Bilbo Baggins was contentedly spending his days in the Shire, sitting out in front of his beloved home, soaking in the tickling rays of a springtime sun. He was smoking his pipe and blowing smoke rings quite puffily with a most contented look on his face. He was home, and home was as it had always been. The Shire had always been such a quiet place, far removed from the goings on of a most tumultuous world abroad. It was a refuge of happy times and small, funny people, who were much more concerned with tea time than the happenings beyond the borders of the peaceful, grassy knoll they called home. He heard the murmured rustles of hustles and bustles down the hilly road at the end of which his home was burrowed. The hobbits of the Shire were making haste to prepare for their midday nap, already feeling a bit lethargic from elevenses.
Bilbo sighed happily and adjusted his seating, looking up at the puffy fluffs of clouds criss crossing overhead. The clouds were exceptionally beautiful today, even more voluminous and long than Gandalf's beard. Cicadas were buzzing in the background, and the quiet noise of the world was singing softly as Bilbo's eyes began to drift shut into a long rest.
Bibo's eyes cracked open. The sky was turning purple and orange, and the stars were poking out as little white pinpricks at the cap of the heavens. Good heavens! He had overslept!
*Grrrooooooooooowwwllll*
Bilbo jumped up, eyes darting to and fro, looking for goblins, and monsters, and wolves, anything that could be making-
*GrrrrrrroooooooooooooooooOOOOOOwllllll*
Bilbo clutched his stomach, and blushed with embarrassment. He let out a thin chuckle as he realized his error.
*Grooooooooooooooooooowwwwwlllllllll*
Bilbo was hungry.
After stepping inside, Bilbo strode towards the pantry with the confidence of one of the greatest of connoisseurs. Clearly experienced in the realm of a good meal, Bilbo rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the delicious meal that was to come. He had good meat, and potatoes, and fine wine stored away for such a day as this. But, as he looked in at his stores, he cried out in horror.
The pantry was empty!
No, not empty.
There was a single jar.
A cookie jar.
And that jar was towering above him on the highest shelf, twenty feet above his head.
Doom had at last come for our hobbit.
His strength was waning. Slowly, surely, he was able to worm to the next shelf, then the next. He shuddered as the shelves creaked and wobbled under his weight. Step after step; shelf after shelf, the hobbit climbed the mountain of shelves toward the cookie jar.
Bilbo was sweating. He wanted cookie.
If only he had dwarves. Dwarves could be stacked most efficiently. Blasted dwarves! Never around when you need them!
Bilbo's vision was blurring. The shelf was stretching miles and miles away from him. The cookie was beyond his grasp. The cookie was lost to him. The cookie would never be his. All was folly. All hope was lost, never to be recovered.
Bilbo reached up; reached up for the cookie jar, and the shelves began to undulate like waves out at sea. The world swam away into colors and shapes and laughing. The jar was shining and curling in and out of sight, and the jar! The jar! The jar was laughing at him. The cookie was mocking him! THE COOKIE! Why had it betrayed him? Why did it? The jar descended to just within grasp, and with a final cackle, pushed Bilbo off balance.
Bilbo shouted, and failed futility, like a baby chicken attempting to fly.
Bilbo's foot slipped, and he fell screaming into the void of kaleidoscopic color and laughter.
With a snort, Bilbo woke up, pipe still dangling in his half open mouth. He was sitting on the bench outside his home once more.
Bilbo looked down at his pipe suspiciously, and threw it into the bushes in a state of bewilderment. Shaking his head in confusion, Bilbo stood up slowly, rubbing his forehead, and made his way inside.