Preach loud truth
420 blaze it Tollers
Jam session
Ceiling Lolkien
Shoot the Tolkpedo
Poke the Heretic
Chaika? Yes Chaika

The New Adventures of Little Red Riding Hood

An epic poem, with me in the lead role as Red Riding Hood. No points for guessing who gets to be the wolf!


Yesterday I heard from Manwe
Via Kenta and Osanwe
A most unexpected order:
"Get, Noel, thee to the border."

"Travel to the land of France
To the forest of Provence
Ring my friend Christopher's bell
Bring him food, he is not well."

So I did what I was askéd
Chose a nice hand-woven basket
Baked a cake, with icing mottled
Packed some wine, for ten years bottled.

Oh, the joy that I felt then
To aid such a worthy man!
I took my red riding hood
Which on bearded men looks good.

Then I walked for seven hours
In the sun, in rainy showers
Ever thicker grew the forest
Daylight faded more and morest.

Suddenly, a twig did crack
And I saw, when I looked back
A leering face with shaggy hair!
Glowing eyes, a fiendish stare!

How my heart now started racing
'Twas no wolf whom I was facing.
Ten points on the worse-o-meter:
I was facing Jackson's Peter!

But quite friendly was his voice:
"Ah, Noel! The best of boys.
See what I have for you, see.
Watch my latest DVD!"

So I paused my urgent mission
Watched the Extra Long Edition
On his little shiny netbook
While he ran off with a mad look.

Oh, the shame that I felt then
When I realized his plan!
He had made me waste my time
Meanwhile, he'd commit a crime.

Don't I look smashing?

Truly, he had quickly acted
While I had been so distracted.
C.T.'s residence he reachéd
Where he sweet-talked, flattered, preachéd.

When I finally got there
I saw Jackson in a chair
Next to Tolkien like a friend
With a contract in his hand.

Just to tell it is quite trying:
Peter Jackson had been buying
Film rights for the Silmarillion!
"This", he chirped, "will earn a billion."

Oh, the wrath that I felt then!
Not a billion, two or ten
Justify to sell the Silm
To this bumbler for a film.

I jumped in and asked the man:
"Why then is so big your pen?"
Grinning, Peter Jackson said it:
"So that I can better edit."

Now his giant pen he took
And he scribbled in the book
Tore out pages like a hack.
Then I started my attack.

Of the battle songs have spoken.
In the house there was much broken
Skin was bruised and clothes were tattered
Pets were killed and glass was shattered.

Finally the Jackson fled.
But then Christopher instead
Of thanking me, he cried out loud:
"Who are you, you vandal? Out!"

Fables need a happy ending
Mine, however, ends with spending.
I paid dearly for repairs
Of his tables, windows, chairs.

On this day I stopped for good
Putting on my riding hood.
"If you", Christopher had said,
"Wear this thing again, you're dead."

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