by Colin Munch


Mae g'ovannon. Hello assembled elves and fair folk of the west, so lovely to see you all today under the light of Anar. My thanks to Elrond for convening this town hall meeting of Rivendell this fair day. While I have everyone's attention I have a few items to bring up, no big deal. Ah, pertaining to the dozen and one dwarves that just waltzed in here last moon like they owned the place — did they file a damage deposit or anything? Did one of them leave a Mithril card at the front desk? One of them, and I don't mind saying this even though we are preternaturally thin for all eternity, but the fat one, you know, the one whose whole purpose in their “company” seems to just BE THE FAT ONE, sat on and broke a table that was forged by Elenwynn during the War of the Silmarils ere when the world was young. I can't just go to the Brick and pick one of those up you know — that table was made by a craftsmen whose talents the world shall never know again! I realize we don't have anything as crude as an “economy” like those boorish men and hobbits but I expect some kind of recompense for the soiled sheets and mattresses incurred by having a dozen and one dwarves “crash” in “the pad” of the last homely house in the east. Excuse my obvious specism but it was like throwing a dirty warg into a little girl’s tea party doily collection on a latticed verandah. We don't have servants here. We don't have anyone to clean up after this whirlwind of filth and flatulism. All we have is a few dozen endless beings who are just looking for a place to read dusty old tomes about events we were all alive and present for and walk slowly through sun dappled corridors until we all ride the celestial ghost swan into the sky to the heaven planet that we all know orbits Middle-Earth where we will live forever-er without smelly distractions. I'm not talking fantasy here, this is fact.

And can we talk about Gandalf for a minute here? Who is this guy? Where did he come from? Why does everyone respect him when literally all he does is lead mortals into danger, abandon them, then show up again right before they're about to die. He's like a parachute that fails and then yells “psych!” and deploys again. He says he's a Wizard. Well what the Gothmog does that mean? He's a big tall bearded guy in a bathrobe he never washes with a gnarly old stick that hangs out with homeless dwarves. If all your friends are homeless, you probably are too. Where is his home? Does he have one? Does he sleep? Does he eat? These are the hard questions that I would ask of anyone leading a team of rogues into my gated pre-retirement community, even if he wasn't carrying a morgul blade forged by Sauron for the Witch-king during the War of the First Age.

And that brings me to Elrond. Elrond half-elven, born to Earendil and Elwing, who "was there three thousand years ago when the courage of men failed.” When Gil-Galad was slain on the steps of Mount Doom and Isildur cut the One Ring from Sauron’s finger, events we were all alive for and, while I personally was heroically guarding our fair home instead of marching on the blasted fields of Mordor, I have to seriously question the leadership of an Elf who just let Isildur WALK RIGHT OUT OF MOUNT DOOM WITH THE ONE RING wearing a totally evil grin. I mean, isn't that what got us there in the first place? Just cut him! You don't have to kill him. Shove him a bit. Or just go for it and trip him into the Crack. Decapitate him with your big fancy sword and walk with his head in your hand out there saying, “You know that ring that corrupts people and makes them evil, well it did it to him so I killed him and destroyed the damn thing.” Nobody would have batted an eye. Who put this guy in charge?  In fact, and pardon my ignorance, what is our system of government at all? Is it a monarchy, where our rulers are chosen by nepotism? Cause that sucks! We DON'T DIE unless we put ourselves in the path of the screaming steel of battle — and most of us are librarians by day and gardeners by night, so the closest I'll ever get to a fellblade is my Shears of Pruning which glow blue when weeds are close. I'm not a flaxen haired superarcher like some of the fair folk and I never will be and THAT'S FINE.

I can only hope that this is the last time our peaceful abode is disrupted by the goings on of the world of mortals. And if it isn't, I would only ask that Lord Elrond consult the community before letting in a group of adventurers a, Fellowship, if you will. Thank you for listening.

Colin Munch is a multiple Canadian Comedy Award nominated comedian living in Toronto. He is the Artistic Associate of the Bad Dog Theatre Company. His writing credits include Playday Mayday, Callaghan, and Spank! The 50 Shades of Grey Parody.