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Old 03-22-2006, 04:33 PM   #306
Eidolon of a Took
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Join Date: Sep 2002
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“Oh well,” said Pimpi, crossing three names off the guest list, “more food for the rest of us, I suppose. Vogy, have you given any thought to who you want as your best man?”

“My best what?”

“Best man. Or elf, I suppose. It’s a human custom, don’t you know anything about that half of your heritage?"

“Er. I have learned a little from you, my dear, and the likes of Orogarn Two and Lord Etceteron, but I’ve never attended a human wedding.”

“Oh for pity’s sake. Well, the bride and groom each have a friend stand up with them. I’m going to ask Merisu to be my maid of honor. Or matron of honor. I’m a little confused about that. But anyway, you need a best male-of-the-species to stand up for you.”


“Because it’s the custom.”

“Well...” Vogonwë seemed unduly adverse to the idea, and suggested, “what about hobbit wedding customs? Can’t we follow those instead?”

“Unless you want to do the Pumpkin Shoe Dance, no.”

“Well, I’m half-elven. We could just do it the Elvish way... you don’t even need witnesses for that....”

“No! We’re having a proper wedding!” Pimpi insisted. “One that’s followed by a big feast. Now go ask someone to be your best man. Maybe Gravlox will do it.”

“Are you insane? I killed Gravlox, and I let the dragon eat his pet bunny.”

“But it’s a new day and all is forgiven.”

“Look, maybe he’s not out for revenge, but you just don’t ask someone you killed to be your best man. Er, best orc.” He took a long look at Gravlox, who was canoodling with Merisu across the glen, and said, “Or maybe best elf. Whatever it is that he is nowadays.”


“I’m not asking Goldilox over there to stand up in my wedding, and that’s final!”

“Fine. Windsor then.”


“Why not? He saved my life, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a big hero. I don’t want that short little twerp as my best man.”

“Best hobbit,” Pimpi correctly haughtily. “And need a remind you that I too was once short, before I ate the magic beans?”

“Never that short,” Vogonwë insisted petulantly.

“You have something against short people?”

“I have nothing against short people. ‘Twerp’ was, I believe the operative word in that declaration.”

“Fine. Be that way. I’m not going to argue with you anymore. Pick someone to be your best man, I’ll be over there asking Merisu to be my maid of honor.” With that, Pimpi flounced off.

Vogonwë pouted for a few minutes, and then wrote sullen poetry for the next half hour, while Pimpi and Merisu, giggling like schoolgirls, went off to find a wedding gown for the bride.

He was working on a bitter haiku when Halfemption ambled up and read over his shoulder:

If Kuru was here
I could just pay him to stand
Up as my best dwarf

“Very bitter,” Hal remarked. “Nice.”

“Hey, Hal!” said Vogy, brightening. “I forgot you were here. What are you, exactly?”

“That’s a good question,” answered Hal. “Hold on a moment while I go find out.”

He walked away and was gone for several minutes, digging into his genealogical information, and presently returned, declaring decisively, “I am a half-half-elf, or quarter-elf, if you will.”

“That’s great. Would you like to stand up in my wedding as the best-half-half-or-quarter-elf?”

A small tear glistened in the corner of Hal’s eye, and he said, “How kind of you to ask. What an honor. Best-half-half-or-quarter-elf? Me? But, surely you jest.”

“I have never been more serious in my life.”

“I’ll do it,” Halfemption said, and gave Vogy’s hand a hearty shake. “Shall I also make a toast at the reception?”

Vogonwë gave it a moment’s thought and asked, “Is that the custom?”

“Um, yes.”

“Then I think you’d better.”

“Splendid, I shall go work on that right now,” said Hal, and went off happy in the knowledge that he was currently a valued member of the Itship. Several years on an island can do that to a person.


Pimpi and Merisu, meanwhile, were digging through their trunks in search of Pimpi’s favorite gown.

“Pimpiowyn,” Merisu asked thoughtfully after a moment, elbow deep in taffeta. “Are you quite happy with your situation?”

“Eh?” asked Pimpi, untangling an old pair of socks. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I just noticed that you and Vogy were fighting over something before. And it worried me,” replied Merisu with sweet concern. “You see, Gravlox and I never fight, or have disagreements, or elbow each other in the ribs. Ours is a romantic, lovey-dovey sort of relationship, and I cannot imagine being truly happy unless I were completely smack-faced in love with my intended.”

“Well that’s easy to explain. You’re an elf. I’m half hobbit. We’re the pragmatic sort.”

“Yes, I suppose. I just want to know that you are completely happy.”

“I am. This is my pragmatic hobbit version of being smack-faced in love. And besides, I’ve gotten so used to Vogy’s annoying bits -- the poetry, the insufferable elven haughtiness, the petulance, the.... er, what was I saying?”

“You’ve gotten used to all that.”

“Yes, I’ve gotten so accustomed to it that even his annoying bits are a like a comfortable old shoe. If I wore shoes. But anyway, if we should part I would miss even the worst of his poems. That, and if I found someone new I’d have to get used to all his annoying bits too.”

“Well. That’s... inspiring.”

“Isn’t it?” Pimpi smiled. “Oh! And look, here’s my dress!”

With a flourish she pulled out her favorite gown. It was the gorgeous gown that Lord Celery had bought her, oh so many years ago, in Topfloorien. A dress of black velvet, cut low at the neck, adorned with ribbons of golden embroidery, with flowing, gauzy, fluid, filmy, flimsy, diaphanous, gossamer, sheer, tiffany, ethereal, preternaturally gosh darn beautiful red sleeves falling gracefully to the ground and of a width and length that made any practical action of the wearer nearly impossible.

And this description is in no way cut and pasted from any previous post of any kind. Honestly!


The time finally came for the wedding, and Manuël Santana got out his Ever Lovin’ Guitar Strap for them to swear their vows by. It was a magnificent piece of leather, decorated with seashells, and all present gasped as one to behold its magnificence.

“Like, dude/ttes! Now the bride and groom will, like, exchange the totally groovy vows they both have written.”

Vogonwë, in an extreme fit of nervousness, forgot his vows and was forced to sheepishly dig through his pockets to find the scrap of paper he’d composed them on. He unfolded the crinkled paper, now damp from his sweaty palms (really, some days it just does not pay to be half-human) and cleared his voice.

“Oh I'm a lucky fella,
I'm a lucky boy,
I've got a new umbrella,
And it's me pride and joy!”

“What the...?” Pimpi said indignantly.

“Eep,” eeped Vogy. “Wrong scrap of paper. That’s, um, a children’s rhyme I was working on. Hold on a moment.”

He rifled through his pockets some more, but when he could not find his vows, he succumbed to a panic attack and fainted rather ignobly. Halfemption, fulfilling his duties as best-half-half-or-quarter-elf quite admirably, caught him in time to prevent him from cracking open his noggin on the ground.

“Smelling salts!” Pimpi cried, and an unknown personage helpfully provided her with some. She waved it under the groom’s nose, and he sputtered to life.

“Maybe we should, like, dispense with the personalized vows and just go with the usual,” suggested Manuël, and Pimpi agreed.

“Groovy. So, dude, repeat after me. ‘I, Vogonwë Brownbark, Son of Geppetuil, Elven-party-king and third cousin of Thranduil, thrice removed, do take Pimpiowyn Took, daughter of Éohorse Son of Needahorse, a Valiant Man of the Mike, to be my lawfully wedded wife, and I do solemnly swear by the ever lovin’ guitar strap of Manuël Santana, that I will love and cherish her for as long as we both shall live.’”

“Mama?” croaked Vogonwë. “Why are you sleeping in the dishwater? Mama? Can you hear me?”

Pimpi looked at the smelling salts dubiously.

“Duuuuude, just say ‘I do’,” Manuël said with a sad shake of his head.

“I do.”

“Groovy. Do you, Pimpiowyn Took, take this pathetic heap of half-elvenness to be your lawfully wedded husband, etc. etc.?”

“I do,” said Pimpi.

“Excellent! I now pronounce you, like, totally hitched!” Manuël played a riff on his guitar, and the deal was sealed. “Now, let’s paaaaaaaaaaaaaaar-tay!”

Last edited by Diamond18; 03-22-2006 at 04:44 PM.
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