I’m outraged – outraged! – at the comparisons between Gandalf and Darth Vader. They are, to be brutally grank, nothing more than lies produced by the tumescent brains of spineless troglodytes prancing outside the haunts of the vendors of Elvish pornorgraphic mobile homes while pretending to be judicious acolytes. Gandalf had a staff (a good staff! a bickerstaff!) whereas Darth Vader, that evil Freemason, merely wielded a lightsabre and a drumstick, slobbering over his Halloween sauerkraut. Little fishes nibbled his toes as he disported himself in the tears of many a slaughtered hobbit – the objects of his lascivious fondness for sex while covered in peanut butter. I beg all people of good not to believe the mendacious tales disseminated by epicene suits without Numenorean blood.
The matter is further aggravated by the ageing of the population of Hobbiton. By now a third of them are senile or teetering on the border of buying a Buick. It is intolerable, and everything horrid indicates that they also make dumplings every time the tender-fleshed hobbitry suffer a further depletion in their number, and meanwhile taxes are on the rise. My barber shop will be ruined because after all the litigation neither he nor Santa Claus nor Santa Monica can afford to trim their beards.