The day of Bilbo Baggins' eleventy-first birthday had finally arrived, and all of Hobbiton was prepared to celebrate. Balloons and streamers littered every yard and pasture, and the big Party Tree drooped beneath the weight of myriad ornaments and corny light fixtures. But the most important cargo had only just arrived: a truckload of ale, which Frodo deemed was enough to get every hobbit west of the Brandywine sufficiently drunk.
Bilbo had presently engaged himself in hearty conversation with the two truck drivers, a pair of cheeky lads who were probably best described as Ambiguously Homosexual HobbitsTM (or ‘AHH' for short. Coincidentally ‘AHH' also happens to be a type of sound often emitted in the bedroom). That is to say, the two were involved in a relationship of extraordinary (but not explicit) closeness, and made disputably romantic gestures to each other every five minutes.
One of the hobbits, whose name was Merry Brandybuck, presented Bilbo with a clipboard. The other hobbit, Pippin Took (a distant relative of the Bagginses), had already helped himself to the ale as a means of "preemptive celebration."
"Thank you again for shipping this on such short notice," said Bilbo, signing his name on the clipboard. "Will you be staying for the party this evening? I'm eleventy-one today, you know."
"Eleventy-one, you say?" said Pippin between gulps of ale. "Why, you're giving the Old Took quite a run for his money, Bilbo!"
"Er, indeed," replied Bilbo. At the mention of the name, he exchanged an uneasy glance with his nephew. Frodo shuddered as an image of the withered old hobbit barged into his mind, casually snorting a line of cocaine. He shook his head and dismissed the thought at once.
"We'd be delighted to stay," said Merry, blissfully unaware of the discomfort that now sprouted amongst uncle and nephew. He turned to his debatable partner. "But first, the ale. Pippin, get up off your ass and help me un-"
"Undress?" cut in Pippin. "Perhaps we ought to get a room first."
"No," replied a red-faced Merry. "I mean, yes, a room would be ideal, but not until later. I was going to say ‘unload the rest of the ale,' you kinky bastard."
The party began around dusk. Hobbits danced around the Party Tree, Gandalf produced a spectacular display of his fireworks, and Merry and Pippin managed to find a suitable room. And that's nothing to say of the copious amounts of alcohol and pipeweed that were consumed; Bilbo, Gandalf, and Frodo had each indulged a bit too much, and had taken to babbling inanely amongst themselves.
"Well of course I have a child," said Gandalf in response to no one in particular. He furrowed his brow in drunken concentration. "What was her name again? Started with a ‘J,' I think. Galadriel, probably."
"That doesn't starts with a ‘J,' Gannalf," hiccuped Frodo matter-of-factly, a strand of drool trickling down his chin.
Bilbo nodded his head in somber yet meaningless agreement. "I once had a pet fish," he said, a distant look in his eyes. "I don't think he liked me."
"Uncle Biblo... thass so sad."
"I know, lad. I know."
And while Bilbo and his nephew were bonding over some unimportant and/or uninteresting fish, Gandalf was still puzzling over the name of his alleged daughter.
"Aredhel... Andreth... Arwen... Debbie..."
"Debbie sounds promising," put in Bilbo.
"No, I don't think so. It definnly starts with a ‘J.'" And then his jaw clamped shut, and his eyes widened with Archimedes-like wonder. "I've got it," he squawked at last. " Lúthien. That's her name."
"Glandalf. That doesent start with a ‘J' either," said an impatiently inebriated Frodo.
But the sozzled old wizard ignored him. "Aye, s'a little known fact that she's my dotter," he said, to the interest and belief of absolutely no one. "Most people think it's old Thingol who was the father. I mean, can you ‘magine? Just where d'ya think she gets ‘er good looks from, eh?"
At this point, Frodo decided he had quite had his fill of stupid, ludicrous wizard-lies. But just as he was about to get up, he crashed into an approaching hobbit, a plumpish fellow with... well, since Frodo was exceedingly drunk, the correct descriptors for this new character seemed to escape his tongue. But really, we all know that that's a load of bullshit, and the real reason is that the writer is just too lazy to provide the necessary adjectives to describe such a hobbit. (She has also taken to referring to herself in the third person, but that's entirely besides the point). To put it simply, ‘plumpish' would have to suffice.
Frodo, however, needed only to squint through his drunken and nondescript haze before recognizing his new companion. "Well, I'll be Sammed!" he gurgled. "It's Damn-wise Gamgee!"
The hobbit in question, Master Samwise Gamgee, reddened at the butchering of his name. "Er, yes, Mr. Frodo," he replied in a reasonably sober voice. "Sorry to bump into you like that, sir. It's just, the rest of the hobbits, they're lookin' for Mr. Bilbo, see."
"Well, you've come to the right place," belched Bilbo from somewhere beside Frodo. "Wha' do... what're they lookin' for?"
"Well, Mr. Bilbo, they want you to perform a speech," said Sam uncomfortably. It couldn't have been more ill-timed for the old hobbit to become so horrendously drunk; but then again, it scarcely mattered, seeing as the rest of Hobbiton was about as equally intoxicated.
"A speech, eh? Well, I'll give ‘em a speech," replied Bilbo, cracking his knuckles. He balled his fists and strode over in like an inebriated rooster to the Party Tree, where most of the guests had flocked. He produced a microphone from God-knows-where, at once acquiring the attention of every hobbit present. "Lissen here, you lot," he said gruffly. "Today's my one-eleventh-and-a-hundredy-first birthday."
Below, his audience cheered and vomited in drunken approval.
"That's right," crowed Bilbo from his place under the Party Tree. "An' I gotta say... I don't like you half as well as you should know, and I deserve less than half of you as I should like."
More mindless praise in the forms of cheering and vomiting.
"So what I'm tryna say is... what I'm tryna say... well, I think y'all can go and screw yurselves. Especially you, Suck-ville Bagginses," concluded Bilbo eloquently. "Yeah, that's right, Suck-villes, I never did like you. Always stealin' my silverware and porn tapes ‘n shit."
The Sackvilles guffawed and slapped their knees from somewhere down below, not the slightest bit aware that they'd just been insulted by a perverted geriatric.
"So anyways, I'm outta here. Blammo. Oh yeah, and also if you have any questions, comments, concerns, go talk to my nephew ‘cause he's stupid and actually cares about what you guys think. Okay? Okay. Biblo out."
And with that, he produced a ring from his jacket-pocket, slipped it on his finger, and disappeared from sight... but not before tripping over a tree-root and blacking out.
