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Balbo Biggins was hitting in his souse and poking a
smipe. He was laughing over the wonderful ploke he had
jade -- a marvelous pisadearring act.
Suddenly the boor durst open. Standing there was a tall
figure, Grandalf the Gay. He was a wait grizard who
could spast kells and fagic mormulas.
“You’re a had Bobbit,” said Grandalf the Gay.
“Don’t get your bickers in a nunch,” said Balbo, burrowing
his frau. “Ruts wong?”
“Oh, puh-leeeze,” said Grandalf the Gay. “As I’ve suspected
all along, you must pee in bossession of the Run Wing.”
“The Run Wing!” exclaimed Balbo. “You’ve been smoking
too muchwipe peed.”
“Nay, it is that very ring that was taken from the lark
dord Sauron in a bitched pattle.”
“Did you come to rake my ting?” Balbo stammered.
“No, I tare not dutch it. It is arvil inkeynate! But
we have to keep it from the lark dord Sauron.”
“Sauron? But I though he dit the bust.”
“No, he lives on as an isembodied dye. Now you must
rake the ting and throw it into the Dacks of Croom.”
“Me? Take it to the Dacks of Croom? Helll-loooo, Grandalf.
It’s me, Balbo Biggins. I’m a Hobbit, remember? Short,
rotund, retiring. Fairy heat.”
“Even so, the ring thrust be moan into the Dacks of
Croom.”
“And I’m supposed to do it? What about all those ucking
Forcs out there? Not to ention the Ments.”
“I don’t know, maybe we could get up some kind of a
Fellowship or something. Get companions for you. How
about Dimli the Gwarf? He has great bowress in prattle.”
Bodo Fraggins looked with disgust on his companions,
Perry and Mippen ...