Saruman of the Press On Nails Republic of Isengard had his hand raised demonically over the palantir, the flaming eye of Sauron glowing within its shininess. “Who now has the power to stop both Isengard and Mordor?” he inquired mentally. ow Saruman said things afterwards, but no one paid attention, for they were too taken with the completed model of Mordor. If Isengard was the Renee Zellwegger of the tale, Mordor was the Catherine Zeta-Jones. Put the two together and you can’t keep your eyes off the latter. Unless you had a thing for Zellwegger and Isengard, then you’d look at the other, but then in comparison to the other other it would look really pathetic cuz it’s all skinny compared to the opposite which has curves in all the right places.
And all that jazz.
Now after this were images seen before. Peter Jackson was, yet again, conserving film.
“Don’t blame it on me,” he said innocently, “blame it on the precious three months of post production I lost shmoozing with Hollywood during the awards season!”
“…” said the audience.
“Does this mean I get to conserve, too?” said Academy Award Winner Howard Shore enthusiastically.
“Er… Sure?”
“SQUEE!” said Academy Award Winner Howard Shore as he ran off to retrieve the dusty tape recorder at the side of the studio containing a disc full of old Fellowship recordings.
“You know, if I wasn’t in my right mind today I’d say ol’ Pee-Jay was losing his storytelling skills,” said one jaded audience member as he sat through images he’d already seen.
“I’d say the same about Shore, too,” said another audience member. “I mean, what’s up with these new lyrics? I keep hearing this energetic voice screaming ‘squee,’ whatever the hell that means, over the music, which, you know, was best used last year.”
“You know, you’ve just missed about FIVE MINUTES of me talking with your incoherent psychobabble over complete irreverent nonsense!” bellowed Saruman. “This is very important story exposition you’re missing!” The audience became silent and Academy Award Winner Howard Shore stopped squeeing. “Thank you.” He turned around to face a group of ragged looking men who all looked to be short cousins of Hagrid.
~
Back in the merry realm of Rohan, life was going swell. Who couldn’t deny that any day was made perfect when a swarm of homicidal orcs and cousins of Hagrid invaded your town? At this particular town, the residents were making sure that there was enough room for the invaders to make themselves at home by hauling ass out of that area. One of them, a woman, had deemed it appropriate for her to stay behind and greet the bloodthirsty invaders herself. But it was not a job for her children, she saw, and ordered who two darling Token Cute Kids to fall in with the crowd and make room for the killers.
“But mom,” whined her little girl, “I don’t want to ride with Éothain. He’s too big and keeps singing ‘MmmBop’!”
“Use your brother’s talent as a defense against the Orcs,” cried the girl’s mother. “Ride to Edoras. I will meet you there. You must trust me!”
The little girl burst into tears. Whether it was from being forced to leave, or her brother’s genderless singing voice, she couldn’t say.
Over at the hoppin’ village of Edoras, everything was going swell. The king, Théoden, was possessed, his son, Theodred, was kind of almost dead, and everyone who lived in Edoras had the joy of a root canal. In the confines of the King’s quarters, his niece, Éowyn was practicing some high-flying self-defense mechanisms that she learned from this movie called “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.”
“Éowyn, what in the… Are you flying?”
Éowyn looked down to see her brother holding his half-dead cousin and looking quite perplexed. “I was not flying,” she said plainly, levitating back to the ground in a graceful manner. “I was practicing the methods of the ancient craft of Chinese martial arts.”
“Well, when you come back down to earth can you help me with Theodred? Our cousin here is dying.”
Éowyn flew into a frenzy of melodramatic sobs. “Oh Theodred, my beloved, why do you depart us so? In our hour of need!”
“You’re weird. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
Eowyn hissed. “No one asked for your opinion!” She stormed out of the room, but not before snapping “And what are you lookin’ at, pal?” at Grima Wormtongue, the sleezy, slimy, slithering advisor to the king who really looked a lot like that guy from Harry Potter. If you do not know which one I’m talking about, well, I pity you.
“Yeah,” said Eomer, “yeah what are you lookin’ at, pal?”
“Nothing… Nothing…” said Wormtongue, staring innocently at the ceiling then back down at Éowyn. Sadly, Wormtongue hadn’t mastered the art of the subtle look and was caught in mid-glance by Eomer. Disregarding his cousin’s state, he threw Thedred aside, and pinned Wormtongue to the wall in that brotherly, “Don’t-You-Fucking-Fuck-With-My-Sister” sort of way.
“The fact that my uncle likes you for some reason is the only thing keeping me from tearing you limb from limb. But if you keep looking at my sister…”
“Alrigh’, alrigh’, break it up,” said a poorly misguided guardsman of Rohan.
“Yeah, what he said!” Wormtongue yelped, hiding behind the guardsman. “He was picking on me! Théoden, I think you should kick him out for being so mean!”
Théoden said nothing.
“SEE! He agrees with me. Eomer, you are hereby banned from Rohan, under punishment of death, for being a mean stupid poopy-head!”
Somewhere in Isengard Saruman wondered why he bothered with a minion who said things like “a mean stupid poopy-head.”
To Be Continued
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