From cocka@doodledoo.com Sun Dec  6 00:33:26 1998
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From: cocka@doodledoo.com (The Rooster)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien
Subject: Tom Bumbadolt
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There was a silence. At last Elrond spoke again.

"This is grievous news concerning Saruman," he said, scratching
absently at his chaffed wrist. The small, round puckered scars shone
like evil chilli beans. "For we trusted him and he is deep in all our
counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts, for good or for
ill. Indeed, tis the arts that have spawned all the pinkos and
liberals and tootsies that plague the borders of Westernesse. But such
falls and betrayals, alas, alackaday and alooawoohobtiddlyhob, have
happened before. Of the tales that we have heard this day the tale of
Frodo was most strange to me. I have known few hobbits, save Bilbo
here, and had written them off as a runty people, staid of mind and
dress, with little knowledge of proper cleanliness; and it seems to me
that perhaps I was not far off the mark. The world has changed much
since I lost my nerve and set up this rather shabby outpost in the
middle of nowhere.

"The Barrow wights we have known by many names, most hurled at us with
venom as we turned our tails and ran like dogs; and of the Old Forest
many tales have been told, most by strung out souls of which half the
lies they told were not true; all that now remains is but an outlier
and borderliet of it's northern march. Time was when a squirrel could
go from tree to tree from what is now the Shire to Dunland west of
Isengard, that is, if it could elude the paws of hungry elf children.
I've smoked several a big fattie once (Gimli snickered and nudged
Frodo in the ribs. "Once" he said, rolling his eyes and hawking a nice
luger on the dusty floor.), and many things wild and strange I knew. I
mean, could that chicken have possibly.......do they wear red?"

Elrond's voice trailed, and he stared absently into space. The others
waited with impatient politeness, thankful that the decrepit old
half-elf had stayed alert this long. Yet after minutes of quiet,
stuttering mumbles about "That chicken" and the name "Karl-Heinz
Ruminnige", Gandalf at last let out a massive sigh that seemed to
weaken the burnt timbers upholding the patched roof.

"We are quite aware, Master Elrond, of your...er...revelationary
visions amongst your journeys in the woods. But time is pressing, and
we have along way to go. We were talking about Bombadil."

Elrond turned to face the wizard, the trickle of drool coursing over
his chin taking much away from his regal bearing. The scars blazed
red. "Bombadil?"

Gandalf twitched, then looked to the roof and cracked his knuckles.
The echo was that of a tasty rack of Louisiana Ribs being mauled by a
Texas trucker. 

"Yes, Master Pothead. Bombadil. You know, sleeps with the River woman,
rescued the boys from the Old Willow, no ringy, no ringy, thanky very
much?"

"Ah. Bombadil!" Elrond's eyes blazed into a silver light, and he
stood, towering above the seated counsel. He slammed his hands down
hard on the oaken table, and fixed the company with the rheumy gaze of
a wild drunk. But it proved to much. The light went out, and he
slithered back into his chair, motioning to the maiden off to his
right. She brought him a flask of wine and a large, tubular object
which he placed in his mouth. He cast a hopeful glance at Frodo.

"Light?"

The hobbit, delighted to be addressed by so noble and elf lord,
hastilyl dug through his pockets and produced a flint. He placed it
before Elrond, who, with a contented sigh, lit the object in his
mouth. The caverns of his cheek hollowed as he drew lustily on it, and
then sent spiralling rings of smoke shooting up into the rafters
above. A sweet, tangy smell of cooked herbs filled the air.

"For the Love of Eru, fellow, Bombadil!" Gandalf snarled, frowning and
leaning back in his chair. Frodo suppressed a giggle. 'The old coot'
he thought whimsically, jealous he is. Never blew a ring like that in
his life.'

Elrond turned bloodshot eyes on the wizard. "All right, all right.
You'd think you were going to die on the morrow." He took a final
drag, and passed the object to Glorfindel, who took it lustily. Elrond
stood again, began a coughing fit that went on for minutes and
threatened to produce a lung right on the table, then hawked and
cleared his throat.

"But I had forgotten Bombadil, if indeed there is any doubt this is
the same forgery that walked the woods and stole my stash long ago,
and even then he was shiftier than a tall grass weasel and as lazy as
a nyloned chicken. Iarwain Ben-adar we called him, Most Useless and
Irritating. But many another name he has since been given by other
folk: Loozar by the Dwarves, Skankweed by Northern Men, and other
names beside. He is a vagrant creature, but maybe I should have sent
out and expedition to rid the world of his irresponsible filth."

"They would not have found him." said Gandalf, with the slightest
trace of a smirk.

Elrond frowned at the wizard. "No? Mayhaps, and mayhaps not, old
friend. Have you forgotten the Vales of Qualicumdor, where the elven
hosts, like a legion of stars, braved death and maiming to stalk the
Golden Chicken of Aruba? Hast your memory cast out the image of Elrond
leading the warriors of Rivendell to seek out the Thorny Titmouse of
Shrubdom? Hast..."

"Peace, elf lord." Gandalf said, the sarcasm actually coagulating
around his ragged boots. "How can I forget such heroic deeds?
Especially as it was I that wrung the chickens neck when all the elves
ate too many berries and were engaged in a game of strip poker with
the Nymphs of Naryathing? Now back to Bombadil, and no more slips, or
I just might polish my boots on your heroic butt."

The Master of Rivendell still glared at the wizard sternly, but the
beads of sweat that broke out on his pale brow showed he took the
threat seriously. 

"Very well. Now, where was I?...." And the company was left to gnash
it's collective teeth while Elrond searched his addled memory for the
last bit of Bombadil lore he could scavenge. At last, Erestor could
stand it no longer.

"Could we not still send messages to him and obtain his help? It seems
that he has a power over the Ring."

"No, I should not put it so, not in so many word and in such a manner,
forthrightly and forthcoming, neither in such a manner nor to be taken
in a certain way." said Gandalf, obviously warming to his task. The
spotlight was again on the wizard, while Elrond sat forgotten, sulkily
pulling on the burning object and drawing scratchy doodles of the
Istari with a goose quill.

"Say rather that the Ring has no desire to have any power over him.
And why should it? It seeks always to pervert it's users and return
itself to it's master. Neither could be accomplished with Bombadil. A
bigger pervert you'll never find, and it is impossible to compel his
shiftless arse to move anywhere over thirty yards from his couch. He
has withdrawn, if that is possible, into a life of complete lechery
and vagabondery." (Gimli nudged Frodo again, giggling under his bushy
beard. 'You hear that, buddy? Vagabondery. What a quack!'), within
bounds that he has set, though none can respect or comprehend his
measly ways and purposeless life. He is waiting perhaps for a change
of days, but he will do nothing to bring them around."

"But within those bounds, nothing seems to dismay him." said Erestor,
looking awkward as he frantically scratched his groin. "Would he not
take the Ring, if not only because it looked valuable and he might be
able to hawk it for something?"

"No," said Gandalf, his smugness cloying even over the sweet stench of
the burning tube. "not willingly. He might do so, if he thought there
was no chance of getting caught and having his worthless hide beaten
like a dog, but even then he would not do the right thing. If he were
given the ring, he would try twice as hard to outsmart us and make him
rich, which, knowing his brainpower, would be disastrous. Sauron would
only have to take out an ad in the nearest adult leaflet and offer a
reward for the ring, and Presto, a Nazgul walks away with our doom
while Bombadil counts himself a genius for obtaining three flawless
onions and a sack of potatoes from last years harvest. He would be a
most unsafe dupe; and that alone is answer enough."

(Excerpt from perhaps the finest of the HOME series, WHEN THE SERIOUS
SHAPING AND MOLDING OF THE WHICH IS MIDDLE EARTH WAS STARTED, BUT WAS
OF COURSE LATER CHANGED, MAYBE FOR THE BETTER BUT MAYBE NOT, which
contains the least of Christopher Tolkiens meddling. Let me know if
you like, and I can post some more from this excellent but rare tome.

The Rooster

"It had been planned meticulously. The door was locked. The children
were away at his mothers. The neighbours were gone to Hawaii for two
weeks. But it all had failed miserably. Steven cried, head in hands,
as he tearfully gazed at the shredded tutu. 'Damn Chicken' he muttered
over and over."