A/N: Take seriously at your own risk. Any damage done to your mind if you do is your own fault so don't come whinging to me about it. Completely irreverent and tongue-in-cheek and I hope I haven't set Tolkien to spinning faster in his grave.

I carried my hamper of dirty laundry down the basement stairs, hoping the building's two washing machines were free. I hated having to wait for the machines to come free because Eru only knew when the person ahead of me would come down and take their wash out and-

"LAUREL!" a high-pitched voice shrieked from the direction of the building's storage rooms. I rolled my eyes. What now?

"Be there in a minute!" I shouted back. I never should've given over my storage room to Merry and Pippin, even if there was a permanent portal to Middle Earth in the back wall. I should've known they'd turn it into some kind of 24/7 rest stop on the transdimensional highway. At least the elves were nice enough to help keep it cleaned up and they'd done wonders for the mildew problem.

Thankfully, both machines were empty so I was able to get my laundry going and in short order I was opening the door to the storage room for my flat. "Your humble servant is here," I said dryly, leaning against the doorframe. "What can I do for you?"

One of the many Took relations present pointed to several boxes of Bass. "We drank what you brought down earlier. Could you bring us more?"

I stared at the stack of ten boxes, jaw slack. No. Way. They had not finished all that ale. "You drank two hundred and forty bottles of Bass between noon and now?" I exclaimed. "What are you doing, mainlining it?"

The hobbit stared at me. "Is that faster than drinking?"

"Nevermind," I said quickly. "I don't have any more ale. That was supposed to last you the rest of the week. If you want more, you'll have to get it yourselves." The twenty hobbits around the room groaned. "Don't complain. I told you those ten boxes would have to last you."

"We thought you meant until the end of the day! That's not enough to last us all week!" another Took (or maybe he was a Brandybuck; it was hard to tell) piped up.

"It is where I'm from," I countered. "I can't afford to buy you seventy boxes of ale a week and I'm done buying you any if you're going to drink it all in a few hours."

The groaning was louder this time. "You want more ale, you'll have to get it yourselves."

The sounds of cursing and wood breaking came from the television. "What are you watching?"

"Jerry Springer!" one of the lady hobbits said excitedly.

I groaned. "Sweet Eru on a pogo stick," I murmured under my breath. To the hobbits, I said, "Any of you try to imitate in here what you see on the tele, I'll drag you all to the mall and tell any teen girl I see you all need hugs and a makeover." They'd heard the stories about what Frodo, his cousins, and Sam had been subjected to when they'd come through portals elsewhere into Modern Earth and fallen into the clutches of fangirls. "And, ladies? I'll take all of you to get your legs and feet waxed." Satisfied I'd threatened them into submission, I went back upstairs to finish cleaning the bathroom.