Sam and Rosie dancing give Eru Ilúvatar leprosy of the perineum: today’s TERRIBLE advice
Here’s a rare non-TERRIBLE-advice post. Yes I sometimes write them, you friggin’ numpty:
Tyler asks
Why didn't Sam ask Rosie for a dance? Funny answers only!
My answer
Ever read The Nature of Middle-earth?
If you'd never heard of it, it's a book I encountered when trawling Hobbiton's gift shop. Turns out the Hobbiton movie set is one hell of an industrial tourist attraction. It's ginormous. It's lucrative. It shunts and sloshes a billion busloads of tourists through its Hobbit-y civic cisterns daily at $120 a pop. It's a massive money-maker. My gal and I visited in January 2025. I took a gazillion photos. Here's one:
I snapped this standing ten metres to the left of Bag End. You can see multiple tourist busloads swarming hither and thither. That ginormous tree at centre-right is none other than the Party Tree; that collection of buildings at the extreme right is the Green Dragon; and the structure slightly below it and closer is one end of Bagshot Row. It's a delightful place.
But pricey. Afterwards I browsed Hobbiton's gift shop, encountered The Nature of Middle-earth, bought it, returned home, attempted to read it, and gave up after about ten pages. Why? From what I can tell, it's a reattempt at Unfinished Tales, a book collection of stories and essays by Tolkien, about Middle-earth, that, for whatever reason, never made it into publications elsewhere.
Unfinished Tales is a delight. The Nature of Middle-earth is a dreary slog. It seems its makers said "okay this LotR malarkey is printing orgasmic money for us all; Unfinished Tales is selling like hot cakes; surely we can scrape together yet another collection of Tolkien's materials and flog that too? What's left? Anything? Anything at all?"
The parts I browsed largely featured snippets like "we think Tolkien's Letter #3435243 MIGHT have 'Numenorians suck nads' written in the margin of page 3 in really really faint pencil but it honestly might just be a drawing of the Kaiser playing hopscotch."
This persisted for dozens of pages. Ugh. I couldn't be bothered. For the most part Nature seemed beyond pointless.
With one glorious exception: it contained the full and unexpurgated relationship history of Sam and Rosie.
Which brings us to this question's answer.
For turns out that, at the start of Fellowship, Sam and Rosie had already got together, married and divorced. Six times in a row. Rosie's most recent reason for breaking up with Sam was, she'd dated vastly too many knucklehead dragon-slayer brainless douchebags to find the archetype remotely appealing any more. Sam now provoked zero heart-throbs. Sam was only giving this whole Gardening lark a go because Middle-Earth had run out of dragons for him to throat-slit. Turns out gardening mellowed him. And Sam's most recent reason for breaking up with Rosie was, oh sure, her barmaid cocktail mixing was orgasmic, her home cooking was orgasmic, her performance in the sack was orgasmic, but her dancing was apocalyptic.
If Rosie ever tried to twirl, she'd unwittingly fling cutlery into peoples' eye sockets. Her can-can-ning once caused a host of Noldor Elves to go into cerebral haemorrhaging and bleed from the nostrils and anus. Her body-popping invariably gives Eru Ilúvatar leprosy of the perineum. She's the only bit of Eru's Music more unpredictable than Tom Bombadil playing freeform jazz. Sam had to flee for the hills if for no other reason than simple self-preservation.
The pair tied the knot a seventh time after Rosie realised that Sam's new-found gardening obsessions, combined with his experiences lugging Frodo up Mt. Doom, had upgraded him into the first bloke she'd ever met who could finally combine ultra-macho Adventuring with refraining from being a bombastic, one-dimensional asshole. And Sam figured that whenever a Hobbiton dance threatened to kick off, he could just chain Rosie to the pub's bar or something, and lay and set multiple lines of bear traps between her and the dance floor, and perhaps purchase one of Saruman's old stab-proof vests, and he might get away with only losing a limb or three.
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2021/11/sam-and-rosie-dancing-give-eru-iluvatar-leprosy-of-the-perineum-todays-terrible-advice
Hungry for more?
Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
Enjoy this snazzy sampling of hintCLICKABLEhint crowd-pleasers:
Mt. Doom vs Chernobyl, billions of twitchy-schnozzed squirrels, and ceramic/asbestos rigor mortis: today’s TERRIBLE advice
“This "Sexyverse Advice" piece is a wild ride through a chaotic, creative landscape that feels like it’s built on a foundation of pure "Terrible Advice." The contrast between the apocalyptic imagery of Mt. Doom and Chernobyl and the surreal visual of "twitchy-schnozzed squirrels" creates a sharp, funky friction. ”
Waps of inconceivable vastness and splendour: today’s TERRIBLE advice
“Bahahahahah this is comic genius - hilarious”
On scheming bitches, Antarctic science side quests, extra-gorgeous ponies, and the Zodiac Killer: today's TERRIBLE advice
“This was hilarious in the most wonderfully chaotic way. I was laughing the entire time because every paragraph somehow became more absurd than the last, yet it still managed to circle back to the original question. The leap from relationship drama to Antarctic research grants, doomed South Pole weddings, and extra-gorgeous ponies was completely unhinged in the best possible way. Pure creative chaos, and somehow it works perfectly.”
Bullshit Banquet: the SEXYVERSE NOVELS
*ahem*
IN A WORLD where wars are fought with romance and flirting and delicious erotic TENSION, the rivalries throbbing between history’s Great Powers have become a BUTTLOAD more bubbly, with fewer hideous massacres of musket and cannon, and OODLES more frisky cunnilingus contests:
The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse
Part One: The Knights Of Raw Phwoar
Might Earth’s free nations drown under terrifying tornadoes of French femme-foam? Like hell, shout Britain’s Royal Marines Sex Commandos. Let’s assassinate France’s Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot! Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?
Part Two: The Soviet Sluts Superb
Turns out out-flirting Imperatrix Bardot is like trying to wank off Mt. Blanc when it’s wanking you back. Plan B: skedaddle, regroup, out-flirt the entirety of France and get loads more practice, then it’s stealthy-sneaky Round Two or bust.
Part Three: The Cervical Supremacy
Turns out flirting with every ladybro Rambo in France produces Rivals and Frenemies and Jilted Waifus galore. Smashing fun, but utter Kryptonite for Imperial kill-plans. Like, ever tried noshing off a world leader whilst a billion fanb0is fondle your buttocks? Want to? Read on!
Part Four: The Praetorian Prostitutes
The game’s up! The irresistible force of fanb0i-fondlemania has headbutted the immovable object of a gazillion furious Paris cops. They too thirst for Sex Commando patoot. Crunch time. Either launch one final rocket-strike against Bardot and France, or Earth’s free nations forever perish.
Part Five: [soon, baby]
Click these and enjoy these and your appetites will be SATISFIED.