The wobbit was solemn on the day following his narrow escape from the trolls. He barely touched the duck in his second turducken cheeseburger and was convinced he had caught a glimpse of his feet when he’d woken up that morning, causing him to lose his appetite all the more.
The rest of the band was also out of tune. Dumbledalf mistook his staff for a potions master, and wouldn’t stop talking to it until it promised to kill him when the time was right; Sorkinshield lectured less frequently, but still frequently enough to convey the social injustices of the Widdle Wearth media; and Beefer and Buffer only completed reps of three-quarter squats, not even mustering enough energy to go down to parallel.
There was a stench of evil lurking around every corner, and no amount of Dumbledalf’s ninety-nine-cent Magic Air Fresheners would dispel it. Before long, the ragtag crew came upon a sight that made even Buffer’s biceps seem small. Doc ceased whistling for the first time since their YOLO began.
“Is that the Mountain with Zero Friends?” Billy asked.
“No, that’s Shaq,” corrected Ballin.
Billy apologized profusely to the four-time NBA champion and future Hall of Famer as Drawlin glared at him in disbelief. Ballin gestured higher, to a vast range of peaks in the distance—these were the Mountains Whose Peaks Are Concealed by Gathering Precipitation Around Their Summits. Whorey, Slorey, and Kourtney thought the spectacle was the biggest thing they had ever seen. Loin and Groin silently passed up this opportunity.
The wobbit and his friends would have to travel treacherous roads through the Mountains Whose Peaks Are Concealed by Gathering Precipitation Around Their Summits before entering into a wild wasteland, also known as the Land without a Netflix Password. Only after a harrowing stint through the forest of Jerkwood would the Mountain with Zero Friends be visible.
The thought of the lengthy journey made Billy miss Wobbottabad and his king-size, memory-foam bed with a built-in toilet. He released a sigh of sadness, then ingested a cheese puff of resignation and washed it down with the chocolate milk of burgeoning resolve.
Meanwhile Slorey, who had developed a habit of naming trees and rocks and anything else she took a fancy to as they walked, noticed something strange.
“Dumbledalf,” she whined, “this is the third time we’ve passed Lamar Oakom!”
“And every time he seems to have more and more crack in him,” grumbled Drawlin.I
“To the Old Phony House of L. Ron, and the valley of Livinwell,” proclaimed Dumbledalf. “He and his Elf Cult are practitioners of the ancient two-month-old religion of Celebritology. They are always more than willing to take in those who are weary and confused and defenseless. I have sent an owl ahead to notify them of our coming.”
In reality, the owl Dumbledalf had sent had only gone a few feet before landing on Doc’s head and pecking him for the last twenty minutes, but the travelers pressed on regardless. Livinwell was the last Old Phony House south of the Hills and, despite its large, glowing, neon Celebritology sign, it was not so easy to find. The sun was setting, and the wobbit and friends had yet to arrive at their destination. In Celebritology cosmology, it had been a complete cycle of the three moons of Tatooine.
As they continued on their search for Livinwell, teatime passed, and so did suppertime, and so did all manner of times invented by rich white people with too much time on their hands. Dumbledalf kept turning his Mischief Map this way and that in an attempt to figure out where they were, and his Mischief Map kept remaining an unhelpful and perturbed stick with ants on it. Finally the entire party became so tired and hungry that they were willing to believe anything and trust anybody for even the faintest hope of nourishment and rest. This, of course, was when they found Celebritology.
There it was: a glorious, stark building at the bottom of a beautiful valley, and at the intersection of Ivar and Hollywood Boulevard. Billy never forgot those final steps toward Livinwell. The trees transformed into palms, and he could now faintly detect the smell of expensive cologne, Louis Vuitton, and the constant need for approval.
“Oh god, it smells like veganism!” thought Billy. He looked up at the stars, and then he looked down and saw stars all around him. The ones in the sky were burning bright and glorious; the ones around him were just tan. Then there came a rush of song emerging from the windows of Porsches passing by:
O! Look at us singing,
Our diamonds are blinging!
Grammys we’re winning,
And Botox beginning!
O! Tra-la-la-lally!
The golden hills of CaliII!
O! Why are you staring?
Is our beauty that glaring?
Okay, yes it is, feel free to keep staring,
That’s Versace we’re wearing!
Tril-lil-lil-lolly!
One more Emmy! Gee, golly!
O! My personal trainer I’m phoning,
Who keeps my muscles growing!
More honing, more toning,
Then fake bronzing I’m going!
Come, wobbit and friends,
Makeover time!
It won’t cost a dime!
Although, to be fair, I’m not fluent in dimes.
Then to space-gods praying,
Don’t be nervous we’re famous,
Or that our church is from Uranus,
Just join in on our ways,
And give in to the daze!
And every day we thank L. Ron,
We’re not stuck doing plays!
So they giggled and sang in their Porsches, and pretty fair nonsense I daresay you think it. Not that they would care; they only cared for sense and sensibility if it might land them a nomination, and only examined their pride or prejudice if it might cost them an endorsement deal.
“What funny clothes!” said one Celebritologist as he stepped out of his Porsche with two Elf Cult escorts on each arm. “Did you get them off the sale rack at Rural Outfitters?” The escorts giggled in unison.
Despite the offensiveness of the Celebritologist’s comment, the wobbit and friends looked past his rudeness and into his magnificent complexion and ridiculous good looks. Whorey, Slorey, and Kourtney were especially flustered: waving, smiling, and attempting to have his celebrity children all at once. He laughed and made love to them and sent them on their way as the band of friends crossed a very short crosswalk and finally came to the last Old Phony House. When they drew close, its glass doors slid wide open, as if by some magic, and then closed again if they walked too far away from the sensors. Evil things did not come into the valley of Livinwell, or at least they never made it all the way there before getting fed up with the traffic and just settling down in Long Beach instead.
The master of the house, L. Ron, was one of those people who came into strange stories before the beginning of history; even before the great Klingon battle of the ninth century, and the death of Molor by the Sword of Kahless. In his early years, L. Ron may have started out as a mere pulp-fiction writer of Widdle Wearth lore, but he became so much more. He became friends with a select group of individuals.
He was as wise as Spock and as powerful as the Force. He was politically savvy enough to command the Battlestar Galactica and respectable enough to completely avoid The Big Bang Theory. He made countless appearances on The Twilight Zone as the surprise twist ending, and he is the only man to win first place at the Planet of the Apes costume contest without wearing a costume. L. Ron doesn’t always drink beer, but when he does, he drinks Buzz Lightbeer.
He was initially hesitant to welcome the visitors, professing a belief in what he called “self-help.” He had hoped the wobbit and his friends would figure out their own problems by analyzing the meaning of their humanoid thoughts. However, after realizing that the group could not craft beds and shelter with their minds, and that spiritual enlightenment would not keep them from starving to death, he gave up and simply helped them.
L. Ron gave his visitors brand-new robes, which looked suspiciously like bargain-rack Jedi cloaks. The Celebritology center also accommodated them with spa services and complimentary margaritas, and, on weekends, arranged marriages. When Billy and the Little People learned that “complimentary” in this case meant “you should take it as a compliment that I think you can afford this,” they were a little disappointed in the class warfare, but nonetheless forgave L. Ron because they were already drunk and feeling extremely relaxed.
At the end of a two-week relaxation cycle, each member of the crew received a bill in their hotel suite for five thousand silver pennies. Billy, Dumbledalf, and the Little People had never seen that much money in their lives, except for Whorey, Slorey, and Kourtney, who had almost that exact sum tucked away in their bras for emergencies and extra support. They reluctantly paid, but were thrilled to learn that this meant they had evolved to the next level of celebrity status. Sorkinshield gave himself a pat on the back and took all the credit.
To describe the importance of this promotion, L. Ron called on the most famous member of the Elf Cult of Celebritology: Tóm Crúìsëanór. He slid onto the scene in a dress shirt and tighty-whities, having just finished rubbing his naked body on an ottoman for three hours. Billy and the Little People were speechless—not because Tóm Crúìsëanór was the most famous Elf Cult celebrity in all of Widdle Wearth, but because in person he was only two feet tall. Whorey, Slorey, and Kourtney had barely begun telling Crúìsëanór what big fans they were when he interrupted and dramatically proclaimed, “You had me at hello!”
He had never acquired the skill of paying attention to people past the first word they said to him, but for some reason every time he tried to tell them this, they gasped and applauded. The sisters were no exception, as Whorey squealed with excitement, Slorey passed out, and Kourtney became visibly aroused.
“Congratulations on evolving to the next level of celebrity status,” Crúìsëanór informed them, reading from his script. “By staying here at Livinwell, paying five thousand silver pennies, and exhibiting the inherent qualities of potential stardom, you have already achieved the level of I Think I Recognize That Person from Somewhere celebrity. The road to the status of Universal, God-Man Popularity like mine is only a few short weeks and several million dollars away.”
Tóm Crúìsëanór then went on to explain the eight levels of Celebritology while running back and forth across the room and defusing a bomb he had set:
Level 1: Poor Person (1 or 2 silver pennies)
Level 2: I Think I Recognize That Person from Somewhere (5,000 silver pennies)
Level 3: I Definitely Recognize That Person from Somewhere (10,000 silver pennies)
Level 4: Oh My God, It’s That Guy! (150,000 silver pennies)
Level 5: Child/Reality Star (150,000 silver pennies and a sacrificial tauntaun)
Level 6: B-list Celebrity (500,000 silver pennies and your firstborn child)
Level 7: A-list Celebrity (2,000,000 silver pennies and your first-adopted child)
Level 8: Universal, God-Man Popularity (redacted, but something along the lines of 100,000,000,000,000 pieces of silver, 40 pounds of flesh, and Leah Remini’s soul trapped inside a Living Dolls blooper reel)
If they were to make it to Universal, God-Man Popularity, Billy and the Little People were told that they would be initiated on board a secret spaceship where only the most popular celebrities gained admittance. The ship was named the Millennium Falcon, and it was piloted by none other than Celebritologist Jóhn Trávóltáhrós, who personally gave every passenger a deep tissue massage before they went to bed, whether they wanted it or not.
Billy sensed that perhaps Livinwell was not the place for a wobbit. He was beginning to have body-image issues, which, for a wobbit, meant that he was beginning to see images of his body in mirrors. Sorkinshield felt he wasn’t getting the recognition he deserved, and Dumbledalf felt that for once he was not the craziest person in the room. So despite the flirty texts from Jóhn Trávóltáhrós and the blinding smiles from Tóm Crúìsëanór’s dreamy lips, they decided that they couldn’t stay in Livinwell.
“I feel the need for speed!” Tóm told them.
“You’re foaming at the mouth,” the Little People replied. “We can’t understand you.”
Tóm Crúìsëanór departed, disgruntled, with a homemade Academy Award in hand and a strange desire to go kill a psychiatrist and eat his still-beating heart. Only Kiwi seemed impressed. Birds are easily impressed.
Before Billy and his friends left Livinwell, L. Ron requested to see the swords they had brought from the Internet trolls’ lair. Of course, he could not tell them much about the weapons upon inspection, as his expertise was in light sabers. These were just regular swords used as Italian sausage cleavers in the Moblin Wars.
He was able to deduce, however, that Sorkinshield’s sword was called Porkist—the famous Moblin-skewering sword of old. Dumbledalf’s sword was named Hamdring—the meat carver that the King of Fondle’n once wore before being forced out of office by allegations of sexually appropriate behavior in the workplace.
“Whence did the Internet trolls get them? I wonder,” said Sorkinshield, looking at his sausage cleaver with new interest.
“I could not say,” said L. Ron, “but one may guess that the trolls got them off eBay, or through a Groupon discount. I have also heard whispers of forgotten treasures in the Mines of Mamma Mia since the Little People and the Moblin War.”
Sorkinshield pondered these words. “I will keep this sword in honor,” he said. “May it soon cleave the Moblins’ sausages once again!”
Everyone looked at Loin and Groin, but they were too busy reviving Doc, whom Crúìsëanór had run through with a samurai sword on his way out.
“May I take a gander at your map before you go?” asked L. Ron, as a medical team bandaged Doc and a brainwashing team scrubbed all memory of trauma from his mind.
All of a sudden, as L. Ron gazed at the map, mystical Poon Runes glowed upon the surface, revealing its secret contents. L. Ron was able to read the Poon Runes because, as you know, every member of the Harvard Lampoon is guaranteed to become a celebrity, earning automatic admittance to the Elf Cult of Celebritology and, occasionally, a polite hello from B. J. Novak.
“Ah, yes, Poon Runes,” said L. Ron. “The writers of the Harvard Lampoon invented them so that they could spend a century and a half printing a magazine that’s literally unreadable.”
“But how do we reveal the secrets of Poon?” asked Whorey unironically.
“In order to see the Poon Runes,” said L. Ron, “you have to have drunk the same amount of beer that the members of the Lampoon drank when they wrote them. You also have to download the Harvard Lampoon’s free iPad app, and follow them on Twitter at www.twitter.com/harvardlampoon.”
“Expellyourarmses!” Dumbledalf yelled, and he grabbed the map from L. Ron’s hands, vexed that the mysterious leader should find this out first. “What says it?” he asked.
L. Ron squinted at the Runes. “It says, ‘Watch Conan, weeknights on TBS.’ ”
The wobbit and his friends were not sure of the meaning of this Poon Rune, but one thing was clear: the Harvard Lampoon is really, really cool and you should tell your friends that it still exists.
Unused to such short messages, Sorkinshield asked if there was anything else written on the map.
But L. Ron only shrugged. “Just some boring stuff about the exact way you can enter the Mountain with Zero Friends and slay Puff the Magic Dragon. All the other jokes must have been written after additional beers were consumed. Now, that’ll be four hundred silver pennies for the free advice.”
Their bill finally settled, L. Ron took his leave, requesting, “Beam me up!” to any Celebritologist on the floors above. When there was no answer, he took the elevator.
The next morning was as fresh as any other in the valley of Livinwell: blue skies and never a cloud, until you actually try to go to the beach and then of course it’s overcast and windy. The wobbit and his friends rode away amid songs of vanity, with their hearts ready for more adventure and their pockets filled with kale because Kirstié Alléydriel had eaten all the other snacks.III The Mountains Whose Peaks Are Concealed by Gathering Precipitation Around Their Summits lay ahead, and the YOLO had only just begun.
I Get it? Because he’s a tree.
II How people who are not from California refer to California.
III With Widdle Wearth Wweight Wwatchers, you too can eat all the snacks and feel good about it.