Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this story, except the second debater (who is me).
Aragorn sighed heavily. "It figures," he muttered. "I've been crowned King. I've won the war. I've put all this time and effort into making the world a better place. I can afford as many channels as I want. And there's still nothing on!" He pointed the remote control at the television set and clicked a button.
A tall brown-haired fourteen-year-old girl in a pinstriped skirt and nice black sports coat said, "This resolution seems reasonable—imprint the bullets, trace the bullets to guns, trace the guns to murderers, eventually guns fall out of use, and the world is transformed into a rainbow-filled utopia where cuddly animals frolic and NOBODY IS EVER SHUT OUT OF CONGRESSIONAL ROUNDS!"
"Nothing—"
Another teenage girl, this one with blue hair, multicolored glasses, and a blue and black tiny-checked suit shouted, "Miramonte is EVIL and I hope any Miramonte people reading—I mean hearing this realize the fact that their debate team CHEATS and robs perfectly good senators and representatives and even IE competitors of deserved awards—"
"Crazy Analy High School debaters," the King growled. "Both of them." He changed the channel.
"How would YOU like to buy a—"
"Nothing—"
"Crikey, th' li'il bugger's got me boy th' leg, maite!"
"Nothing—"
"Hello, Newman."
"I hate Seinfeld, so nothing—"
"Puff, the magic dragon—"
"That's just wrong." Aragorn pounded the remote on the sofa arm and pushed another button.
"Hi, I'm Chef Tony—"
"Nope."
"WHEEL—OF—FORTUNE!"
"No…"
"Oh, Barney, I love you!"
"NO!"
Aragorn frantically clicked the channel-button multiple times, stopping at last to find the first Analy debater finishing her speech. "The saying is true: guns don't kill people, people kill people. And as long as people keep killing people, our rabbit-infested utopia will just have to wait."
"Damn." Aragorn avoided the other debater by flipping back to see what channels he'd missed in his mad escape from Barney. The blue-haired girl did not take kindly to this, and decided to mess with Aragorn's life more rather than getting right to the point (ha, ha) of the story.
The poor semi-former-ranger went through every children's show imaginable, all the obnoxious game shows that he so loathed, a golf tournament, a curling exhibition, a nature program called The Secret Life of Dead Slugs, and fifteen sitcoms before Arwen, sans makeup, jewelry, and shoes, walked wearily in. "Hey, honey." The tired queen flopped onto the sofa next to her husband. "Anything on?"
"Not a—wait, was that Frodo?!" Aragorn hastily switched the channel back.
"It is!" Arwen cried. "What's he doing?"
"Frodo! Welcome to the show, Frodo!" Regis said with a game show host grin.
Frodo smiled back sweetly. "Thanks, Mr. Regis."
"Ohmivalar, I can't believe it!" Arwen squealed. "Frodo wants to be a millionaire!"
"What, Ringbearer and a modest gathering of fangirls were not enough?" Aragorn grumbled.
Arwen kissed his cheek. "Don't worry, dear. I think you have more fangirls than him."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
"So, Frodo, are you ready for your first question, Frodo?" Regis asked.
Frodo nodded.
"Then let's begin! First question: Who exactly is Finarfin? Is the answer a) Galadriel's father, b) Legolas' father, c) Richard Nixon, or d) a Silmaril?"
Frodo paused. Then, "What's a Silmaril?"
Arwen burst out laughing. "Come on, Frodo! A! It's a!"
Regis grinned again. "Well, Frodo, do you want to use a lifeline, Frodo?"
"No—wait, I only read The Hobbit and the trilogy—let's see. It can't be b, Thranduil is Legolas' daddy. C seems unlikely, and I'm getting a psychic message from Arwen that says a…"
Aragorn had never seen his wife look so surprised. Frodo winked at the screen and said, "A. I'm going with a."
"Frodo, is that your final answer, Frodo?"
"Yep."
"Wow, Frodo, you got it right, Frodo! Though I think e, an obnoxious pissant, would have worked to." He grinned his game show host grin.
Arwen scowled. "Bastard. How dare he insult my great-grandfather like that? He must be thinking of Fëanor."
"Fëanor drives me crazy!" Aragorn agreed. "And I only know him in the history books!"
Meanwhile, Regis was proposing Frodo's next question. "Whose hair did Fëanor have in mind when he crafted the Silmarils? Was it a) Celebrían's, b) Arwen's, c) Lúthien's, or d) Galadriel's?"
Frodo frowned. "Can we get out of that family?"
Regis laughed a game show host laugh. "Good one, Frodo! Use a lifeline! Who ya gonna call?"
"If he calls us, say a," Arwen giggled to Aragorn.
"No, b," he disagreed with the smile that made so many older fangirls swoon.
"I'll call Galadriel," Frodo decided. "If it's her hair, she'll know."
"Okee-day." Regis pushed a button (déjà vu?) and waited.
A telephone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, they heard Galadriel say, "Hi, you've reached the voicemail of Galadriel, Lady of Light. I'm scrying or something right now, and as such I don't want to talk to you, so leave me a message and I'll get back to you later. Maybe."
Regis and Frodo both froze. "Wha—that's never happened before," the host muttered. "That stupid elf bitch!"
"Don't you darrrrre insult the Lady Galadrrrriel!" a gruff voice hollered from the audience. "I'll kill ye!"
"Galadriel is the most beautiful being ever to grace the universe," Regis amended hastily. "Frodo, call someone else, Frodo."
"Um…well, no one knows his elf history like Legolas. I'll call him."
"Okee-day." Regis pushed yet another button.
This time, the phone was picked up on the first ring. "Hello, you've reached the residence of Legolas Greenleaf," a cultured voice informed Frodo. "How may I help you?"
"Hey, Legolas, it's Frodo!"
"I'm sorry, sir, this is the good prince's butler. Would you like me to transfer you?"
"Uh, yeah, that'd be great." The poor hobbit seemed rather baffled.
There was a short wait, punctuated by elven voices raised in a chorus of Kum-bye-ya. Aragorn shuddered. "Is out hold music anything like this?" he asked Arwen.
"No, I think ours plays the soundtracks to Fellowship and Two Towers on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and plays the Talking Heads on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays."
"What's on Sundays?"
"Enya."
Heh heh…reviews, PLEASE?!