Beard, Henry N. and Douglas C. Kenny. Bored of the Rings: A Parody of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. New York: ROC, 1969.

    The voice belonged to a man, a stranger to the boggies of the Bag Eye, a stranger they had understandably overlooked because of his rather ordinary black cape, black chain mail, black mace, black dirk, and perfectly normal red glowing fires where his eyes should have been.

    Frito rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a long epic.

    As Frito ran on he felt the curious eyes of the villagers upon him and his frantic companions. Frito hoped that they would not inform the tools of Sorhed. Thankfully he saw that they took little notice of them and went about their evening chores, lighting signal fires and releasing carrier pigeons.

    "Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea and Gift Shoppe," he said. "Barca-Loungers in every room." Garfinkel and the tall elf thumbed their noses in the ancient salute of their race and exchanged greetings in elvish.

    At the mention of his name, Frito gurgled loudly and fell off his sheep, and the Ring dropped out of his clothes, and rolled to Orlon's feet. One of the sheep trotted up, licked it, and turned into a fire hydrant.

    "Even the walls have ears," he said, pointing to two huge lobes which were protruding from behind the mantelpiece.

    With a last twittering wail, the music died away, and half a dozen stunned birds plopped heavily to the ground in front of Frito.
    "What was that?" asked Frito.
    "It is an ancient lament in the tongue of the Auld Elves,' sighed Garfinkel. 'It tells of Unicef and his long and bitter search for a clean rest room. 'Are there no facilities here?' he cries. 'Is there no washroom?' No one seems to know."

    Just as Frito finished, Orlon suddenly roused himself and signaled for silence. "Bingo in the Elf Lounge," he said, and the feast ended.

    Arrowroot squinted into the distance. 'Behold the grim Mount Badass,' he said, pointing to a large milestone a hundred yards down the road.

    "We cannot stay here," said Arrowroot.
    "No," agreed Bromosel, looking across the gray surface of the page to the thick half of the book still in the reader's right hand. "We have a long way to go."

    The company stood rooted to the ground in terror. The creature was about fifty feet tall, with wide lapels, long dangling participles, and a pronounced gazetteer.
    "Aiyee!" shouted Legolam. "A Thesaurus!"
    "Maim!" roared the monster. "Mutilate, mangle, crush. See HARM."

    "Aye," said Legolam, "the river is under a spell, for it is named after the fair elf-maid Nesselrode who had the hots for Menthol, God of After-Dinner Drinks. But the evil Oxydol, Goddess of Quick Tricks and Small Slams, appeared to her in the shape of a five-iron and told her that Menthol was two-timing with the Princess Phisohex, daughter of King Sano. At this Nesselrode became wroth and swore a great oath to kick Phisohex in the gut and get her mother, Cinerama, Goddess of Short-Term Loans, to turn Menthol into an erector set. But Menthol got wind of the plot and came to Nesselrode in the guise of a refrigerator, turned her into a river, and went west to sell encyclopedias. Even now, in the spring, the river softly cries, 'Menthol, Menthol, you are one wazoo. One day I'm the elf next door and then poof I'm a river. You stink.' And the wind answers, 'Phooey.'"
    "A sad story," said Frito. "Is it true?"
    "No," said Legolam.

    The water was nowhere more than a few feet deep, and the boggies had little difficulty making their way across.
    "This is indeed a queer river," said Bromosel, as the water lapped at his thighs.

    She had magnificent chestnut hair, and when she shook her head, handfuls of magnificent chestnuts dropped to the floor like rain.

    In the eastern sky, Velveeta, beloved morning star of the elves and handmaid of the dawn, rose and greeted Noxzema, bringer of the flannel tongue, and clanging on her golden garbage pail, bade him make ready the winged rickshaw of Novocaine, herald of the day. Thence came rosy-eyeballed Ovaltine, she of the fluffy mouth, and lightly kissed the land east of the Seas. In other words, it was morning.

    As the tiny boats passed round a bend in the river, Frito looked back in time to see the Lady Lavalier gracefully sticking her finger down her throat in the ancient elvish farewell.

    At that, Bromosel started to sprint, but catching his feet in his sword belt, he tripped and impaled himself on his pointed shoes.

    Tirelessly, the Ranger, dwarf, and elf pushed on after the captors of Moxie and Pepsi, often making a long march of up to three hundred yards before collapsing with apathy.

    Legolam and Gimlet never tired of baiting each other, and when the elf laughed at the dwarf as he fell from his mount and was dragged raw the first day out, Gimlet retaliated by slipping Legolam's steed a strong laxative on the sly. The second day thus found the elf being borne in panicky circles and zigzags by his ailing mount and that night he revenged himself by shortening the right rear leg of Gimlet's merino, causing its rider many long hours of violent seasickness on the following day's ride. It had not been a tranquil journey.

    In his hand he carried an ancient and trusty weapon, called by the elves a Browning semi-automatic.

    Then just over their heads they saw a passing flash of color. There in the sky they saw a giant eagle, full-feathered and painted shocking pink. On its side were the words DEUS EX MACHINA AIRLINES in metallic gold.