by Sarah Totton

<The Council of Elrond contemplates the ring.>

BOROMIR: There is evil there that does not sleep–

FRODO: What, it doesn’t even take a nap?

BOROMIR: No.

FRODO: I could never get through the day without taking a nap.

BOROMIR: It is a gift. We should sell it on eBay.

ARAGORN: You cannot sell it, Boromir. None of us can. The inscription inside the ring says “not for resale”.

BOROMIR: What would a ranger know of these things?

LEGOLAS: Shut up, New Money. The Old Money’s talking.

GIMLI: Let’s cut the chit-chat and just demolish it.

<GIMLI stands up and hews the ring with his axe. Axe goes BOOM. Gimli goes down on his ass.>

GIMLI: Damn. That axe cost me a mortgage payment.

THE COUNCIL OF ELROND <bursts into laughter>: He’s paying for his home! Imagine!

GIMLI: I don’t see what’s so funny.

ELROND: It is acceptable for the upper classes to mock the middle classes. In fact, they essentially exist for that purpose. One cannot laugh at the working classes, of course, or else they might down tools and then who would to cook and clean for us?

GIMLI:  I am not middle-class. I am descended from the Dwarven royal family.

LEGOLAS: Well, close enough.

ELROND: One of you must throw the ring into the fire of Mount Doom.

GIMLI: Why don’t you do it, Elrond?

ELROND: I can’t, of course, because I’m very busy here in Rivendell.

GIMLI: Busy?

ELROND: Yes, sitting around contemplating my navel and other such deep and profound subjects you couldn’t possibly comprehend.

SAM <jumping up from where he’s been hiding>: I’ll do it.

<The Council Members gasp>

ELROND: No!

SAM: Why not?

GANDALF: It’s nothing hobbital, Sam. It’s just that…you’re a gardener.

SAM: What of it?

LEGOLAS <muttering>: He probably does his own laundry, too.

<The Council Members shudder.>

ELROND: What Gandalf is trying to say, Sam, is that the ring needs to be carried by someone of good breeding and background. Someone who can spare the time to walk all the way to Mordor. And not by someone who gets up every morning and <shudder> goes to work. This task requires someone who inherited their money as opposed to earning it and who can afford to sit around all day eating and sleeping and contemplating deep subjects, such as my navel, which is very deep indeed and full of copious upper-class lint.

GANDALF: Not mention, Sauron is also upper-class and if we let a working-class Hobbit touch his ring, he’s liable to pitch a major wobbler, which is to say, he’ll make more Orcs. Well, he won’t–he’ll get his working-class minions to do it. But it still means more Orcs–which is bad for everyone.

FRODO: Well…okay. I’ll take the ring, I guess.

ELROND: Result!

ARAGORN: You have my sword.

LEGOLAS: And my bow.

GIMLI: And the remains of my axe.

BOROMIR: And my trust fund.

SAM: And I’m coming with you.

ELROND: Surely not.

GANDALF: Wait. We shouldn’t exclude Sam. He could be useful. If there’s any cooking or laundry to be done for the Fellowship, he could do that. And Frodo’s bound to get tired. He’s a gentleman of leisure, after all, and it’s a long walk to Mordor.

BOROMIR: One does not simply walk into Mordor.

GANDALF: Which is where Sam comes in. If Frodo gets tired of walking, Sam can carry him into Mordor. Getting the upper classes where they need to be is what the working classes are for.

SAM: Someone’s got to get things done around here.

GANDALF: Look after him, Samwise Gamgee.

SAM: Damn right I will. If anything happens to Frodo, I’ll have to go on the dole.