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I took the cart to the Shire, where the inhabitants average about 3 feet in height, which is about the same distance a Democrat's hand is from the ground as he's about to filch your wallet. As the cart bounced on the root-laden dirt road that the hobbits apparently tended to as much as the Bosnian legislature tends to their bullethole removal fund, I finally saw Frodo, pipe in hand. I wondered if the weed was Cuban, smuggled into this country by Elian Gonzales's cabin mates.
Frodo is your typical hobbit, about as prescient to events going on in the outside world as goldfish are of Eminem's tatooes. Yet let one of these pubic-footed Under the Rainbow extras out of the Shire, and he somehow steals the most powerful weapon in the known world and brings it back. It's the equivalent of letting your canary fly out of the cage for a few minutes and having her return with a fully-armed Russian tactical nuke.
Frodo acts like he's got some kind of issue with me, but fortunately a lit sparkler out of my backpack makes him forget. I wonder how many sparklers it will take for me to convince him to forget the dangers of taking the most powerful weapon in the known world over to the black pits of hell from which it spawned to destroy it. Fortunately, I brought a 12-pack.