Sunday, July 11, 2010

The Compleat Monty Python's Lord of the Rings Parody

Okay, so perhaps it is not quite 'compleat', but brought here at great expense (and much cutting and pasting) is the epic saga in totality, at least up to this point (that would be Monty Python's The Hobbit, Monty Python's Fellowship of the Ring and Monty Python's Two Towers). Winners of Middle Earth Fanfiction Awards (MEFA), as well as the coveted Necrotic Albatross Lesion of Honor (a fictitious organization dedicated to the elimination of ulcerous dermatitis in seabirds), I now introduce to you 3rd Age Middle-earth absurdist revisionism as perpetrated by Monty Python's Flying Circus***:

Monty Python's The Hobbit

Excerpt from Monty Python's The Hobbit --

The elvish guards dragged their hapless captives before the angry ElvenKing, while Invisi-Bilbo™ lurked unobtrusively in the antechamber of the throne room. The ElvenKing (or, as he was named in 'The Lord of the Rings', Thranduil, which means 'malaprop' in Sindarin) glared haughtily at the bedraggled dwarves, and sneered, "Ees der vun åmunk yøu dörfs who cån træt vis å Keeng?"

The dwarves were at a loss for words. Bombur leaned over to Götterdämmerungsdottir, the elvish captain, and mumbled, "What'd 'ee say?"

Götterdämmerungsdottir replied, "The king asks who among you dwarves has the authority to speak to him."

"Ah, right," Bombur nodded. Bowing to the ElvenKing, Bombur replied, "Lookie 'ere, yer Maggie's tea, I aint much fer speechifyin' an' all, but I'll do in a pinch."

The ElvenKing cocked an eyebrow at the rotund dwarf, and then looked to Götterdämmerungsdottir. "Våt vas dåt?" he grumbled.

The elvish captain rolled his eyes and explained, "The fat one will speak for the rest."

"Ja, gud, gud!" the ElvenKing said. Then the king straightened his plaited platinum locks, and trained his piercing cerulean blue eyes (pervasive elven traits promulgated by Peter Jackson) upon Bombur and shouted, "Yust vhy før vere yøu in der vørest mitout læve, und pesterink our vølk?"

Bombur bit his lip uneasily and looked plaintively at Götterdämmerungsdottir, who elucidated, "The king wishes to know why you were trespassing in the forest and bothering his people."

Bombur answered the king, "Truth to tell, yer Maggie's tea, it weren't that we be a loiterin' lot; nay, we were just wantin' a bit and a bite is all."

The ElvenKing glanced in annoyance at his captain. "They were looking for drink and food, majesty," Götterdämmerungsdottir sighed.

"Vell, dörfs sure götts a vunny vay øv gøink aboot tings," the king muttered.

Bombur gaped at Götterdämmerungsdottir, who shook his head and said, "No need to answer, the king was speaking rhetorically."

The ElvenKing then continued, "Yust våt shöuld ve dø vis yøu den, eh? Nåughty 'lil dörfs! Ye yust håd tø gø und rile up dem dere schpæders, didn'chå? Und den fer å tøpper, måken much håvoc vile ve vere håvink dem silvan væsts!"

Bombur looked to Götterdämmerungsdottir, who merely shrugged and glanced over to his second in command, Fjalarvilhjálmsson. Fjalarvilhjálmsson conferred in whispers with the third in command, Þórssonorðlenska, who finally said, "I'm not sure, but I believe the king was referring to something about spiders and feasts."

"Yer darn tootin' schpæders und væsts!" the ElvenKing bellowed, now utterly exacerbated at the tedious translations. "Yust zend döse collöqvial-schpækink dörfs åvay 'til ve påss our yudgment øn dem."

And so, the dwarves were dragged off, placed in chains, thrown into individual holding cells, and forbidden to speak with one another (why the elves had so many jail cells at this period of the 3rd Age is up for conjecture). Fortunately, the still-transparent Bilbo had followed the rather shabby proceedings and took careful note of where the dwarf's were imprisoned. In addition, he discovered that Thorin, too, was being held captive in an adjacent wing of the palace. Over the next few days, the stealthy hobbit passed messages back and forth between the incarcerated dwarves and planned their escape. Dwalin's suggestion of building another bridge –- this one a cantilevered steel structure with great stone aqueducts to power the raising and lowering of the spans – was hotly debated; but as the dwarves only had wooden spoons for tools (not to mention being underground without forges or a water source), the proposal, though intriguing, was shelved indefinitely. But the resourceful Mr. Baggins had ideas of his own.

Monty Python's Fellowship of the Ring

Excerpt from Monty Python's Fellowship of the Ring --

Suddenly, to his chagrin, Frodo noticed that the drunken Pippin was talking in an animated fashion to the sour and swarthy-looking Southrons, who were all looking intently at Frodo. "Oh ye-a-a-ah, Fro-o-o-d-o-o… Frodo Underhill…thas' 'is name," Pippin said loudly with an exaggerated wink. "It seems the name 'Baggins' is 'baggage' if you get my drif'."

Flustered and desperate, Frodo hurriedly jumped upon the stage, nearly running into the stripper pole in his haste. He whispered something to the DJ, who reached into his bag of karaoke classics and began spinning a tune while Frodo threw out some gang signs and shouted, "Yo, yo, yo – wa'sup y'all?" to the crowd. He then began singing some scat swing, which he approximated to be proto-hip-hop, for as a jazz aficionado he could never reconcile himself to the idea that rap was considered by some to be a musical form:

Hey diddle-diddle, there's a kitty on the fiddle,
The cow done shot the moon -
Just shakin' her udder like a hoochie mutha,
She was cokie when she took up the spoon.

Elsie starts swingin', her G-string flingin'
And her bovine hooves in the air,
Singin hey diddle diddle with her titty in the middle,
And you swing like you just don't care!

And Elsie sang: Hey diddle-diddle, the cat's cookin' on the fiddle.
Come on Little Boy Blue, show us what you gonna do -
Play a nursery rhyme in syncopated time,
When only them blue notes will do!

Mary, Mary quite contrary,
how does you garden grow?
Well there aint no grass on a well-worn path,
So goodness only knows.

Drivin' your car to a downbeat bar
To listen to them saxes moan.
The wolves get in line just 'bout closing time,
To see who will take you home.

And Mary sang: Hey diddle-diddle, the cat's cookin' on the fiddle.
Come on Little Boy Blue, show us what you gonna do -
Play a nursery rhyme in syncopated time,
When only them blue notes will do!

Caught up in the moment (and with several beers under his belt) Frodo then went off on a prolonged bit of impromptu improvisation:

Sing a song of Threepenny, Finnegan has died,
Gatsby dreams of Zelda while Atlas shrugged and sighed.
Basie is the Count again, Rene Magritte broke his nose,
Punched by the Duke of Ellington for painting on his robes.

The King of Swing was Calloway; 'Fatha' Hines was Earl,
Morton salts his Jellyroll while Ella snatched the Pearl.
Satchmo blew his Beiderbecke, and Dorsey drummed a Krupa,
Gershwin took the A-train after boxing Joe Palooka…

Unfortunately, the sheer amount of musical and literary allusions overcame Frodo, and his wild theatrical gesticulations sent him careening off the stage. He had been fingering the Ring on its gold chain as he fell, and somehow the Ring had slipped onto his finger. POOF! He vanished. A few Hobbits began clapping, thinking it was all part of the act, but the applause became tentative and stopped altogether as a nervous murmur thrummed through the crowd, becoming a dull roar as the drunks caught up with the more sober folk in voicing their disbelief.


The walls of The Prancing Pony blew away and Frodo found himself in the howling vortex of a whirlwind. It seemed that the virulent storm had sucked the color from the room, or what remained of the room. Frodo could barely make out the other patrons of The Pony from the corner of his eye, but they were thrown into vague, abstracted shadows, as if they were now negative photographic impressions of life slowly consumed by chaos. All that remained was the swirling distortions of the wind, and a daunting presence searching, ever searching, for Frodo. No, it is not searching for me, Frodo thought; it is looking for the Ring! And then he perceived, as if from a great distance, a horrific lidless eye wreathed in flame, its relentless glare piercing the shadows. And the howl of the wind coalesced into a low, rumbling voice:

"Olly, Olly oxen free!"

Frodo shifted uneasily and looked about for a place to hide, but he was alone and naked before the great eye.


Frodo felt the strange urge to cry out "Polo!" but he placed his free hand over his ring finger in an effort to shield his prize. This immediately drew the sharp glance of the eye directly towards him, and the voice growled:

"Peek-a-boo…I see you!"

With a tremendous effort, Frodo tore the ring from his finger, and he found himself once again in the friendly confines of The Prancing Pony restored.

Monty Python's Two Towers

Excerpt from Monty Python's Two Towers --

By now they had made their way into the realm of Rohan, the verdant, rolling land of revisionist Anglo-Saxon horsemen who would have defeated William the Bastard and his nasty Normans at Hastings if, by Tolkien's Francophobic approximation, King Harold and his housecarls had had a standing cavalry; thus, the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy would have remained in England to subjugate, overtax and generally make miserable the lives of the peasantry, rather than have foreigners do the same more efficiently. In any case, the Three Hunters crested a hill and below them lay a green valley where they espied the first sign of trouble. Hundreds of protesters were milling about carrying placards and signs (most of which had X and O symbols, or spatters of paint mimicking writing, as very few folks were literate at the time). The mob was listening to the exhortations of a rather unkempt demagogue trying to rally the masses with his shrill oratory. Stealthily, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli scrambled down the goat paths that scarred the hillside, and then mingled with the crowd in order to hear what the fuss was all about.

"A spectre is haunting Dunland," the shaggy speaker shouted through a megaphone of sheepskin, "the spectre of Rohirrism!"

"Wha's a spectre?" One old gaffer asked a shrewish hag standing next to him.

" 'Ow should I know?" The shrew replied. "Just quit yer yammerin' an' wave yer sign! I've 'eard they'll be 'andin' out prizes for the most enthusiastic demonstra'ors."

"All the old powers, that of Gondor and Rohan, have entered into an unholy alliance to quench the bright flame of Liberty lit for the Dunlendish people," the orator bellowed with contempt. "Where is the party that would oppose these reactionary adversaries?"

"Yes! Yes! The party!" several oblivious protesters cried. "Where is the party?"

"To this end, the Executive Administrators of the Council of Propaganda and Pasturage, duly endowed with plenipotentiary powers by the General Secretary for Bureacratic Affairs, were sanctioned to form the first Revolutionary Constitutional Congress of DUFF, the Dunland United Freedom Fighters. And by the gracious invitation of Saruman, both of them gathered at Orthanc and completed a Manifesto!"

"Wha's a manifesto?" the geezer wheezed. "Is tha' an Eye-talian dish? Sort 'o' like Manicotti, but wi' pesto?

"I should 'ope so," the hag replied, "I'm starvin'!"

"The history of society has been one of class struggle!"

"Ye got 'at roight, guv'nor," a shepherd shouted. "I aint ne'er made it past first grade, wha' wi' conjugatin' verbs 'n' danglin' me par'iciple at recess!"

"Freeman and slave, lord and serf, in other words, oppressor and oppressed, have continually opposed one another in a nearly uninterrupted fight that each time has ended badly for we, the mute masses. There has been no revolutionary reconstitution of society at large for us - on the contrary, it usually resulted in the utter victory of them what has, as opposed to them what has not. Now Dunland sits alone in chains of degradation; but, at the turn of fortune's wheel, we can become the oppressors and the hated Forgoil of Rohan the oppressed! We can become that which we hate!"

"This is, like, so-o-o-o boring!" a teenage girl whined.

"Like, we should have so gone to the mall," her BFF chimed in.

"I wish they'd serve the manifesto," the gaffer grumbled. "Me tummy's rumblin'."

"To that end, we shall join with Saruman the White, our sorcerous friend and benefactor, who has offered us his wizardly assistance in ridding Dunland of the hated horsemasters. Join us now! Join us in this righteous rebellion! We may be casting off one master for another even more tyrannical despot; but he has such a pleasant, fatherly way of making our gullibility seem noble - almost intelligent. Besides, we shall get a brief glimmer of freedom before our hopes are ruthlessly crushed, which is all we peasants could possibly expect at this juncture in history, given the inadequate means of mass communication only made possible by the printing press, which will not be available, technologically speaking, until the time of Herr Gutenberg. But enough of anachronistic platitudes, what say you, people of Dunland? Shall we fight for freedom, however short-lived?"

There was a prolonged, dumb silence punctuated by sneezing, rheumy wheezing, lip smacking and tubercular coughs. The speaker sighed in defeat. Despite his best efforts and his Ciceronian dialectical rhetoric, he felt he was losing the mob. And so, as with all demagogues past and present, he decided to plumb the depths and cater to the crowd's basest emotions. "Of course, there will be other benefits…" he said with a polished smile.

"Wha' benefits?" the old hag shouted.

"Yes, yes, what's in it for me?" A one-eyed, legless beggar cried as he shifted nervously on his stumps. "Please, I can't stand the suspense!"

"And when do we get our manifesto?" the grizzled geezer grumped. "Will it be at th' party you was mentionin' earlier?"

…"There will be rape and pillage."

And there was a great cheer that arose from the throng, and they immediately fell into beating each other with cudgels, staffs and canes.

"NO, NO, NO!" the orator shrieked through his megaphone. "I was referring to raping and pillaging the people of Rohan!"

"O-o-o-oh!" the bloodied crowd cried in unison and stopped their infighting, except for one stout shepherd who punched the shrewish hag again for good measure.

"Now, I want the folks to my left to start right in on the raping, and the ones on my right to go off and pillage."

"Well, why can't we just do both?" the shepherd shouted in dismay, his staff clinched tightly in his left hand and his other staff now gripped firmly in his right.

The speaker gave the suggestion some thought and then finally shrugged. "Sure, why not!"

The mob screamed in a blood-curdling frenzy and scattered off in all directions to practice their raping and pillaging skills, leaving the Three Hunters alone in the valley.

***COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: These are not-for-profit stories (ie., speculative literature, or in more pedestrian, guttural terms fan-fiction), and are in no way meant for publication; therefore, both the Tolkien Estate and the members of Monty Python can rest assured, there will be no royalties due and nothing forthcoming in the way of monetary remuneration for the meager author of these farcical romps through Middle-earth. So bugger off.

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