The Truth of the Harfoots

The Truth of the Harfoots

I have finally discovered the truth of the Harfoots in the Rings of Powers.

They are absolutely not the ancestors of the Hobbits.

They are clearly and obviously the progenitors of the Boggies.

“Although only two hundred invitations had been sent, Frito Bugger should not have been surprised to see several times that number sitting at the huge troughlike tables under the great pavilion in the Bugger meadows. His young eyes widened as he moped about observing legions of ravenous muzzles tearing and snatching at their roasts and joints, oblivious to all else. Few faces were familiar to him in the grunting, belching press that lined the gorging-tables, but fewer still were not already completely disguised in masks of dried gravy and meat sauce. It was only then that the young boggie realized the truth in Dildo’s favorite adage, “It takes a heap o’ vittles to gag a boggie.” 

It was, nevertheless, a splendid party, decided Frito, as he dodged a flying hamhock. Great pits had been dug simply to accommodate the mountains of scorched flesh the guests threw down their well-muscled throats, and his Uncle Dildo had devised an ingenious series of pipelines to gravity-flow the hundreds of gallons of heady ale into their limitless paunches. Moodily, Frito studied his fellow boggies as they noisily crammed their maws with potato greens and jammed stray bits of greasy flesh into their jackets and coin-purses “for later.” Occasionally an overly zealous diner would fall unconscious to the ground, much to the amusement of his fellows, who would take the opportunity to pelt him with garbage. Garbage, that is, that they weren’t stowing away “for later.” 

All around Frito was the sight and sound of gnashing boggie teeth, gasping boggie esophagi, and groaning, pulsating boggie bellies. The din of the gnawing and munching almost drowned out the national anthem of the Sty, which the hired orchestra was now more or less performing. 

“We boggies are a hairy folk 
Who like to eat until we choke. 
Loving all like friend and brother, 
And hardly ever eat each other.

Ever hungry, ever thirsting, 
Never stop till belly’s bursting. 
Chewing chop and pork and muttons, 
A merry race of boring gluttons.

Sing: Gobble, goggle, gobble, gobble, 
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble. 

Boggies gather round the table, 
Eat as much as you are able. 
Gorge yourselves from moon till noon 
(Don’t forget your plate and spoon).

Anything edible, we’ve got dibs on, 
And hope we all die with our bibs on. 
Ever gay, we’ll never grow up, 
Come! And sing and play and throw up! 

Sing: Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, 
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!”

Frito wandered past the rows of tables, hoping to find the squat, familiar figure of Spam. “Gobble, gobble, gobble . . . he murmured to himself, but the words seemed strange. Why did he feel so alone amidst the merrymakers, why had he always thought himself an intruder in his own village? Frito stared at the phalanxes of grinding molars and foot-long forked tongues that lolled from a hundred mouths, pink and wet in the afternoon sun. – Harvard Lampoon’s The Bored of the Rings.

The resemblance between Harfoots and Boggies is undeniable.

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