Hobbits Across America

“It has to be perfect!” Frodo announced. He had just told his uncle Bilbo that his long-time partner, Sam, had finally proposed to him.


“What needs to be perfect?” Bilbo asked, incredulously.


“The wedding, course.” Frodo crossed his arms.


“You can’t have a wedding! You’re gay. It’s called a commitment ceremony.”


“Uh-uh. We’re in Massachusetts. Gay marriage is legal here now. That means I can have the biggest and best wedding this dumpy little state has ever seen.”


“Oh no,” Bilbo sighed.


“And since I am obviously the ‘bride’ in this relationship you get to pay for the whole thing.”


“Of course.”


“So, I want to hire a wedding planner. I need to have the best. Do you know anyone? You throw those charity balls all the time, right? I never go, so I wouldn’t know if they’re successful.”


“Well, I have my event planner, but I don’t know if she does weddings. I mean, I’m sure she can.”


“No! I must have somebody that specializes in extravagant weddings. You know, you’re going to have to spend at least $500,000 on this, right?”


“Eeesh! Frodo, that’s a lot of money.”


“Oh, Bilby, you’re filthy rich, what do you care?”


“Well, I guess those orphans in Housatonic won’t be getting any blankets this year.”


“You’re saying that as if I care. Now, wedding planner.”


“Well, my colleague, Fred Burrows, just had a big expensive wedding. I could call him and ask him who he used.”


“Do it. Do it right now!”


Bilbo picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. “Hi, Fred? It’s me, Bilbo. I’m doing fine … anyway, I just needed to ask you the name of your wedding planner. Really? He’s the best? Thanks so much. Bye.”


“Well, what did he say? Who is the best wedding planner in all of Massachusetts?” Frodo asked impatiently.


There was a pregnant pause, and then Bilbo answered: “Toddy Noodlehoover, apparently. Have you ever heard of this person?”


Frodo rolled his eyes. “Do I look like I’m in the business of event-planning? Previous to today, of course. How good is this Noodlehoover character, anyhow? Good, I hope?”


“I suppose. Fred and Martha’s wedding was certainly a real to-do.”


“A good to-do, or a bad to-do?”


“You know.”


Frodo sighed. Sometimes Bilbo could be very vague. “Well, give Toddy a ring, set up a consultation, whatever you do.” Frodo glided over to the windows of Bilbo’s Back Bay penthouse, and looked out over Boston. “I never thought this day would come!” Frodo sighed, pressing his forehead against the glass windows and creating an unsightly smudge that Rosie, the maid, would have to take care of.


“You mean the day you finally drive me into debt?”


“No, the day I get married. Duh.”


“Yes, the day you get married.” Bilbo, like the Brahmin he was, suppressed his tears. He knew he was in for the worst six months of his life.


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Meanwhile, Sam was busy informing his family of the big news. His family wasn’t from Massachusetts, so he had to do this by phone. His father, Hamfast, who everyone affectionately called “the Gaffer” because of his successful career as a gaffer for movies, still lived in L.A., where Sam had grown up.


He had two brothers and three sisters. Hamson and Halfred both lived in Chattanooga, Tennessee, with their respective wives, Hammama and Hameria. They had always been inseparable, as twins often are. Daisy lived somewhere in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area, with her husband, Bill Chuthers, and their litter of seven children. May was a poet and lived in Brooklyn. Sam had always gotten along with her best. She was still “single.” Frodo thought she was a lesbian, but he always though everyone was gay. Sam didn’t know where his sister Marigold was. She was the “wild” one. Last thing he had heard she was either in rehab or in jail. Really, it didn’t matter much to him.


First he decided to call his father. The man was a bit senile, but he still deserved to be informed first, even if he wouldn’t remember the phone call five minutes afterwards. Sam punched the numbers into his cell phone.


He heard the ringer ring at least eight times before his father finally picked up. “Who is it?” the Gaffer rasped.


“It’s your son, Sam,” Sam informed him.


“I have no son.”


“Pa, you have three sons, and three daughters, remember?”


“Of course I remember! I still have me wits about me.”


“Good. I have some big news for you. Are you ready?”


“Ready for what? Out with it. I’m missing Oprah.”


“I’m getting married!”


“What’s her name?”


“His name, Pa. His name. I’m gay, remember?”


“Oh, you’re the gay one,” the Gaffer harrumphed. “I get so confused.”


“It’s not confusing. You just have to check that flow chart I made you. Remember?”


“I find that flow chart demeaning. I can keep track of my own family.”


“No, you can’t,” Sam no-you-can’ted.


“You’re right, I can’t.” the Gaffer agreed. “So, what’s his name?”


“Frodo Baggins,” Sam answered. “Remember, Pa? You met him at Daisy’s coming out party.”


“She’s gay too?”


“No, Pa. Debutante ball.”


The Gaffer paused. “Oh, right, it’s here on the flow chart. Okay, I have to get back to Oprah. Is there anything I can do?”


“What could you possibly do? I think Frodo’s taking care of everything.”


“Well, if you need any complex lighting schemes, I am a gaffer.”


“Do you even know what a gaffer is?”


“I’ll get back to you on that one. This flow chart is really complex.”


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That night, Bilbo took Sam and Frodo out to dinner to celebrate, because it was Rosie’s night off and he just didn’t know what to do about ordering a pizza, given that Frodo would only eat his “white,” which meant with no sauce, but he also didn’t like cheese. “What you want is really more like flatbread,” Bilbo said to him.


“It’s sauceless, cheeseless pizza,” Frodo insisted.


“That doesn’t exist,” said Bilbo’s 23-year-old girlfriend Trixie Malloy, of the Newport Malloys.


“Shut up,” Frodo whined. He was always sort of jealous of the attention (and other resources) Bilbo paid to Trixie.


“Well, let’s just go to dinner,” Bilbo grumbled. Sam met them at the Giorgio Armani restaurant on Newberry Street because it was too late to get a reservation anywhere else. The Armani restaurant had flatbread.


“Should we order some flatbread?” Sam asked encouragingly.


“I’m really more in the mood for pizza,” Frodo insisted. Bilbo smacked his head.


“Maybe we should order a bottle of wine,” Sam said lamely, even thought he knew he had to drive Frodo home and then wake up for his 9 a.m. meeting. Sam was in consulting. Frodo was in nothing, which was also coincidentally what Trixie Malloy was in.


When the waiter came around to get the drink orders, Bilbo asked for whatever the best bottle of red was. Frodo ordered a bellini.


“I don’t drink if I’m working the next day, so I’ll have a diet Coke,” said Sam.


“I can’t drink on these antidepressants,” said Trixie Malloy.


“So I’m drinking this entire bottle of wine by myself again, is that it?” Bilbo asked. The whole table nodded. “Oh, great. Well, everyone raise your glass, and let’s toast to the happy couple. I hope Frodo enjoys this wedding as much as I hate planning and paying for it.”


“What about me?” Sam asked.


“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed, sipping his bellini. “Nobody cares what you think.” Sam frowned, but Frodo made up for his bitchiness the usual way, which was giving Sam a hand job under the table.


On the ride home, Trixie Malloy turned to Bilbo and asked if he was sure Sam was gay. “He kept staring at me with this blank look of lust all through dinner. Do you think he likes me?”


Bilbo thought Trixie and Frodo shared certain qualities, but then he shook it off. “Hell no,” he said cheerfully. He was sort of tipsy.


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“Sam, I’m leaving you for Toddy Noodlehoover!” Frodo shouted down the stairs.


“What? Did you say you’re making noodle casserole? Remember what happens when you try to cook.”


Frodo skipped down the stairs. His steps were filled with gaiety. “No, I said I’m leaving you for Toddy Noodlehoover.”


“Really?” Sam was hopeful for a moment. He had been having second thoughts about this whole marriage thing.


Of course Frodo wasn’t being serious. “I mean, he’s just doing such a great job planning our wedding. I love the theme: white, white, white. It’s so perfect.”


“Isn’t that the theme of most weddings?” Sam asked incredulously. “And white is a color, not a theme.”


“Sam, white is not a color. It’s the absence of all colors.”


“Did you learn that in art school?”


“No. Well, maybe. Honestly, I don’t remember. There are going to be white roses everywhere. I love roses. You know, they used to call me ‘the yellow rose of Texas.’ “


“First of all, who is everybody? And second of all, have you even ever been to Texas?”


“I don’t remember. Maybe it was another life, or another story. Honestly, why are you asking me these difficult questions? I can’t be stressed right now. I have to look beautiful for the wedding day.”


“It’s four months away!”


“And we don’t even have a venue yet!”


“Well, shouldn’t you get on that?”


“Look, Toddy e-mailed me some options. I wanted to discuss them with you. I printed them out. Here.” Frodo shoved a stack of papers at least six inches thick into Sam’s lap. “I alphabetized them for you. Now maybe you can narrow it down a little.”


Sam began to shuffle through the papers. “We’re not getting married at the Eagle.”


“But that’s where we met!”


“Frodo, it’s a bar.”


“It would be so romantic!”


“A really awful bar,” Sam said. He balled up that listing and threw it over his shoulder. “We’re just going to have to get married at whatever the next one I pick is,” he announced.


“Oh no,” Frodo whinnied. “I can’t even look.” He didn’t even bother covering his eyes. “Tell me when it’s over,” he said dramatically.


“How about the Marriott?” Sam asked. “They have a ballroom, and a Presidential Suite, and it looks great, and I’m done now.” Sam handed Frodo the sheet of paper and threw the rest in the trashcan. “Well, that was interesting — not.” Sam shuffled out of the room.


“Come back!” Frodo cried, scrambling after him. “Don’t you want to hear what I’m wearing?”


“Let me guess. A wedding dress?”


“Don’t you want to know what it looks like?”


“You aren’t honestly wearing a wedding dress to our wedding, are you?”


“Well, of course!”


“Frodo, I’m not really comfortable with you going in drag to our wedding.”


“Look, asshole. It’s a very masculine wedding dress. It’s by this new local designer. I just love her.”


“What’s her name?”


“Galadriel.”


“Is that her last name or her first name?”


“She just has one name. She’s like Cher.”


“Now, don’t go using Cher’s name in vain, Mr. Frodo.”


“Oh. I’m so sorry. I forgot.”


“Well, take care not to forget again.”


“I won’t. And when did you become religious?”


“I’ve always been religious.”


“You eat bacon.”


“I don’t think that’s against my religion.”


“It’s definitely one of the commandments in the Church of Gay.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, it is!” Frodo cried after him, but Sam had all ready left the room.


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At breakfast the next morning, Sam sat down next to Frodo, who was having his usual, a bowl of granola with fat-free yogurt and a Bloody Mary. “Frodo?” he asked sensitively, trying to put on his sensitive face.


“Yes, Sammykins?” Frodo said, battling his eyelashes like windshield wipers in a heavy snowstorm.


“There’s something we need to talk about.”


Frodo put down his Bloody Mary and put on his reading glasses. Frodo had never read anything in his life but he thought they made him look ‘elegant,’ which was a look he definitely liked to convey during stressful chars. “What is it, my darling?”


“I don’t want you to wear a dress to our wedding.” Sam shut his eyes after he said this, because he honestly feared for his life. When nothing happened, he sighed in relief and continued: “You know I love you, and I want to spend my life with you, but I just don’t think wedding dresses are supposed to be masculine. Furthermore, the reason it’s difficult to properly execute a masculine wedding dress is because men don’t wear dresses to their own weddings. Wedding dresses are fine for special occasions, like—” Sam had to think on this one. “—Madonna concerts, but not for out wedding. You dig?”


Frodo blinked. “You think I’m fat?” he moaned.


“No.”


“Oh, sorry.” Frodo cleared his throat and corrected himself: “You don’t want me to wear a dress to our wedding?”


“Yes. In fact, I would more or less insist that you didn’t.”


“Well, Sam, that’s fine. In fact, why don’t I not even go to our wedding? Maybe we just shouldn’t get married.”


“Frodo, you’re overreacting.” Actually, for Frodo, this reaction was fairly under-the-top.


“No, Sam, I’m not. If you love me, you have to love all of me, and that means my wedding dress, too.”


“What, it’s like a part of you now?”


“See, there you are, making fun of me again. Well, make fun of me all you want. I quit!” Frodo stood up and began to run away, tears glistening on his pink little cheeks.


“Where are you going?” Sam asked hopefully. “If it’s to the grocery store, we’re out of banana nut muffins.”


“I’m going back to my mother’s house, Samwise. I don’t think we are meant to be together at all.”


“Isn’t your mother dead?”


Frodo paused. “You’re right. Fine, I’ll just go back to Bilbo’s house. He’ll repair my fragile, battered ego.” Sam was pretty sure this was the exact sort of thing Bilbo wouldn’t do.


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“BILBO!” Frodo wailed as he pushed open the large burled walnut doors to Bilbo’s study.


Bilbo was busy looking at papers, paying bills, and doing that sort of tedious rich people stuff. He glanced up from his paperwork. “Yes?” he grumbled.


“The wedding is off! Call the wedding off! I don’t want to get married to that asshole.”


“What happened this time?”


“He won’t let me wear what I want to the wedding. He’s such a control freak!” Frodo was still shrieking.


“What did you want to wear? A pink tuxedo or something?”


“God, no! A wedding dress.”


“You wanted to wear a wedding dress?”


“Yes! And if I want to wear a wedding dress to my own wedding I should be allowed to.”


“Frodo, wedding dresses are exclusively for women and Dennis Rodman.”


“But it was a very masculine wedding dress!”


“I think you’re being unreasonable, Frodo.”


“You suck too! Thank god I’m not getting married to you.”


“I think you need to apologize to Sam.”


“But whyyyyyyyyy,” Frodo bleated like a goat, with like nine Y’s, and also a comma instead of a question mark.


“Because he’s right, wearing a wedding dress is totally fucking kooky. And retarded.”


“More kooky and retarded than the time I tried to be helpful and do my own laundry and I accidentally put too much detergent in the washing machine and it got all sudsy everywhere and it was an awful mess and Rosie had to clean it up?”


“Yeah, a lot more kooky and retarded than that, because we didn’t invite 300 people to come watch you fuck that up.”


“Good point. Gosh, Bilbo, I don’t know what I was thinking.”


“Yeah, me neither, which goes for everything. Now go get out there and apologize to Sam so he’ll take you back.”


“Okay! I will!” And Frodo saluted (?) and marched back to Sam to grovel.


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Sam was sitting on the couch, reading his dog-eared copy of The Screwtape Letters and smoking a cigar.


“Hola,” said Frodo cheerfully.


“Uh, hi?” said Sam.


“Listen, I’ve been thinking.”


“Oh, no! Frodo, you hate thinking.”


“You’re right, I do hate thinking. But I also love you more and, um, I think you’re right. It would be stupid to wear a wedding dress. I’m a boy, at least on the outside, and as members of proper society our perverted heathen wedding should reflect that. Will you take me back?”


“Sure, as long as we can have make-up sex.”


“Well, duh! That’s like the whole point of getting back together.”


“And after we can talk about where we’re going on our honeymoon. I’m thinking Malaga!”


“Please, Sam, you know I don’t speak Mexican.”


“Frodo, there is so much wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to begin.”


“Let’s begin with the fact that you’re not having anything to do with planning our honeymoon. The honeymoon falls under the category of wedding-related activities, and we both agreed that I would plan the wedding and that you would keep your bulbous nose out of it.”


“Fine, fine. Where do you want to go?”


“I was thinking Ibiza,” Frodo said, pronouncing it ‘Ih-beeth-uh.’


“I thought you said you didn’t speak ‘Mexican.’ “


“Spanish, Sam. Ibiza is in Spain. They speak Spanish there.”


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Two weeks later Sam and Frodo were having another tiff. Sam was insisting that his relatives from Las Vegas be allowed to attend in whatever they chose to wear, while Frodo insisted on sending them a special note saying they weren’t allowed to wear sequins.


“Sam, even if you don’t tell me I can, I’m going to mail them a note,” Frodo whinnied.


“No you won’t, Mr. Frodo. Not if I can help it,” Sam gruffed.


“I just can’t have sequins at my wedding. They just don’t go with the theme.”


“If you ask me, the Sackville, Texas Bagginses have a much greater chance of wearing sequins than my Nevada relatives.”


“I know, I know. I already sent them a note.”


“But you waited to ask me if you could send my relatives a note? That is so thoughtful (and unlike) you.”


“No, actually I need their address from you.”


“I’ll just pretend you were being thoughtful. Make-up sex?”


“Yippee!”


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Today, Frodo was busy screaming at Bilbo. He was upset because he just found out that Trixie Malloy was planning on wearing a white dress. This made Frodo oh-so-angry. “It’s my wedding! No one is allowed to wear a white dress but me!”


“You’re not wearing a dress,” Bilbo sighed snidely.


“No one is allowed to wear a white dress including me!” Bilbo nodded approvingly. “Is that so much to ask?” Frodo continued to moan. “This is my special day!” He sobbed pathetically into his silk scarf.


“Every day is your special day,” Bilbo noted. “And furthermore, Trixie looks hot in white.”


“I just want you to tell her not to wear white,” Frodo cried drearily. “It’s my special day and that’s all I want.”


“I have an idea,” Bilbo said, craftily outwitting his opponent. “Why don’t we talk about throwing you a bachelor party?”


“A bachelorette party?”


“Yeah, whatever. It can have strippers. Do you like strippers?”


“Male ones, yes.”


Bilbo made the most disgusted look of his life, but he managed to force out a lingering, “Great!”


“I’ll have my friend Freddy make the arrangements, you know. He’s so good at finding hot male strippers.”


“Okay, I’ll let you do that. I’ll be at the golf course if you need me.”


“Ciao, ciao!” Frodo pipped.


Just then Sam came bursting into the door. “Frodo! I have the most marvelous news! Guess who is going to sing at our wedding!”


“Oh my god! Who?” Frodo yipped excitedly.


“Guess. I want you to guess.”


“Okay. Cher?”


“No.”


“Whoopi Goldberg?”


“Whoopi Goldberg? Does she even sing?”


“Okay, if it’s not Cher, and it’s not the Whoopster, then that only leaves one person that it could possibly be. Oh my god...” Frodo was about to swoon out of excitement.


“That’s right,” jeered Sam.


They both shouted out in unison: “Peter Andre!” Frodo nearly fainted.


“How did you convince him to sing at our wedding?” he asked.


“I don’t know,” Sam shrugged. “I was in line at Dunkin’ Donuts and he was there for some reason, buying a donut and a Coffee Coolata.”


“I’m not happy you went to Dunkin’ Donuts,” Frodo chided. “You’re supposed to be on a special diet.”


“I’m sorry, but I just can’t eat nothing but celery.”


“Of course you can, it’s negative calories.”


“How would you know? You’re not a nutritionist.”


“Hey, I went to college!”


“Yeah, but you never graduated.”


“Well, when I need to lose a lot of weight really quickly, I eat nothing but celery.” This long conversation quickly turned into a three-hour rimming session on the dining room table, which commenced when Frodo said he wanted Sam to show him how he ate his donut.


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“Ding Dong!” Frodo shouted as he knocked on the door.


Bilbo opened it and gave him a disapproving look. “Frodo, you live here. You don’t need to knock. You even have a key.”


“Oh. I didn’t...” Frodo trailed off, looking glumly at the floor.


“What is it?” Bilbo asked, only half-concerned.


“I’m just so nervous. Tomorrow is the big day. What if everything doesn’t go exactly as planned? What if Peter Andre doesn’t show up?” Frodo started to tear up.


“He’s already here, Frodo. There’s no reason to worry. I was just smoking some pipeweed with him in the study. His delightful wife and their two children are baking pies with Trixie in the kitchen.”


“Baking pies? Children?” Frodo looked totally concerned. He hurriedly shuffled into the kitchen where he saw Trixie and an enormously busty woman drinking scotch out of beer steins. There was a baby sitting on the floor and a large, dark-complexioned, obese child butting its head against a wall.


“Frodo!” Trixie cooed suggestively. “Meet my new friend — I mean, soul mate — Jordan. You’ll just love her.”


“Hi?” Frodo said timidly.


“Scotch?” Jordan asked.


“Yes please!” Frodo shrieked.


Two bottles of scotch later Frodo, Trixie, and Jordan were giggling like school girls, totally shnonkered.


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The big day finally arrived. Frodo was decked out in his white suit, and Sam was wearing an off-black one, off-black being the color of the season. Trixie Malloy was wearing a white dress, and the photographer, Grima Wormtongue, of Grima Wormtongue’s Precious Memories Wedding Photographers, accidentally thought she was the bride.


“Actually, I’m the bride,” Frodo said huffily. “Although I’m not the bride, because I’m male, but I basically am. Do you see what I’m saying?”


“So, this is a gay wedding?” Wormtongue asked.


“Yes,” Frodo confirmed.


“Well, I’m against gay marriage, so I’d leave if you hadn’t paid in full already.”


“Sorry,” Frodo shrugged. “Just take a lot of hot picture of me, and don’t take any pictures of Trixie Malloy.”


“Don’t take any pictures of Trixie?”


“Well, you can take pictures of Trixie, but not hot ones.”


“So, only take pictures of Trixie if she looks bad?”


“Yes, exactly.”


“I’ll see what I can do.”


“Oh my god! Is that who I think it is?” shrieked Frodo.


“Who? I don’t even care,” Wormtongue replied as he turned around and left.


Just then a tall man with long blond hair approached Frodo. “Phrodo!” he cooed. “It’s been so long.”


“Legolas. I didn’t know you were invited,” sneered Frodo.


“Well, I wasn’t exactly invited per se, but when I read your marriage announcement in the Boston Globe I just knew I had to be here.”


“You bitch. You just want Sam back for yourself.”


“Why, I never. I’m happily engaged to Aragorn now.”


“That ho-bag? You know, you probably have genital warts now.”


“Honey, we all have genital warts. It’s just part of the slutty lifestyle we lead.”


“Well, Legolas. It’s been nice seeing you. Now get out before I call security.”


“Wait! I have something I need to tell you, about Sam.”


“I don’t want to hear it. I’m not leaving him on the day of my wedding.”


“I wouldn’t be so sure. You need to wait until you hear what I have to say. Phrodo, you may want to sit down to hear this.”


“Fine, tell me.” Frodo sat cross-legged on the grass.


“Well,” Legolas began, flipping his Malibu Barbie-perfect hair over his shoulder. “You should know that Sam proposed to me before he proposed to you.”


“I know,” said Frodo. “Oh, shit, no I didn’t!”


“Uh huh,” Legolas agreed.


“Mmhmm.” Frodo agreed back.


“Mmhmm.”


“Mmhmm.”


“Mmhmm.”


“Mmhmm,” Frodo concluded. “But how? You guys totally broke up way before gay marriage was legalized.”


“We were going to get a domestic partnership,” Legolas zinged, as his sexy ass had a sampling of busboys in a new dimension.


“Oh. Well, I don’t really care about that,” Frodo shockingly accepted like a normal person. “After all, I’m the one who’s with him in the end. Now, ta-ta! I have a married to get!”


“Did somebody say my name?” said Merry, who was walking by.


“Stop doing that!” Frodo chided, shaking his fist in the air. “Sorry. I was busy saying ‘toodles.’ Toodles!”


“Wait!” Legolas shrilled. “I have something else to cleverly reveal.”


“What?” Frodo asked, as he adjusted his mint-green cravat. “I’m due in makeup in six.”


“That’s my ring.”


“Look, buster. Stop trying to prevent this wedding. It’s so not going to happen. I’d hurry your celluloid-y ass out of here before security guard Theoden gets you. Ciao, ciao!”


“Fine.” Legolas huffed.


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“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded partner?” the Unitarian minister asked Sam.


“Wife,” pipped Frodo, “I’m going to be his wife.”


The minister looked down his nose at Frodo sternly.


“I do!” Sam guffawed.


“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the minister whinnied at Frodo.


“Okay,” purloined Frodo.


“Um, you can’t purloin your marriage,” the minister mumbled.


“Or can I?” Frodo replied.


“Fine. I now pronounce you married.”


“Yay!” screamed Frodo and Sam in unison. Then they locked lips and sucked on each other’s tongues for ten minutes, much to the disgust of the gathered guests.


“Boo!” preambled Legolas.

THE END