Mood:  hug me

"Emergency" is one of those words that fails to connote true meaning, at least to Frodo.  It is closer to "Stop" or "Problem" than it is to "Danger" or "Fire."  An "emergency situation" can refer to a shortage of lettuce in a salad bar, as well as a life-threatening natural disaster.  If Frodo were King of the World, he would require that every word would have but one meaning despite the confusion that might be caused by the use of polish by anyone who happened to be Polish.

Fiona was named for the host of an NPR broadcast entitled "Thistle and Shamrock," Ms. Fiona Richie.  This factoid disputes Frodo's claim to thousands of youngsters who have grown up with the presence of Shrek (or is it Shreck?) that Fiona was truly "the most beautiful girl in the world," as identified in the movie.  It has always been a conversation starter with a new generation for Frodo, and continuously wins Fiona new friends, and lots of nice pets on the head.

Fiona seemed to be squinting, if not blinking her eyes when she stepped into the sunlight.  Despite the reasonableness thereto, it was something noted by Frodo.  A day or so later, he further noted the prence of waste matter in one eye.  He brought it to the attention of Samwise, who wisely suggested a quick visit to Dr. Porsche (referring to the motorcars driven by the veterinarian and financed by the Hobbit) to remove any foreign objects or minor infection.

Sam called Frodo at Mount Doom to inform him that Fiona was to be treated at the "Emergency" Clinic after her examination at the office of Dr. Porsche.  It was his preliminary prognosis that Fiona was suffering from glaucoma.  Sam was cool, and Frodo wore a similar, if not false, veil.  The "Emergency" Clinic practitioner, according to Sam, was a graduate of Tuskeegee, and she seemed both capable and authoritative.  She confirmed the diagnosis as glaucoma, and informed Sam, who informed Frodo, that it was an "Emergency" and that Fiona required immediate surgery.  Treatment otherwise would not be effective in this instance, and Fiona's vision was at risk.

The doctor called a few minutes ago to inform Frodo that Fiona had come through the hour-and-a-half surgery famously.  Frodo thanked her for her sensitivity, her knowledge, and her skill.  She seemed a bit taken aback, and told Frodo that Fiona had been an "excellent patient." 

Mick, the Wonder Dog, has been upset all evening.  He lies at Frodo's feet and silently stares at his friend, asking where Fiona is and wondering who will play soccer with he and Frodo in the morn.  Beau Neau McKitty wanders in and out of every room in the abode upon the Shire, looking to find where Fiona is hiding.  He has entered Frodo's computer room 8 times in the past half-hour.

Frodo and Sam, along with Mick, the Wonder Dog, will rescue Fiona at 10:00 tomorrow morning.  On the way home, Frodo will examine the plastic Elizabethan collar to which Fiona will be sentenced for a couple of weeks, and he will listen as she recants everything that happened during Frodo's absence.  Frodo is sure the dialogue will include a new definition to the word "Emergency."  Frodo, it seems, will have to think up another word to take its place.  Fiona rules.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:50 PM EDT

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Mood:  cheeky

Frodo is plagued by lookalikes; not Frodo lookalikes, but those who look like somebody whom Frodo knows.  Perhaps it is the eyes, or the cheekbone, or an ankle, but, especially with the fairer sex, Frodo lives in constant fear that he will come across someone he once "knew," and blow the recognition, big time.

The young lady was named Brenda, and it was only their third date.  Frodo, honestly, dragged her into an ice cream parlor after a football game.  It was very crowded, but Frodo found a couple he knew occupying a four-person booth, and he hustled his date into the bench across from the occupants.  He glided smoothly through their names and then stumbled badly when he introduced Brenda (note that Frodo has never forgotten that name since) as "a friend of mine."  That night remains in Frodo's memory as one of those in which he did "without." 

Frodo has been struggling with the appearance of Sarah Palin.  She reminds him of somebody.  It has caused the Hobbit great consternation, for he has dreaded, perhaps, the possibility that he once "knew" Sarah Palin.  The thought has made him take several apparently unnecessary showers. 

This evening, Frodo has resolved the lookalike crisis, and is prepared to face the BP oil spill, the War in Afghanistan, the national debt, and the jobs crunch.  Frodo knows who Sarah Palin resembles, and he is sure that he has never come into contact with either.

She is Paula Jones.

Frodo will bet former President Clinton has to take two showers.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:48 PM EDT

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Mood:  party time!

In those early years, it was Frodo and Legolas, representing the urban, and Smeagol and Denethor spawned from the open spaces to the West.  On this particular Fourth of July, Legolas was ensconced in the pubescent hormonal rapture, and had no interest in separating himself from his partner of the moment.  The Hobbit entourage was then but three, conjuring magical plans to disperse their unfulfilled energies, and soon Frodo found himself outnumbered by his chums.  The two-to-one vote was to observe the Fourth of July Celebration at the Lincoln Memorial, the most magnificent fireworks display in all the lands of Middle Earth, but something that Frodo had seen several times before.  Frodo kept cajoling his associates that there was beer to drink, and that time was wasting.

Denethor was from Utah, and he knew much of wild rivers and frantic runs between huge boulders, things which Frodo enjoyed hearing about but had never imagined as reality.  Frodo was aghast when Smeagol suggested the use of Denethor's canoe as a transit object into the middle of the wide Potomac, a peaceful spot to watch the fireworks undisturbed by those lacking imagination.  Besides, said Smeagol, a case of beer would be a welcome addition, and would automatically placate Frodo.  Frodo argued with futility that he had no experience in a canoe, and might get them all sent to Davy Jones Locker, or at least knock the beer overboard.

His comrades finally convinced him that their superior skills would offset the flaws in Frodo's participation.  "Besides," said Denethor, "you'll get in the middle, and there is no way you could tip us over."

Frodo saw the flaw in the plan when they pulled up next to the Columbia Island Marina in order to launch the canoe.  It seemed that every owner of a yacht, or whatever one might call something large and white with motors aroar, that floated upon the river that night was placed directly in the path of Frodo and his companions.  As the canoe slid into the water, with Frodo as passenger, while Denethor and Smeagol provided the intial thrust on behalf of the engineless vehicle, Frodo noted the wake from every passing ocean liner.  Frodo kept his hands upon the bug spray, the jackets, and the beer, while his friends leaped into the canoe.

Things were going amazingly well until Smeagol attempted to cast himself into the pilot's position in front of Frodo, and Frodo's slight lean of assistance to the left turned out to be a miscalculation, at best.  In the subsequent attempt to assist Smeagol back into the canoe, Frodo again adjusted position without informing the remaining crew.  Now Frodo was all alone, with no paddle.

It should come as no surprise that neither Smeagol nor Denethor ever again invited Frodo when they went canoeing.  They were not amused at Frodo's effort to put things into true perspective when he noted that "at least he'd saved the beer."

As is his usual practice this Fouth of July, Frodo will grudgingly watch an inferior fireworks display while he recalls the majesty of the lights above the Washington Monument.  He will smile, and think of friends, long gone, who still curse the clumsy Hobbit for their unwanted dunking.  He knows they still laugh about him, but you know what? 

At least he saved the beer.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 6:07 PM EDT

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Mood:  mischievious

Today began the "third quarter," generally regarded as a critical period of time for business and government.  Frodo, however, is feeling rather perky this evening, and using the model set forth by Matthew Broderick in that great movie where he played war games with the defense system of the United States, Frodo has decided to play a "war game."  You can play along boys and girls.  In fact, you may want to notify your friends and have them play along, too.

The game begins.

Frodo presupposes that, despite the treachery of British Petroleum, the worst customer service offered by any corporate entity belongs solely to the communications megalith, COMCAST.  If, dear reader, you have never dealt with the mindless gnomes in their Philadelphia headquarters, then you truly have no idea of what is indeed the worst designed and the most ineptly managed assemblage ever in that which we call Middle Earth.  Ask anyone who has ever had to deal with the promises unkept, the orders misplaced, the refunds not received, or the interminable periods wending one's way through "telephone prompts," only to end up back where the conflagration initially commenced.

Given that, Frodo will demonstrate.  COMCAST claims that they provide "customer service," 24/7.  If you should find yourself unable to sleep some morning, say arouind 2:30, and your black-and-white is full of infomercials, then Frodo suggests you dial toll-free (404-266-2278 in Georgia, or your area code and the letters COMCAST).  You will be asked to supply a telephone number in order to better "identify" your account.  Frodo suggests using the telephone number of your Member of Congress (in Frodo's case, it is "Tom Price," the mustachioed little nose-picker).  You will be impressed by the bubbly little searching sound in the background as the digitalized message system absorbs your full attention, but only after establishing that you are not an "illegal."  An account number request can be met by any combination of sixteen (16) numbers.

After a quasi-reasonable period of time, one finds oneself directed to respond to increasingly specific choices about the motivation which first drove the caller to seek assistance.  If any combination of choices selected does not add up to ordering, and paying for, new service, then the caller is informed that "unusually high traffic" prevents service at this time, and thereby follows summary judgment that another call should be attempted, "at a later time."  After thirty or forty attempts, the caller, as in the case of the Hobbit, is usually prepared to accept defeat.

Frodo thought that an appropriate piece of correspondence to the COO would salve his wounds.  He found however, that everyone he knows who has ever dealt similarly with this organization, which shares his citizenship, has also written to the CEO, CFO, Board Chairman, without response.  Frodo concludes that COMCAST is in collusion with the United States Postal Service.

Frodo invites all, dear reader, to submit their own examples of bad customer service, but, as in this game, back it up with rules of engagement or be prepared to declare that COMCAST has "the worst service in the world."

With appropriate apologies.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:11 PM EDT

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Mood:  bright

It is very, very difficult to keep a "stiff upper lip," when you keep getting your butt kicked was Frodo's message to his fellow Hobbits.  "From Mordor to Gondor," he said, "there is nothing but bad news, and," he added, "it's too hot to be outside for very long.  Then, even if you are able to tarry a moment, the wet Spring has fostered a generation of tiger mosquitos that are both vicious and persistent.  They remind me of Republicants from Texas."

On top of all that, the gallant Braves just got swept by the scandalous White Stockings from Chicago.

Frodo has been thinking a lot about the economy, as if he were the only one.  In his business dealings, the Hobbit is often asked if things are getting better.  His standard rersponse has been that "Today is better than yesterday.  Yesterday was better than last week.  Last week was sure as Hell better than a year-and-a-half-ago."  This generally draws a snicker or two, and either a nod in agreement or a wish that the message would receive quick attention at the ear of the Big Guy.  Truth be told, this is, indeed, what Frodo believes.

However, Frodo recognizes the truthiness in the words of the opposition, and is therefore using that criticism as the base for his submission to higher powers on how to defend against a recession which resembles a large ice cream cone (a double dip, if Frodo's attempt at humor is too far afield).  Given it is that 48% of the population of Middle Earth pays any taxes at all.  Our increasingly accumulating debt reflects the fact that wealthy real estate developers, for example, are able to use a complex tax code in order to legitimately avoid their fair share of our national need.  It is also true that fewer and fewer on the low-to-medium income levels contribute nothing, except their charming presence, to the investment that our nation needs in order to avoid that which has befallen less viable nations all over Middle Earth.

At the crux of our problem is the bank.  The bank has found that the loans they made to real estate developers no longer reflect the value of the collateral.  The $10 Million the bank loaned to the real estate developer to build a shopping center assumed that the real estate developer would be able to lease all of the space to grocery stores, and other convenient retail businesses.  Since consumer spending is down because of job losses and so on, many of those businesses closed, and they have not been replaced, despite the best efforts of the real estate developer.  This has meant that the real estate developer has been unable to repay his loan to the bank.   The bank has then been left with the choice of calling the loan, and trying to seil the loan (at a big discount to those big bad guys from Wharton on the Street named Wall), or to re-negotiate the deal with the real estate developer.  The result being that the bank loses money, and either fails, as have more than 38 in Georgia alone during the past year, or it simply licks its wounds and stops lending money until market condidtions improve.

The snowball does not stop easily.

Every body has a simple answer to the problems at hand.  Unfortunately, nobody agrees with anyone else's solutions.  Raising taxes.  Eliminating the Income Tax.  Selling more Government Bonds.  "Drill, Baby, Drill," and other homilies, are the suggestions of those who enjoy hearing the sound of their own voice among the cacophony of talking heads and scarecrows accompanying Dorothy back to Kansas.  That, dear reader, is why Frodo has drawn his own plan for your consideration and amusement.

To appease those who believe in swift action by the Government, Frodo supposes that we should immediately institute a complete and total freeze on bank lending to support the construction of any and all shopping centers, apartment buildings, office towers, or condominiums.  Do we really need another shopping center?  Anywhere?  So why are we complaining about being unable to get a loan to build another something we don't need?

To appease the economists, Frodo suggests that incentives be established for the construction and development of any "green energy" project which produces and stores its own facility of non-fossilized fuel.  The "energy developer" (who was probably once a "real estate developer") will have a marketable product which he/she could sell to anyone who had an interest (say, like a county who can light all of their schools with energy gathered from windmills, the construction of which had been financed by the bank).  He might also make money; taxable money.

Who says that snowballs cannot run uphill?

When we get our draggy asses out of these doldrums, it will be because of thoughts that look forward, like Frodo has tried to do.

Ring, ring, ring.

"Hello?"

"THE Steven Jobs?"

"Yessir.  Frodo will give you all the time in the world.  Would you mind if we walked up Mount Doom while we talk?"

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:47 PM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

Some forms of lunacy are rightly assumed to exist only within internal parameters.  There are exceptions however, and it causes Frodo great pain to recognize that Joe Barton and Pat Robertson are a plague on all of mankind.

Mr. David Makoeya, age 61, and a resident of South Africa, was a patriotically enthused football fan who was understandably interested in the happenings surrounding the clash between Germany and Australia in the World Cup fiasco.  Makoeya met resistance from his own family, who were much more interested in the outcome of the conflict between Jesus and the Devil which was taking place simultaneously on another channel on the family black-and-white.  After the initial rebuff on his request to change the channel utilizing the remote control device, Makoeya rose from his chair and sought to change the channel by hand (How, pray tell, does one do that, queried Frodo?).

Unfortunately, Makoeya's 68-year-old wife Francina and his two children, including his son Collin (age 36), and his daughter Lebogang (age 23), felt the call to Jesus much more pronounced than did their dear old Dad and devoted Husband, and they proceeded to beat the shit out of the old boy.  Only when he appeared to no longer be breathing did they think to call the local gendarmerie, who pronounced Makoeya dead at the scene. 

"It appears they banged his head against the wall," said police spokesman Mothemane Malefo.  All three were arrested.

By the way, Happy Father's Day!

Thank Heavens the officials weren't from Mali.  The old boy might still be alive.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:39 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

Frodo picked up the inside roll from the paper towel dispenser, and thought about something he had heard, a long time ago, in a place now far away.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, eyed him suspiciously, knowing that something wonderful was about to happen.  Frodo brought one end of the roll up to his mouth, and pointed the other in the general direction of the Wonder Dog.

"Rooty-Toot," said he, and the Wonder Dog's mouth fell ajar as he noted Frodo's voice coming out of the far end of the paper towel toll.  "Rooty-Toot," repeated Frodo, over and over again, until the Wonder Dog finally established that he would have to grab the paper towel roll from Frodo's mouth, and run off with it in order to determine how Frodo had gotten his voice inside the roll.  The laughter from Sam was matched only by the sparkling eyes of the major participant in this new, and most exciting of games in the Shire.

Some days later, Sam asked Frodo what had caused him to think of using the paper towel roll in order to throw his voice.  Frodo said, "Sam, I give all the credit to Jimmy Dean."

"The sausage guy?" queried Sam.

"Jimmy Dean had a TV Show back in the 50's, sponsored by Wilkins Coffee, which was, of course, the product that introduced the 'Muppets'.  In addition to a little yodeling and a little cowboy-type stuff, Jimmy Dean would tell stories and participate in skits as the 'Muppets' moved from the commercials onto the main stage."

"Okay?"

"So one year, and Frodo guesses it had to be just before Christmas, he heard Jimmy Dean talk about Christmas in the place where he had lived as a little boy, which was a community so small that it only had one store, which also happened to be a gas station."

"Yeah," said Sam expectantly, if not bored.

"There was but a single bathroom in the back of the station, and people had to take turns using it.  We kids always looked forward to Christmas because it took about a year for the single roll of toilet paper to be all used up, leaving only the inside roll which we would purloin from one another and run all over God's Creation bellowing "Rooty-toot, Rooty-toot" through that roll."

It was the present we kids all wanted; to get this year's "Rooty-Toot."

Sam just stared at Frodo, "How do you remember these things?"

Jimmy Dean, aged 81, died today.

"Rooty-toot."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:55 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

Key words are used by search engines to provide a high percentage response to a general inquiry.

An apology is a response that admits to an error or misdeed.

Frodo has never before considered an apology that utilizes key words in order to maximize the scope therein.  See what you think.

Walter Fitzpatrick, a resident of Sweetwater, Tennessee, and a military retiree (rank unknown), was arrested in early April after he tried to put a Monroe County grand jury foreman under citizen's arrest (somehow the lilting voice of Don Knotts is ringing in Frodo's ear).  Having been rather hostile to the government ever since he faced court-martial two decades ago, Fitzpatrick was trying to get the grand jury foreman to indict President Obama, alleging that he is not a U.S. citizen.  In fact, Fitzpatrick issued 24 of his own "warrants" demanding that certain federal, state, and local officials be subject to his citizens arrest (there's that voice again).

Darren Wesley Huff, a resident of Dalton, Georgia, was arraigned in Knoxville, Tennessee, on Friday and charged with transporting a firearm in furtherance of a civil disorder.  Mr. Huff, it seems, was stopped for a traffic violation by state troopers who noted the presence of a pistol on Mr. Huff's hip.  Mr. Huff, according to the police report, stated that he had an AK-47 in his trunk and that he was on his way to the Monroe County Courthouse in Madisonville, Tennessee, in order to help take over the courthouse in support of the aforementioned Mr. Fitzpatrick.  Since Mr. Huff had a gun permit, the state troopers were prepared to let him go until he informed them of his intentions.  Mr. Huff also indicated that he was a member of the "Oath Keepers," which the Southern Poverty Law Center has identified as an extremist anti-government group

Mr. Huff pleaded not guilty to the complaint filed by the FBI.  The complaint further indicated that Mr. Huff had appeared, along with a dozen or so other armed men, outside the Monroe County Courthouse on Thursday, the day before his arrest.  He indicated to FBI agents at the time that he was prepared to "die for his rights."

Frodo is a son of the South.  He knows the towns of Sweetwater, Knoxville, Dalton, and Madisonville.  He appreciates their charms and their foibles.  He is also humiliated by the fact that the school systems in these communities produce people such as Fitzpatrick and Huff.  He is ashamed that parents could exercise so little wisdom in teaching children proper behavior.  He wants to apologize to people in other parts of Middle Earth, who have to be horrified by characters of this ilk.

It is at this point that Frodo had an epiphany.  Why not maximize the potential for those searching the world-wide web to stumble across the stupidity of these clowns?  Frodo hereby lists "keywords" which are identified for the purpose of defining to as many as possible that Fitzpatrick and Huff, and all the rest of their "Oath Keepers" are merely:  ignorant, moronic, stupid, insane, obtuse, dull, delusional, backward, deceitful, repulsive, repugnant, vicious, dangerous, contemptible, criminal, freakish, fraudulent, slow, and, oh well, you get the point.

And for those of you who have just found Frodo.  Hi!  Ya'll come back now, y'heah.      

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:28 PM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

"Sir Alfred of Wayward, this is Frodo, Keeper of the Ring."

"To what do I owe this pleasure, and could you please be brief, I do have this issue in the Colonies, you know?"

"I understand your Majesty, and empathize with anyone who has to contend with those pesky Americans."

"Indeed, and what can I do for our distinguished visitor from the Shire."

"Well Sir, having once lived in the City of Orleans, Frodo understands the importance of British Petroleum to the local economy, and the need for a continuing relationship.  It is just that fact that disturbs him when he considers the reality of this continuing unpleasantness surrounding the Horizon Spill."

"In what way, might I ask?"

"Wayward Old Boy, don't you realize that the oil well you've dug connects with every dome of oil in the world?  You've tapped into all of the oil that there is on this small, blue planet, and that that damn well is not going to stop until all of the oil reserves that exist are expunged/"

"So?"

"SO!  Don't you get the message, this well will keep pumping crude into the Gulf of Mexico until there is no more oil at all."

"Oh pish-and-tush.  The relief wells will connect in August, and then the little shrimpee barbies can get back to business there in lower Alabama, or whatever they call that dreadful place.  You do know that we have to pay our employees 'tropical duty pay' for tolerating that climate?"

"That's what I thought, you aren't aware that those wells will most likely run like the present process, only there will be three, rather than one, spouting uncontrolled into the ocean."

"Who told you that?  Where do you get such information"

 "Wayward, Wayward.  It is right there in the e-mails sent by the employees on Horizon, just before the explosion."

"Was there."

"Pardon?"

"Was there, I said."

"What do you mean?"

"Those systems suffered damage after the explosion, and have been lost."

"What kind of damage?  The e-mails were received and logged in portals throughout the company. "

"The systems suffered oil damage."

"That's impossible.  But what's more important is the fact that you do seem to be aware of the fact that you have been tapping into every oil well in the world, and that now all of that oil is gushing into the Gulf of Mexico, and we can't stop it."

"As I said, so?" 

"Your Lordship, I implore you to consider the impact if this information became public knowledge."

"Impact?  What impact?  It would take 50 years for issues such as these to wend their way through the British judicial processes.  By that time, I don't think that either of us will have much to worry about."

"I'm appalled."

"My dear Frodo, have you considered the price of a barrel of oil if all that remains is that which has been skimmed from the Gulf in our tankers?"

"You're suggesting that this was not an accident?"

"My boy, the Sun never sits on the British Empire."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 3:52 PM EDT

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Mood:  smelly

Joel Chandler Harris was once the Editor of THE ATLANTA CONSTITOTION, and also spent time served as Mayor of the City of Atlanta.  His home is known as The Wren's Nest, and it is open daily for tours.  If you go, be sure and call ahead and ask about "Story Time."  Tell them Frodo sent you.

With apologies and appreciation, Frodo submits a cacophony of the actual with the fictional.  Perhaps you may laugh, in the midst of something too horrible to think about this evenin'.

"Didn't the Republicants never destroy the country, Mister Frodo?"

"They come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you born.  Brer Cheney went to work en got dem some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun wat he call a Tar-Ball, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Ball and spred it all along da beaches, and den he lay off in de bushes fer to see wat wuz gwine ter be.  Bimeby here come Brer Obama pacin down de shoreline--lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity.  Brer Cheney, he lay low."

"Good morning, nice weather we're having," said Brer Obama.

Tar-Ball ain't sayin' nuttin'.  Brer Cheney he lay low.

"Is there something wrong?," said Brer Obama.

Tar-Ball sed nuttin', Brer Cheney lay low.

"I say, are you deaf?  I can speak much louder if that will help," said Brer Obama.

Tar-Ball stay still, en Brer Cheney, he lay low.

"Are you refusing my attempts at bipartisanship?'" said Brer Obama.

Brer Cheney chuckle in his stummuck, and de Tar-Ball sed nuttin'.

"I am going to complete my agenda to benefit all the people, and if you don't want to discuss the issues, then I will push you out of the way," said Brer Obama.

Tar-Ball stay still, en Brer Cheney, he lay low.

Presently, after axin him many times, Brer Obama he reach back and push de Tar-Ball wid all his might.  His fisses got caught in dat Tar-Ball.  De tar hilt him.  Tar-Ball sed nuttin', Brer Cheney lay low.

"If you don't let loose of our wetlands and our beaches, and let our people get back to work, I'm going to kick you out of the way," said Brer Obama.  Tar-Ball ain't sayin' nuttin', en Brer Cheney he lay low.

De Tar-Ball den hilt him on and soon Brer Obama lose de use er his feet in de same way.  Brer Cheney, he lay low.  Den Brer Obama squall at de Tar-Ball en den he butt him crank-sided en den his hhead got stuck too.

Brer Cheney, he sauntered fort', lookin' jez as innercent as wunner yo mammy's mockin'birds.

"Howdy, Mister President.  You look like you're stuck," sez he, en laft en laft tewel he couldn't laff no mo.

"Did the Republicants destroy everything?, Mr. Frodo."

"Dat's all de fur de tale goes.  Dey mout and dey mout not."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:16 PM EDT

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