Always one to pursue useless knowledge wherever he can find it in a seemingly never-ending quest to achieve the improbable and downright unlikely status of modern-day Renaissance man, Mark Bittmann has indulged his desire to never be lost in any conversation, by developing an arcane understanding of things of little consequence or import while maintaining his alleged status as a small fish in a small pond.
As long as his self-indulgent whim is catered to, he manages to sustain the facade of someone under the misperception that others care about what he thinks. With a ubiquity normally reserved for greenhouse gasses, he chases his random and inconsequential thoughts with all the tenacity of a banana peel. This is his life, his curse, and his twisted and maniacal way of impressing the ladies.
What a mess the Fellowship of the Ring made of their little detour through the mines of Moria. They gave Frodo the simple choice of continuing on their trek up the slopes of Mount Kaza Dum or taking the low road through the evidently long-abandoned mines reaching far into the earth and carved by dwarves in pursuit of satisfying their limitless greed (they make George Lucas look like a monk) and he chose to take the party down a few abandoned passageways instead of risking frostbite and possibly running into either an avalanche or Bumbles the abominable snowman (remember: Bumbles bounce?) had he chosen to continue scaling Kaza Dum instead.
When one thinks about it, they were lucky to get that far despite the best efforts of the more simple Halflings in the party. For no sooner did they finally get the stupid door to the entrance to the mines open, when the hobbits decided to rouse the creature that makes the lake outside the door its home, much to its anger. The lakefront property the Dwarves chose to build their porch entrance to the fabled mines on probably wasn’t the wisest of choices, when one considers the nasty critter in the lake itself. Then again, maybe the Dwarves built the entrance there with the notion that the creature would make a good watch-dog? Given its multiple appendages and the fact that they reach well into the mines, it could be that he once served as bouncer for some of the more rowdy parties given by the dwarves. If someone gets out of hand, it reaches inside, grabs the offending dwarf and dunks him in the drink to sober his attitude a little. It would probably make a helluva bartender as well, pulling double duty as server of draught beer and keeper of the peace, with enough arms to keep the drinks and troublemakers tended to. Sure it’s all good and fun to take time out of a journey to skip a rock or two on the waters, but given the fact that at every other turn in their trek they have ran into trouble in unlikely places (usually the fault of Halfling carelessness), one would think they’d be able to spot potential trouble by now and would stick to bitching about food. But, no, they had to throw everyone’s fat into not only the frying pan, but the fire as well, in light of the door being irreversibly blocked behind them.
It’s probably a good thing Gandalf waited until Frodo spotted Gollum following them instead of tipping the party off to his presence too. Knowing the usual result of the decisions employed in furthering the dimwitted misfortunes of Masters Brandybuck and Took, they would probably have done something brilliant like attempting to capture him in an attempt to win the favor of the Fellowship, and succeeding only in being captured themselves as twin bargaining chips…and then where would the group be? The mission to destroy the one, true ring would then be detoured into finding and rescuing their sorry butts once again. How many times do the Halflings have to screw up before Aragorn or Mr. The Gray snaps and decides that Hobbits other than the ring-bearer are best left behind. They think nothing of making fires that signal the world of their location, when they are already being relentlessly pursued by the Nazgul, whose mission is to destroy not only Frodo, but anyone who assists him or gets in their way. They constantly find themselves in peril and in need of saving and they eat just about anything that isn’t tied down or Tupperware’d for later. And just what in the heck is second breakfast anyway? Why not just have a big first breakfast and let those in the Fellowship with a less stringent and demanding constitution continue on their journey without having to hit every seedy truck stop and HoJo’s on the way? There is something to be said for anticipation, after all. Not to mention a low-calorie diet.
Not that anyone was expecting the trip through the bowels of Middle-Earth to be a picnic, but is it really asking too much of Pippin to watch what he is doing? It’s bad enough that the evidence of a siege upon the underground dwarf realm is lying about and rife with the stench of its source but is it expecting too much to trust a hobbit to refrain from making enough racket to wake the dead, or in this case a veritable horde of orcs itching to fillet anybody foolish enough to tip them to their whereabouts? Apparently not, for the folly of this pinheaded son of a Took is like a cold, spreading through the luck of the Fellowship and subduing any remaining luck they may have in their favor…and, as we know, they’re going to need all the luck they can muster amongst themselves. They still have many a mile of labyrinthine, underground stone to make it through. And, of course, there is the legend of a great beast being awoken by the dwarves once upon a time that is said to be a denizen of this dank place. It is rumored to be scarier than Anna Nicole Smith, and nearly as large. A real butter-hog of a beastie, that would just as soon look upon any one of the party as merely an appetizer to its no doubt steady diet of orc and goblin flesh. Given the aforesaid appetites of the Shire-folk, he probably sees them as something to be roasted on a spit and savored. Hobbits eat well and they probably aren’t as gamey in taste as your average orc, so the Balrog probably cleared out a healthy section of his freezer to put one of these fat little morsels away for a special occasion, like when that sexy cave troll comes aknockin’ on his back door with a subtle, yet amusing Chianti and a look that says “take me you hot, winged angel of death”. For cave trolls can be rather forward, you see.
And just what in the world is at the end of this excursion into the stuffy, poorly lit and sparsely decorated, glorified abandoned subway tunnel? Why the outside of course. Not the end of the journey. Not even close. There isn’t even a set of Budweiser babes waiting to lay a hot kiss and cold brew on them for all of their trouble. Is there going to be some sort of reward to be reaped for making it through to the other side, with still many a mile on land to be traveled? It’s kinda tough to tell at this stage of the jaunt. There are supposed to be orcs surrounding the exit upon nightfall and it’s apparent that the band of adventurers need to saddle up and get a move on to a safer locale, before they become acquainted with death on a first name basis.
The fellowship still has a long way to go and plenty of obstacles lay in their path to destroy the Ring of Power. With any luck maybe they can stand in line and nab a Fast Pass to Mordor.
