!” squeaked Bulbo.
“Oh, a wise guy, eh? Too bad you’re so small. You’re hardly worth cooking,” said Joe.
“Maybe there’s more like him, and we could bake them into a Consultant Pie,” said Harry. “If there’s enough we could have a pie-fight!”
“You’re starving, but you want to have a pie-fight!” Joe held up a hand with the fingers spread. “Pick two,” he said.
Harry picked Joe’s index and ring fingers, and Joe poked him in the eyes with them.
“Why should that make a “doink” sound?” Bulbo wondered, until he was interrupted.
“Well, stranger? Are there more of you?” Joe demanded.
“Oh yes, lots,” said Bulbo, before he realized his situation. “If you spare me, I’ll call them over,” he said immediately afterwards.
“Spare you?” said Joe. “Why should we spare you? You’re a traitor, ratting out the rest of your gang.”
“Not really. I’m not part of their gang. You see, I’m a contractor, hired for this one adventure to work for them. They’re all SmithiBank board members, and…”
“SmithiBank!” yelled Shirley, who suddenly head-butted Harry, and then fell to the ground. He started spinning like a coffee-grinder, howling “Woo woo woowoowoowoo!”
“Listen, kid,” Joe said to Bulbo confidentially. “SmithiBank wouldn’t give us a loan to expand our wallpaper-hanging business. Whenever Shirley hears the word ‘SmithiBank’ he goes nuts!
“Because of them, our business failed, and we’re reduced to eating strangers we meet on the road.” Shirley’s fit died off as he was strangling Harry. “Just don’t say the word,” Joe lowered his voice, “‘SmithiBank.’”
“Yes, fair enough,” said Bulbo, eager to get back to his point. “So like I was saying, spare me and I’ll lure all those lousy bankers over here. If you want, I’ll even help you kill them and cook them!”
“Say, Jasper, you’re all right,” said Harry, and then they all shook hands as Shirley again laughed a strange “Nyuk nyuk nyuk.” Bulbo decided against pointing out that his name was not “Jasper.”
The hand shaking and laughing stopped when Falin stepped into the light. The dwarves suspected that Bulbo was “up to something” and sent Fallin to follow up on his progress. He was even prepared to provide Bulbo with some coaching. But there was to be no coaching or even any feedback, because Falin was soon hit on the head with a huge wooden mallet. As Bulbo wondered at the unusual “bonk” sound, Shirley put a sack over Fallin’s head.
“There’s more to come yet,” said Bulbo quietly to Joe. “Do you have twelve more of those sacks?”
“Good thinking, pal!” said Joe. “Grab those bags, you mugs! Now spread out!”
And so they did. They had plenty of sacks nearby that they used when grocery shopping, to avoid the need for disposable paper bags. With these sacks in their hands, they waited in the shadows as each dwarf came up one at a time, like the bad guys in a Bruce Lee movie. Soon Crawlin lay by Fallin, Wheeli and Deali together, and Rori and Tori and Gori all in a heap, and Loin and Groin and Beefi and Bufu and Fatso piled uncomfortably near the fire.
Borin came last. He had sent every single one of his company, most of whom were also his relatives, into grave danger ahead of him. He called this “risk management.” He didn’t need to see whiskey jugs, grilled meat, and twelve pair of cordovan hobnail boots sticking out of sacks to tell him things were not right.
“What is this?” he said. “An off-site team-building seminar? Well, there’s no time! We’re very busy and important dwarves! I want to speak with the facilitator of this event immediately!”
“Borin!” said Bulbo from a hiding place. “Come closer! It’s time for your keynote address!”
“Oh, well, of course,” said Borin, and this is how he began. “Mr. Bunkins, dwarves, and trolls. We are met together in the… Trolls!” he yelled in surprise.
Follow this thread for more, and please share your comments! Or visit
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
May 8 2010, 4:02am
Post #6 of 10
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Part 4- The Hidden Valley (from The Wobbit)
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(After escaping from the trolls, Borin & Company started looking for a free meal and a soft bed. The Company’s wizard and project manager, Pantsoff, claimed to be friends with Enron of the Hidden Valley Ranch, so that’s where they looked first.)
The home of Pantsoff’s friend in the Hidden Valley was indeed secret, and difficult to find. Bulbo assumed that name “Hidden Valley” was mostly a marketing thing, but it turned out the valley was literally hidden.
They rode in circles for a while, lost. At one point Pantsoff wanted to go back to the troll camp and start over. Finally, they stopped so the ponies could eat some grass at one of the roadside grass stations. Falin insisted that Borin ask the attendant for directions. Fortunately, the man had some Last Waffle House brochures. He gave them one that had a map and some valuable coupons.
They paid for the grass (the ponies ate many kilos), as well as for some candy to keep Loin and Groin from fussing, and then moved on. With the maps, they soon found a landmark: there were small stones painted grey that marked out a path. This path eventually led them to a huge, bright billboard that invited them to “Visit the Last Waffle House! See the Singing Elves, famous throughout Little Earth!”
“I knew I was on the right track all along! Lead on, Buttercup!” he said to his horse.
Hours later, the dwarves were hungry and cranky. Bulbo was thinking fondly of the troll leftovers. Pantsoff tried to act as if things were going as planned.
“Here it is at last!” he suddenly called out. The dwarves had heard him say that every twenty minutes since the billboard, so they ignored him at first. But he went on, “Great Elephants, I’ve done it again!” He pointed to a sign next to a gateway that read “Welcome to the Hidden Valley! Try our famous Ranch Dressing!” Through the gateway they went, following a narrow path.
Bulbo never forgot the terrifying way the path suddenly plummeted downward a few yards past the gate. “You wouldn’t throw me, would you, Diablo?” he whispered in his pony’s ear. Diablo remained silent. Bulbo wished he been better to the animal, and wondered if it held any grudges as it tippy-toed down the very steep and uneven path. He had secretly been eating its oats.
Wobbits are not afraid of heights, but they are deathly afraid of falling. This is the main reason they never use stepladders. It’s also why they don’t even wear shoes, other than flip-flops.
Eventually, the path leveled off and they were passing through groves of family trees. They came to an open glade not far above the edge of a colorful water slide, which blocked their progress.
“Hmph. Smells like elves,” thought Bulbo. “Or is that chlorine?” Just then there came a burst of song like laughter in the trees. The tune reminded Bulbo of “Sweet Molly Malone,” if it were being sung at you by a group of taunting choreographers:
O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
Your courage needs screwing
Your noses need blowing!
O! tra-la-la-lally
here down in the valley
Sing cockles and mussels
Alive, Alive-O!
O! What are you seeking,
And where are you making?
Our faggots are reeking,
Our muffins are baking!
O! tril-lil-lil-lolly
the valley is jolly
your ponies look cockeyed
but lively, heigh-ho!
O! Where are you going
With luggage you’re lugging?
Your beards all need mowing
Except Mister Bunkins
O! tril-lil-lil-lolly
Your project is folly
You’ll wish you were muscle-bound
Singing heigh-ho!
O! Will you be staying
Or with the crows flying?
Which ten will live gaily
Which three will be dying?
O! Stay here, by golly
In our Hidden Valley
All bearded and iron-bound
Singing heigh-ho!
The singers were elves, of course, the Famous Singing Elves of The Hidden Valley Ranch And Resort. Bulbo loved elves, or at least he loved the idea of elves. He had never actually met one, or even seen one. He was a little frightened of them, as he was of almost everything.
Dwarves don’t get on well with elves. Even decent enough dwarves think them foolish, which is understandable: consider the lyrics in that last song. Other dwarves, dwarves who have had their decency called in to question publicly by bank regulators, dwarves like Borin, consider elves to be an unnatural threat to the order and profitability of Little Earth. This is because many elves criticized SmithiBank’s 21-day check hold policy and its substantial overdraft penalties. Mostly, dwarves dislike when elves make fun of their beards.
“Well, well!” said a voice. “Just look! Bulbo the wobbit on a pony, my dear! Isn’t it delicious!”
“What an odd remark!” said Bulbo quietly to Pantsoff, looking around uneasily. “Was that an elf? What does he mean by ‘delicious?’”
“Bulbo!” said Pantsoff. “You’re embarrassing me! We’re not in Wobbiton anymore. Try to act sophisticated while we’re staying with the elves, all right?”
Ignoring Bulbo, the elves went off into another song even more poorly-conceived than the one I have written down in full. At last one elf, a tall, slim, young, fine-featured fellow, came out from the trees and bowed to Pantsoff and to Borin.
“Welcome to the Hidden Valley Ranch!” he said.
“Thank you for coming out,” said Borin, a bit awkwardly. To Bulbo, it sounded like Borin was implying something. Pantsoff had moved on, and was already having Buttercup valet-parked while chatting with some other, equally handsome elves.
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
May 14 2010, 4:08am
Post #7 of 10
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Part 5- Captured By Goblins (from The Wobbit)
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(Borin & Company found their way to the Moisty Mountains. To avoid a storm they ducked into a cave, but it wasn’t as empty as they had hoped. Goblins attacked, and somehow only Pantsoff escaped.)
There in the shadows behind a large flat stone desk sat a tremendous goblin, almost Pantsoff’s size, with a huge head, almost George Lopez’s size. Armed goblins were standing around him, carrying the switchblades, garrotes and poisoned cannoli they commonly use. Now goblins are cheap, vengeful, and dishonest, but despite their similarities they don’t get along with dwarves.
They make no beautiful things: no ranch dressing or waffles or 30-year fixed mortgages, but they make many clever ones. Butterfly knives, blackjacks, water boards, and alligator clips they design very well, using outsourced labor to do the actual manufacturing. Their laborers work part time and without benefits until they die from poor lighting and repetitive stress syndrome. It is not unlikely that they have invented many things that have since troubled the world, such as payday loans, gossip tabloids and discount fireworks.
Goblins did not hate Dwarves especially, no more than everybody else did. But they had a hateful grudge against Borin’s family, since SmithiBank had been making predatory loans and adopting usurious practices that were taking away the clients/victims that traditionally belonged to the goblins. With loan sharking compromised, the goblins were left only with bookmaking, gambling, protection, kidnapping, murder-for-hire, and prostitution. And goblin prostitutes had never enjoyed mass appeal. Anyway, goblins don’t care who they catch, as long as it’s done quickly and cheaply, and the targets are weak, stupid, outnumbered or sound asleep.
“What am I to do with these fellows?” said the goblin behind the desk. His voice was quiet and raspy, with a slight lisp. “You cannot reason with them!”
“Yes, Gobfather,” said one of the guards using the traditional term of respect for the spiritual father of the Moisty Mountain Goblins. “We asked them politely to identify themselves and explain their business, but they refused and ambushed us. Imagine, goblins attacked by unarmed, sleeping dwarves! Dwarves, and this wobbit,” he pinched Bulbo, “defiling our Front Porch as if they owned the place!”
“Is this true?” said the Gobfather to Borin. He wore a mushroom in his lapel buttonhole, and took a moment to sniff it thoughtfully. “Why do you show such disrespect? First, you take away our legitimate lending business, and now this. I suppose you’re friends with those pezzonovante elves, too. Come, now! What do you have to say for yourselves?
“I am Borin, at your service,” he replied. “We seek only shelter for the night.”
“Hmm!” said the Gobfather. “And why does your business again conflict with mine? Why are you invading my home? I will soon know all about you, Borin Oakmanfield, although I already know more than I wish. The truth, now, or I’ll have you stabbed, strangled and poisoned—in that order.”
“There is no longer any conflict,” said Borin. “Since the regulators closed down SmithiBank, my board of directors and I are pursuing other interests. We wish to spend more time with our families, on the other side of your scenic mountains.”
“He’s lying, Gobfather,” said another of the guards. “He has not explained this!” He dramatically held up a shovel. The Gobfather looked perplexed. “I mean, this!” He held up his other hand and brandished Orcbriss, Borin’s rare, collectors-item sword.
“Be careful with that, it’s valuable!” Borin said, but the howling of the goblins drowned him out.
The Gobfather held his gigantic head and wept. “You come into my home, claiming innocence, while you carry this sword that has slain so many of my people, goblins, that is. This is Orcbriss, the chopper of so many fine, innocent goblin crotches during our defense against the unwarranted attacks by Gondola. I have no patience with elf-friends. Guards! Take them away! Make them comfortable, wait until they’ve relaxed and come to trust you, and then kill them suddenly! I’m sorry, Borin, but I have to do this. It’s not personal, it’s business.”
Thanks for reading! Please reply with some comments! For more soon-to-be-published fun visit my Facebook group The Wobbit A Parody at
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
May 22 2010, 4:19am
Post #8 of 10
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Part 6- The Riddle Game (from The Wobbit)
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(Pantsoff and the dwarves escape from the goblins, but the Buddy System fails them and Bulbo is left behind. While searching for a way out, Bulbo encounters the creature Gol-Gol, who enjoys riddle-games and really rare meat. Will Bulbo provide him with both?)
Gol-Gol was hungry, angry, and disappointed. But he tried to remain patient because it seemed that Bulbo was about to lose the game. He was having trouble coming up with another riddle.
“Come on, boy!” Gol-Gol said. “Don’t stand there gawking! Out with it!”
Bulbo held his knife before him, and with his other hand checked his pockets, hoping to find a larger, more dangerous weapon. All he found was the gold ring he had picked up in the tunnel. But had forgotten all about it, and didn’t even remember that it was there, or what it was. Reflexively, he asked aloud:
What have I got
In my pockets?
He was talking to himself, of course, but he got lucky once again. Gol-Gol thought Bulbo’s inadvertent remark was a riddle! Gol-Gol may have been confused by the italics and the line break.
“What’s the big idea!” said Gol-Gol, truly threatening despite his short, scrawny build. “That, I say, that ain’t no riddle! That’s more of a trivia question!”
But Bulbo realized his good luck and decided to stick with it.
“You mean there are rules for this?” he said. “Come on! Answer the riddle! What have I got in my pocketses, I mean, pockets?”
“Well, if you say so,” said Gol-Gol. “But gimme three guesses, then.”
“Sure, whatever,” said Bulbo. “Guess away.” He couldn’t believe Gol-Gol was okay with this.
Gol-Gol guessed all the things he kept in his pockets.
“Fish!”
“No.”
“Rocks!”
“Nope.”
“Slime, or maybe a shopping list!”
“Both wrong,” said Bulbo, “and no double guesses. I win, and you have to show me to the nearest exit.”
“Of course, son, of course,” said Gol-Gol. “But first tell me, what have you got in your pockets?”
“Never you mind! Just take me to the exit.” For some reason, Bulbo knew he shouldn’t mention the simple ring that he found. For some other reason, Gol-Gol didn’t pursue the matter.
“Fine, son. Have it your way. But first,” said Gol-Gol, chuckling to himself loudly, “let me go back to my island. I forgot to close the windows.”
Bulbo rolled his eyes. “Okay, just hurry, will you?”
Gol-Gol paddled back to his island with his big flappy feet. There he kept a few slimy, wretched belongings: theater ticket stubs, old eyeglasses, forgotten business cards, breath mints, stray shirt buttons, foreign pennies, fish, and rocks. He also kept one very beautiful thing. A suspiciously simple golden ring—a precious ring.
“That boy wants my birthday present, but it’s mine, all mine!” Gol-Gol said, with a deep, maniacal chuckle. “My magic ring! As soon as I find it, I’ll slip it on my long, bony finger and I’ll be invisible, I say, invisible! And then, after a little sneaky strangling, it’ll be some tasty Wobbit Tartare for old Gol-Gol! I’m getting mighty tired of eating just fish and goblins. Now, where is that ring…”
Bulbo waited, tapping his foot, drumming his fingers, and looking around casually in the darkness. It was very dark without the light from Gol-Gol’s luminous eyes.
Suddenly, Bulbo head a screech. It was Gol-Gol, and he sounded really angry.
“Where, I say, where is it!” howled Gol-Gol. “Where in tarnation is my birthday present?”
“Your what?” Bulbo called back.
“Mind your own business, son. Where is it?”
“Look, I need to get going,” said Bulbo. “You never answered my last riddle, and you said you’d take me to an exit. And not eat me. Come on!”
Gol-Gol was silent for a moment.
“Say, son, that reminds me,” said Gol-Gol. “What’s the answer to your riddle? What have you got in your little old pockets?” Gol-Gol got back into his boat. He starting paddling from his island towards Bulbo.
“I don’t have time for this!” said Bulbo. “Let’s go!”
“Certainly, son, certainly.” Gol-Gol said as he paddled. “But first tell me, what have you got in those little old pockets?”
“Sure. Fine. I’ll tell you, but first you tell me what you’ve lost.” Bulbo was sure the lost item was either a fish or a rock, but he was starting, ever so slowly, to sense trouble.
“No. You tell me first.”
“No, you first.”
“No, you.”
“No, you.”
By this time, Gol-Gol had reached the edge of the lake. Bulbo didn’t like where the discussion was headed, so he suddenly turned around and ran for it.
From behind, Bulbo could hear the flap of Gol-Gol’s pursuing feet, his low, insane chuckle and the words “Just what have you got in those little old pockets?”
“What have I got in my pocketses?” Bulbo wondered as he panted and stumbled along in the dark, his knife still in his hand. He put his other hand in his pocket and the cold ring slipped on his finger. He ignored the swooning sensation that came over him, as well as the sound, probably imagined, of an evil, grating voice chanting in an alien language.
Gol-Gol’s crazy laugh sounded even closer. Bulbo turned and saw the huge glowing eyes. Then he stubbed his toe on a bucket of rocks. The rocks spilled, he tripped on them, and fell.
Thanks for reading! Please reply with some comments! For more soon-to-be-published fun visit my Facebook group The Wobbit A Parody at:
http://www.facebook.com/...?gid=107887149233593
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
May 28 2010, 9:40pm
Post #9 of 10
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Part 7- Rargs Attack! (from The Wobbit)
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Part 6- Rargs Attack! (from The Wobbit)
(Bulbo has escaped from the creature Gol-Gol and is reunited with Borin & Company. But as they are setting up camp in a safe-looking forest, they hear a terrifying howling that draws nearer and nearer.)
“I see them,” said Fallin, “and you’re right, they’re not wolves.”
“I knew it!” said Pantsoff. “What are they? Foxes?”
“They’re rargs!” said Fallin, as he climbed up a tree. The rest of the company was also climbing trees, except for Bulbo, who was climbing up Tori’s back, while Tori climbed a tree.
“What’s a rarg?” said Bulbo into Tori’s ear.
“Do you mind?” said Tori. “It’s not easy to climb a tree with a consultant on your back!” Those words became a proverb, though now we say, “Thanks, I really appreciate your criticism.”
Bulbo soon found out all about rargs. A rarg is like a wolf, only much, much worse. If a wolf and a shark had a baby that was raised by bikers, and was later kidnapped and brainwashed by a satanic cult, it would be like a rarg.
Vicious and evil though they are, Rargs cannot climb trees, nor can they fly up and spit venom. So they waited patiently at the foot of the trees, since dwarves were known to sometimes throw down one of their own as a bribe.
The glade was evidently a meeting place for the Rargs. There appeared to be a big meeting planned, perhaps to give out awards from a sales contest.
More and more Rargs kept coming. Finally their chief arrived. The rargs sniffed each other’s butts and then they sat down to listen to their chief start the meeting, as he spoke to them in the dreadful language of the rargs.
“Rokay reverybody, ret’s begin” said the chief. He went on to present the agenda for the evening, and then he read the minutes from their last meeting. Then he gave an update on their plans for a secret attack on a village of woodsmen and their families that was to supposed to take place later that night. There would be refreshments afterwards.
“Ree-hee-hee!” laughed the rargs, as they cruelly licked their lips.
The chief continued by noting that the attack was to be a part of a joint effort with the Moisty Mountain Goblins, creating synergy and a new paradigm for viciousness.
“Ro boy o boy o boy!” said the rargs. They looked forward to being able to eat any wounded goblins as well as their intended human victims.
Then the chief explained that the goblins were running late because of the escape of some captives that murdered their Gobfather, so the attack would have to be cancelled.
“Rut-ro!” said the rargs.
The chief concluded by pointing out that the goblin’s runaway captives were hiding in the trees that formed the roof of their meeting place. He then assured them that all was well. The goblins would arrive soon, kill the escapees, and feed them to rargs. The attack on the woodsmen and their families would to be re-scheduled to next week.
“Rooby roo!” cried the rargs in evil excitement.
Now you understand why Pantsoff began to be dreadfully afraid. But being ever the showman, he prepared some of his best magic so he could go out with a bang, perhaps literally.
“Watch this, everyone!” he said, as he tore a piece of bark off the tree and held it aloft. It suddenly rocketed out of his hand, trailing red sparks.
“Ooooo!” said the company from the trees.
The bark shot down towards a rarg, and exploded in white, with blue sparks.
“Ahhhh!” said the dwarves.
Pantsoff peeled off another strip of bark. This one shrieked as it took off in a blaze of yellow. As before, it exploded a rarg, but this one sparkled in green afterwards. Bulbo and the dwarves cheered.
Pantsoff shot another one at the rarg chief, who dodged behind one of his clan members. The unsuspecting rarg in front exploded with a white flash and a deafening boom. Polite applause came from the trees. Soon many of the rargs were either exploded or burning, which did nothing to improve their naturally evil mood.
Thanks for reading! Please reply with some comments! For more soon-to-be-published fun visit my Facebook group The Wobbit A Parody at
http://www.facebook.com/...?uid=107887149233593
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Paul Erickson
Lindon
Jun 12 2010, 3:39am
Post #10 of 10
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Part 8- Visiting Bjork (from The Wobbit)
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(Borin & Company have been brought by some helpful eagles to the home of Bjork. Pantsoff has a plan for getting his party of fifteen a table for dinner without a reservation.)
A great, big man walked up. He was huge, as Pantsoff said he would be. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only some tattered purple pants.
Bulbo whispered, “You didn’t mention that his skin is bright green!”
“What you want with Bjork?” the man asked.
“I am Pantsoff,” said the wizard.
“Okay,” said Bjork. “Who him?”
“That is Mr. Bunkins, a Wobbit,” said Pantsoff. Bulbo bowed. “And I am a wizard and project manager. I believe you know my cousin Everlast The Brown, who lives near the edge of Murkywood.”
“Yes, is good wizard. What you want?” Bjork said again, more forcefully.
“To tell you the truth,” said Pantsoff, “we’ve lost our way and our luggage and we need some advice. I may say that we had rather a bad time with some goblins in the mountains.”
“Goblins bad! Bjork hate goblins! Goblins make Bjork mad!”
“Yes, of course,” said Pantsoff in calm, even tones. “We don’t like them either. They surprised us at night. There we were—do you have a minute? This is a long tale.”
“Bjork has minute. Come sit in parlor,” he said, and he brought them into the main building.
They followed him into a large, sparsely decorated room. They sat at some low, sturdy-looking furniture. There was a fire in the fireplace, and a view of a lovely flower garden through the window.
“Bjork like pansies! Pansies good!”
“Yes, and we do too, right, Bulbo?” said the wizard. “So as I was saying, I was coming over the mountains with a friend or two—”
“Where other friend?”
So Pantsoff whistled away and presently Borin and Tori came round the house by the garden path.
“This is Borin Oakmanfield and Tori,” said Pantsoff, “and this is the incredible Bjork.”
The dwarves both completed the introduction with words “At your service.”
“Oakmanfield?” said Bjork. “Service? Poor customer service from bank make Bjork mad! Bjork no need SmithiBank! Bjork prefer subsistence farming and barter.”
“Yes,” interrupted Pantsoff, before Borin could object. “You’ll be pleased to know the new SmithiBank is committed to an improved customer experience. Right, Borin?”
“Yes, yes,” said Borin. “The customer’s always right, and so forth.”
Pantsoff went on. “Like I was saying, Borin and Tori were on their way to visit family away east beyond Murkywood. There I was! We were crossing the Moisty Mountains and there was a terrible storm. Two giants were out playing troll-dodgeball, and we hid in a cave, the wobbit and I and several of our companions—”
“Two dwarves not several.”
“Exactly, Bjork, you’re right,” said Pantsoff. He whistled. “There’s more. They’ll be here in a minute. They didn’t want to come in right away. They’re bashful and sleepy.”
“Traditional dwarf names. Good!”
“Actually, their names are Rori and Gori. Here they are now!” Introductions were made, and Pantsoff continued.
“While we were asleep, goblins entered through a secret door and captured us. We were taken—”
“Who on watch duty? Sleeping on watch make Bjork mad!”
____________________________________________________________
What will Bjork do next? To find out right now, visit my website:
http://www.TheWobbitAParody.com
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