Hobbits Across America

"This is outrageous!" Sam cried as he dropped the pile of mail on the floor. Frodo came running across the foyer of their newly renovated home.

"What?" he asked, panting. "I hope you didn't make me run in these new khakis for nothing. I just had them altered."

"They look great," Sam sniffed.

"I hope you didn't get my L.L. Bean catalogue dirty, then." Frodo stopped to pick up his pile of catalogues.

"I've just got the shortlist for the Burning Tree golf tournament next month, and I'm up against my mortal enemy."

Frodo gasped. "Jaques Cousteu? You totally hate him! I'll have to slam my door into his SUV the next time I go grocery shopping."

"No, not him. I'm talking about Fred Burrows."

"Oh, I hate him too! Him and his awful wife Trixie." Frodo thought for a moment. "You know, we haven't had them over since the house was redone."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Sam asked seductively.

"Oh my god, yes. Clambake!"

"No, honey-poo, a golf-off. It's what us rich WASP-y Connecticut-type people do when we're highly competitive."

"Oh, I'm sorry. In Rhode Island, where I was born and lived for three months before my family moved to Connecticut, we do things a bit differently," Frodo said sarcastically.

"Anyway, this golf-off is going to be tough. I don't know if I can do it."

"Of course you can, Shnoopy-poo. You're great at golf."

"You're right, my little Rhode Islander, I can do it. Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III (my ancestor who came to America on the Mayflower) would be ashamed if I didn't!"

"Must you always bring him up?"

"Of course."

"So, let me get this straight," Frodo cooed, kicking another raccoon out of his precious petunias before slamming the door shut. "You're going to settle your dispute over a golf tournament with a golf ... off."

"Yes."

"Oh, that makes sense."

"I know, I know." Frodo and Sam stared at each other for a few minutes. "So, what's for dinner?" Sam asked sheepishly.

"Well, Aragornina has the night off, so I guess we're on our own. I could microwave those crab cakes I got at the farmer's market," Frodo offered.

"Forget it," Sam pooh-poohed. "Let's just go to the club."

"All right, but you drive," Frodo said, adjusting the cardigan over his shoulders. "I've been drinking gin and tonics since 1:30 in the afternoon."

"How marvelous," Sam sultrily slurred.

~

At Burning Tree, Frodo and Sam were seated in the main dining room. "I think I'll have the crab cakes," Sam mused, looking over the menu.

"Yes, so will I."

"Why don't we split an order? I can't eat a whole order," Sam offered.

"Oh, please. We'll just bring them home and put them in the freezer." The waiter showed up and Frodo ordered another gin and tonic; Sam ordered a glass of white wine and a hot tea. "Tea?" Frodo asked.

"Oh, my god," Sam drooled, ignoring him. "Do you see who I see?

"Is that?" Frodo asked cut-outedly.

"I think it is...' Sam continued.

"Bill Chuthers?" Frodo asked.

Bill Chuthers approached their table. "Ah, Sam, Frodo."

"Are you here with Daisy, or are you here by yourself?" Sam asked.

"Oh, I'm here by myself. Daisy's with the kids. How are you two?" Bill Chuthers replied.

"Oh, we're fine." Frodo answered. "Why are you here at Burning Tree?"

"Oh," Bill replied, "I just joined. You must have not read the newsletter yet."

"Oh, no, we haven't." Sam ululated, "You know how the Greenwich postal service is, terrible at best. You know what my ancestor Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III (who came over on the Mayflower) used to say..."

"No," Bill Chuthers uttered, "I don't. What did he used to say?"

"He said, 'Ye Greenwich ol' Postal Service hath not be the best!' " Sam lied.

"Marvelous!" Bill Chuthers chuckled.

"I guess I don't get it because I'm from Rhode Island," Frodo muttered to himself.

"What was that, Frodo?" Sam asked.

"Um, I said you are so witty, Sam." Frodo answered. "So, Bill," he coddled, poking at a piece of pumpernickel on his plate with his fish fork. "What brings a dyed-in-the-wool Delawarian like yourself all the way here?"

"Well, with the kids growing up, Daisy and I have been looking for things to waste all of our extra money on," Bill chuthered. "Daisy wanted to hire on a fifth housekeeper but I said, 'Daisy, we can't keep bringing these people up from Meh-hee-ko. Times are bad enough for national security as it is.' And she says to me, 'Bill, if you don't stop talking and finish up I'm not putting out for a month.' So I rolled off of her and the next day we joined."

"How marvelous!" Sam beamed.

"Maybe one day you'll come over for brunch and bring the kids," Frodo offered. "I just love making brunch."

"What would we have?" Bill asked.

"Crabcakes," Frodo and Sam both answered in unison.

"Well, gentlemen, that's a mighty nice offer, but I don't know if we should be exposing the kids to your lifestyle right now. Chelsea's therapist says she's at a very impressionable age."

"I don't molest little girls," Frodo interjected.

"Well, this has been lovely, but I really must be off. Sam, say hello to your father for us."

As Bill stumbled away, Frodo shook his fists in rage. "That stupid Republican arsehole!" he mustered. "Why, I sure hope he rips his chinos at his next board meeting."

"Calm down, honey. Remember: What would Joe Lieberman do?"

~

After dinner, and after Frodo had made Aragornina put away the leftover crab cakes, Frodo and Sam lay in their California King bed deciding what to do.

"So..." Frodo uttered nervously.

"Yes?" Sam chuthered awkwardly.

"You wanna have sex?"

"Didn't we just have sex last week?"

"What, you don't want to? You don't think I'm sexy anymore?"

"No, that's not it. It's these new anti-depressants I'm on. I think I may have erectile dysfunction."

"Sam, I've been switching your Wellbutrin with Viagra for weeks now, that can't be it."

"Huh, then maybe you're not sexy anymore."

"WHAT?" Frodo exploded with rage.

"I'm just kidding, let's have sex." Sam winked.

"Okay," Frodo yelped.

After waiting patiently for Sam to come and get it, Frodo was happy to have finally gotten with it. He woke up the next morning and came downstairs in his monogrammed robe and matching slippers. Aragornina was busy mopping the floors. "Has Sam gone up to the office yet?" Frodo asked in a yawn.

"Si."

Frodo sat down with his coffee and bran muffin and began to read The New York Times. Suddenly, the phone rang. Frodo got up and shuffled over to answer it. "Anoy-hoy?"

"Frodo!" jingled a stupid little pixie voice.

"Hi, Trixie."

"We just heard about the golf tournament! Fred is out getting his clubs polished as we speak!" Frodo snorted. "What was that?"

"Oh, sorry. My allergies are acting up again."

"You should have that surgery they're all talking about. I had it two autumns ago and I've been breathing perfectly ever since."

"Too bad," Frodo bluthered.

"What was that?"

"I said, that's great. Anyway," Frodo looked down at his bathrobe. "I'm in the middle of a whole bunch of stuff."

"Well, I just wanted to invite you and Sam to a pre-golf tournament clambake tomorrow Sunday afternoon. You know, just a friendly little to-do."

"Will there be crab cakes?" Frodo asked, chewing on his nails like they were crack.

"Of course!"

"We'll be there." Frodo hung up the phone. "SAM!" he yelled into the intercom.

"Yes?" Sam said, standing right next to him.

"Boy, that was fast. Almost as fast as you were last night."

"Frodo, the sex was good last night, remember?"

"I know, I just couldn't not take it there. Anyway, we were just invited to a clambake at the Burrowses. Also, I've organized this whole golf-off thing for you. It's happening at Pirates’ Cove tomorrow afternoon."

"Pirates’ Cove?"

"You did say mini-golf-off, right?"

"No." Sam was turning red.

"Well, it's too late now. I've already organized everything.”

"Frodo, this is ridiculous."

"Shut up. Nothing I ever do is ever good enough for you."

"Especially your grammar.”

"That sounds like grounds for a punishment, Mr. Gamgee." Sam raised an eyebrow. "Don't take that tone with me!"

"I didn't say anything."

"You did now. Ha! Take off your clothes and get that cute tush of yours down to my secret S&M dungeon."

"We have a secret S&M dungeon?"

"No, Sam. I have a secret S&M dungeon. You have a punishment coming."

"Yes, sir!"

"That's 'yes sir, Mr. Frodo' to you."

~

Sam limped into the driver's seat of the Lexus. "What's wrong, Sam?" Frodo asked. "Something hurting you?"

"Yes, these God-forsaken paddle marks. What the hell got into you yesterday?"

"Look, Sam, we agreed that if you took a week off to go on your fancy yoga trip to the Himalayas, I would get to build a secret S&M dungeon and paddle your ass. And torture your nipples."

"Yeah, see, about that, I don't recall agreeing to anything of the sort. And I don't remember you building a secret S&M dungeon."

"That's because it's a secret."

"Anyway, how am I supposed to win this mini-golf-off when I can't even sit down?"

"Look, you should of thought of that before you got short with me. Now, we're almost at Pirates’ Cove. I imagine the Burrowses are already there, practicing or something. They're so competitive, those Burrowses."

"I know, I know."

"Oh, by the way, I've been switching the Viagra I had been switching your Wellbutrin with for steroids for a while now, so I hope you have quite a swing."

"I don't think that will help when it comes to putt-putt."

"Look, Samwise Gamgee. You're going to win this thing, or it's the rest of the week in my secret S&M dungeon for you."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo."

As they arrived at Pirates’ Cove there was quite a commontion. It seemed some prostitute had been arrested in the parking lot.

"Ooh, let's get a closer look," pleaded Frodo.

"Yeah, I love seeing the expressions on their faces as they get arrested. It's priceless," Sam agreed.

"Oh my god, is that who I think it is?"

"Yes, that prostitute is..."

"Well, it's not important," Frodo followed up. Sam gave him a dirty look. "Oh, Sam, don't be such a beyotch. Do you want to kick Fred Burrows's ass in this mini-putt-putt-athon, or do you want to stand here gawking at some hooker?"

"I guess I want to kick Fred's ass," Sam moaned. "But gossip can be so much more interesting."

"Well, in Rhode Island, where I come from, we look down on gossip. One might even say we shun gossip. Now, to the golf-off!"

~

"Frodo! Sam!" Trixie Malloy squealed, hopping over a child who was having a seizure on the eighth hole. "Oh, it's so good to see you! Did you bring the screwdrivers like I told you?"

"Sure did," Frodo sassooned, hoisting over a thermos full of frosty, delicious screwdrivers.

"Perfect!" Trixie malloyed. "Fred's over on the first hole practicing his swing."

Frodo, Sam, and Trixie trudged over to the first hole, which was, in typical mini-golf fashion, just a simple stretch of astroturf with a hole at the end, but it was proving to be deceptively difficult for poor Fred. "Gosh dernit!" he bellowed, chucking the "club" (or putter) across the course. "Hole in two! Hole in two! All I ever get on this ridiculous course is a dang hole in two!"

"Calm down, dear," Trixie shushed. "Our neighbors the Brandybucks are here today, and that Estella is an awful gossip. Do you really want her blabbing to the whole neighborhood about your hole in two?"

"See?" Frodo whispered to Sam. "All it takes to get Trixie totally shnonkered is two peppermint Schnapps, and she's got looser lips than me. And guess what she told me?"

"What?" Sam hardly cared.

"Fred can't play putt-putt. You're a shoe-in!"

"Frodo, this is great news. Thank God you get drunk so often."

"Thanks, Sam. It really means a lot to me hearing that from you."

"You’re welcome. Fred!" Sam called to Fred, who turned around quickly almost knocking over Trixie with his putter.

"Ah! Sam, Frodo, you're here. Shall we begin?" Fred asked.

"Yes. I guess you're already in position on hole number one, so you go first," Sam penetrated.

"Right," said Fred.

~

Thirty minutes later the pair had reached the 18th hole. It was a windmill, but unlike a normal windmill hole, this windmill had six blades. It was known far and wide as one of the hardest putt-putt holes in existence, or at least as far as New London, CT was concerned.

The score was tied. Even though Fred Burrows was terrible at putt-putt, it turned out Sam was as well. Fred turned behind him to see what he assumed was a small group of people watching. 'Who wouldn't want to watch a golf-off as thrilling as this one?' he thought to himself. In actuality, there was a back-up of putt-putters because Sam and Fred took such a long time at each hole. An angry group of Japanese tourists was shaking their putters menacingly at the group.

"Oh, stop," Frodo pish-poshed at them. The group said something back to him in Japanese that sounded something like "baka gaiijin" and was definitely derogatory.

Fred breathed deeply and putted the all with one graceful stroke. [Bollinger’s note: WTF? Radaker, this isn’t even English.] It slowly meandered its way around the obstacles and toward the hole in the middle of the windmill.

"Oh my god!" Frodo whispered loudly, feigning a swoon.

Predictably, the ball hit one of the blades of the windmill, which sent it rolling backwards approximately 10 inches.

"Phew!" said Frodo loudly, dramatically wiping his brow of imaginary sweat.

Fred stepped up to the ball, cursing under his breath, and tapped it slightly with his putter. Everyone, including the group of Japanese tourists held their breath. The ball rolled into the hole and out the other end of the windmill and into the hole.

"Hole in two!" shouted Fred. "Beat that, Sam!"

Sam stepped up to his neon pink golf ball. "Well, here goes nothing," he said as he swung gallantly with his putter.

~

"I can't believe you won the tournament!" Frodo crowed, giving Sam an encouraging pat on the tush. "Oh my god! We'll put your new trophy in our trophy room! Oh, this is so exciting! Move over, 'Seventh Annual Camp Punxatawny Fourth of July BBQ Relay Race, Eighth Place!' There's a new award in town!"

"I don't think they give awards for putt-putt tourneys," Fred Burrows said snidely, swishing his glass of rye, straight on the rocks. "Besides, it was merely a technicality."

"How was that a technicality?" Sam asked. "I won, fair and square."

"Oh, please," Trixie sighed, taking an annoying little sip on her awful cosmo.

"Yeah," Fred agreed. "Ricocheting off of a gawking bystander is hardly what I would call golf."

"That gawking bystander was a Japanese tourist!" Sam cried.

"Oh, please. I call that bullshit," Fred offered.

"I call it luck," Trixie powdered.

"I call it skill," Frodo cooed. "I'm so proud of you, baby!" Frodo gave Sam a sloppy buss on the cheek.

"Frodo, please," Sam said, all embarrassed. "Emotion in public."

"But, Sam!" Frodo protested. "You won! You beat your rival!"

"No, Fro, it's like my ancestor, Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III always said, 'Thou shalt not show thy gay emotions at ye olde putt-putt course wet bar.' When he came over on the Mayflower, people knew how to behave in public."

~

Later that night, in bed, Frodo and Sam continued their little discussion.

"Oh, Sam, I've always wanted to be fucked by a champion!" Frodo slurred.

"And I've always wanted to be one!" Sam concluded.

"Oh, fuck me!" Frodo ripped off his 2(x)ist briefs and spread his legs invitingly.

Sam followed suit by sliding off his chinos. He wasn't wearing any underwear, so that was no obstacle. He grabbed a condom from the orange Red Wing pottery gravy boat on Frodo's bedside table.

"Unlubricated?" Sam exlaimed, glancing at the red package.

"I bought them by mistake. The KY's in the drawer."

Sam reached over and slobbered lube on his unlubricated penis covered in an unlubricated condom.

"Stick it in!" Frodo squeeled.

"Sure thing," Sam exclaimed whilst sticking his raging hard-on into Frodo's puckered love hole.

"Ohhh!" moaned Frodo, sick with desire.

"Yeah, baby," Sam moaned. "How do you like it?"

"I love it," Frodo sighed. "Work that cock, baby. I need your loving."

"Yes, you do."

"Oh, do I ever." There was a moment of awkward silence. "Did we used to have this much awkward silence in the bedroom?" Frodo wanted to know.

"I don't think so. I think we used to be, like, pretty decent at dirty talk." Frodo clenched his ass muscles around Sam's penis for a minute. "Ooh, that was kind of hot," Sam remarked.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"But just kind of."

"What, you want me to lie?"

"I don't know. If I told you you weren't satisfying me, how would you feel? I mean, what would you want?"

"I think I would want you to say something so that I could improve my performance," Sam said. "When my ancestor, Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III, came over on the Mayflower, he did it because he was committed to striving for greatness. When I pound you with my rock-hard cock, I want it to be the best it can be. For both of us. Got me?"

"Ew," Frodo groaned. "I cannot believe you dragged that Ashton man into our lovemaking. Not cool, Sam. Not cool."

~

The next week was a busy one for Frodo. He had committed himself to organizing a charity picnic to help victims of Muscular Dystrophy. He had been busying himself with the task of finding the perfect gourmet cole slaw. Actually, this was the only thing that the other ladies organizing the picnic would let him do, but he took the job very seriously.

Every morning he would wake up at 10 a.m. (one hour earlier than his usual waking time) to scour all of the gourmet groceries in a 40-mile radius. This, of course, included several trips into Manhattan upon which he would return with countless bags from different downtown boutiques.

"Did you find the right cole slaw yet?" Sam asked as Frodo slammed at least 16 shopping bags onto the round table in their foyer. He had just returned from one of these cole-slaw hunting excursions.

"Cole-slaw? What are you talking about?"

"For the charity picnic!"

"Oh, no. None of them had the right consistency, or something. But I got some great new cardigans!"

"That's great. You know, this picnic is only a week away."

"Sam, nothing is more important to me right now than this picnic."

"Really?"

"Look, these victims of Hurricane Katrina aren't going to get the things that they need without this picnic being a smashing success. And it won't be without the perfect cole slaw."

"Frodo, it's for Muscular Dystrophy patients."

"That's what I said."

~

Frodo was a little late to the picnic coordinators' meeting. "I'm so, so sorry," he sniffed, folding up his sunglasses and putting them away in his purse. "There was a horrible accident on Old Ashton Gamgee Road."

"Whatever was the matter?" Mrs. Snootington asked.

"A 2001 Lincoln Towncar plowed into a sundial," Frodo moaned. "It was just awful." All of the matronly old women stared at Frodo. "So, I was thinking, maybe we should form a committee to evaluate the need for a stop sign at that intersection. So many Towncars might be spared! I think the benefits would outweigh the costs."

"My husband owns the local scrap yard," coughed Mrs. Tustlebustle.

"And my husband is head of the Committee to Save Time and Money by Not Deliberating on Traffic Claims," Mrs. Snootington weighed in.

"All in favor of expelling Frodo Baggins from the Charitable Matrons' Guild?"

"Aye!"

"The ayes have it. Mr. Baggins, we ask that you turn in your gold-pleated pin, and see yourself out."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

THE END