Pestilential Prose

Bad Writing by mousechief

What's in a Name?

It was a stormy night in the Shire. The sky was as black as ink at the end of a big dark cave on a moonless night, except in this instance the moon was full and yellow, the cave filled with glowing lanterns, and the ink pink. Yes, pink. Farmer Violet Mustardbarrell, generally known to himself and the one other person who could talk to him without laughing at him as Farmer V, stared out the window gloomily.
He never got over the fact that his parents had chosen a typical hobbit name for him...and that it was a girl's name! A flower, and a purple one no less! He waddled over to his chair to complete his sulk. I say waddled because Farmer V is a hobbit. A hobbit, for those who don't know but really should know because after all they are reading this, is a vertically challenged potential heart attack waiting to happen. In less politically correct terms, they are short and fat. Farmer V was every inch the hobbit, as he actually managed to be wider than tall. Having finished his sulk, he turned his thoughts to his big plans for the next day. The next day was to be the annual Shire fair where all the hobbits gathered to compete for prizes in numerous vegetable catagories. Last year Farmer V had made hobbit history by beating Farmer Maggot in the Mushroom competition, and this year he had an even more ambisious project. He was going to compete against the sixty year running winner of the prestegious potato prize, the great Gaffer Gamgee himself. Farmer V looked lovingly at the pyramid
of potatoes by the door, and especially the one on top, which he secretly named Spud. Spud was a king among taters. Farmer V was interrupted from his day dream, or possibly nightmare since it was after all night not day, by a knock at the door. Farmer V flung it open to reveal the lovely Bungo Cottonfootbottle,  generally known to herself and Farmer V, her only friend, as Binky.
"Good morning," he inquired dubiously.
"How are you?" she interjected mildly.
"Fine, thanks. You?" he parried.
"They've been making fun of my *sniff* name again" she laughed.
"Let's go to the Green Dragon for a pint and a pity party," he postulated.
And they did. The end.