~ A/N : If this really belonged to me, would I be here sitting in front of the world's slowest computer, staring at the screen like an idiot? I think not. All of it belongs to Tolkien or New Line or Ron Howard or Big Bird or Steve Irwin or whoever else. So...if you're looking to sue someone, call 1-800-SUE-BARNEY. But beware, that number is extremely popular.
Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. In the view of a hormone-driven maniac.
~
It was a warm, sunny day. The birds chirped happily, jumping from rock to rock. The clouds sang melodies, and the sun put on its sunglasses and beamed down upon Middle-Earth.
A really really really really really dirty hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins, on that lovely day, was sitting under an old Hemlock, totally absorbed in the latest Playboy issue.
"Ooohh...look at all the pretty pictures!" Frodo said, his abnormally large eyes widening into plate-sized eyes.
Meanwhile, an old gay wizard named Gandalf the Grey was humming down the road. Literally. All species of life within a 10-meter radius of the crook were suffocating from his gay odor and his gay voice and his gay robes and his gay beard and his gay life, in general.
So, by sheer luck, the old freak and the young freak collided.
"Frodo!" gasped Gandalf.
Frodo's eyes widened (again) and a snarl of contempt crossed his lips. "You!" he pointed accusingly at Gandalf. "You killed my father!"
"Um. No, I actually didn't, Frodo," replied the old wizard. "I AM your father!"
Frodo blinked.
"So what's up, pops?" Frodo settled himself in the old crickety cart, next to his worst enemy. I mean, gay father.
"Well, the birds are singing and so are the clouds. Everything's fine," Gandalf said, and whipped out his Pipe of Doom.
"Dude, smoking's bad for you," said little Frodo. He pointed proudly to his Smokey the Bear badge. "See? Smokey says so, DaDa. You should listen to Smokes."
Gandalf sighed.
~
Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. In the view of a hormone-driven maniac.
~
It was a warm, sunny day. The birds chirped happily, jumping from rock to rock. The clouds sang melodies, and the sun put on its sunglasses and beamed down upon Middle-Earth.
A really really really really really dirty hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins, on that lovely day, was sitting under an old Hemlock, totally absorbed in the latest Playboy issue.
"Ooohh...look at all the pretty pictures!" Frodo said, his abnormally large eyes widening into plate-sized eyes.
Meanwhile, an old gay wizard named Gandalf the Grey was humming down the road. Literally. All species of life within a 10-meter radius of the crook were suffocating from his gay odor and his gay voice and his gay robes and his gay beard and his gay life, in general.
So, by sheer luck, the old freak and the young freak collided.
"Frodo!" gasped Gandalf.
Frodo's eyes widened (again) and a snarl of contempt crossed his lips. "You!" he pointed accusingly at Gandalf. "You killed my father!"
"Um. No, I actually didn't, Frodo," replied the old wizard. "I AM your father!"
Frodo blinked.
"So what's up, pops?" Frodo settled himself in the old crickety cart, next to his worst enemy. I mean, gay father.
"Well, the birds are singing and so are the clouds. Everything's fine," Gandalf said, and whipped out his Pipe of Doom.
"Dude, smoking's bad for you," said little Frodo. He pointed proudly to his Smokey the Bear badge. "See? Smokey says so, DaDa. You should listen to Smokes."
Gandalf sighed.
~