Horus Engels was one of Fredonia’s leading experts on everything. Legend says he was a high official in Ancient Egypt thousands of years ago, and that something went horribly wrong during his mummification process. He resides in Oxfat, Fredonia, and for a long time led the School of Menacing Looks and Frog Pills at FATS.

Keen observers have noted that Engels always seems to be in profile. It is unclear whether he actually has a backside.

This collection of Engel’s wisest and most enlightening remarks is compiled from his activity around the internet, in the FATS Forum and the Usenet groups alt.fan.tolkien and rec.arts.books.tolkien.

Unfortunately, Horus Engels has been turned into a frog lately due to a major medical miscalculation, and his mighty voice has since been silenced.

Tolkien prophesied the downfall of Communism and the Internet revolution even though his head was covered by a pair of swimming trunks and C. S. Lewis, who was jealous of his popularity, had affixed iron balls and iron fetters (so-called “bilbos”) to his feet and thrown him into the Isis. His bad mumble when lecturing was due to him having to speak to his students from the bottom of the river.

I often enjoy crashing into mincing kangaroos and incipient balrogs, and the crunching under my wheels is like unto the crunching of little crystals inside my head. And Tolkien approved of chewing tobacco when one had forgotten one’s pipe at home. In fact, Chewbacca was one of his creations. George Lucas stole the idea from a scrap of paper he blasphemously retrieved from the compost heap in Tolkien’s garden. That’s why George Lucas is known in the business as “non compost mentis”. Or, as the French say, “le menteur composite”.

That was Galadriel’s, that was. It looked wan. There are two swans affront of a sawn, two swans behind a sawn, and one sawn in the middle. Hoe many swan in the middle. How many wans are there?

We welcome Shi’ites For Tolkien, the hottest and most dogmatic Tolkien lovers in the world. No one can be more inspissated than they as they chop up little mice and put them in their beer. Or out Khaled al-Born, our agent in Lorien. But look out for the Swiss, the muesli terrorists!

My hair has been with me for an extremely long time. We are very attached to each other. I fondly remember the day it blew in through my window on a western wind and settled on my head. It had survived the downfall of Nûmenor because its previous owner had forgotten it at home when he went off to invade the Undying Lands, and his wife then washed it and put it out on the roof to dry. After it decided to make my head its home, it has struck deep roots – roots going into the deepest recesses of my brain.

His head, crowned with a horse’s arse, was mounted on a golden chamberpot by lesbian Dwarves. I report this more in pity than in anger.

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.

And why do you think that is so, you descriptives? Why, it’s because you have desecrated Christopher Tolkien’s pockets and left PELLETS in them, and also you stole his comb. Yes, his comb! Stop that silly giggling! Do you think this is a brothel for feeble-minded Stoors? As Boswell so accurately reports, though admittedly with a whiff of semprosimilitude, Dr Johnson did not abide quiffs gladly, and neither do the Uruk-hair! They will fix you all right, you fine-haired sons of twitches! Wait for the fiff to fall, and then you’ll laugh through the other side of your mouths. Neither will the horse leave its stable.

Saruman’s little craban wanted to go for a drive, no coach had he. Now he slid that way, now he slid that way, and now he slid down in the ditch.

The evil Men of Angmar (not the women, who were good and all looked like Michelle Pfeiffer) were the first ones to spread the calumny that Aragorn was a nancyboy. Au contraire! He was a fancy-booy. Galadriel could have testitied to that, but she held her mother’s tongue. (It was a matter of ancestral memory.) Aragorn also ate quiche. But one must try to understand. It was in its entirety a Numismatic plot. That was not the intention of the Wallars when they founded the island kingdom of Ruminour.

You utterly contemptible microchrysophalites! How dare you sully his name, you dogflesh-loving oicks? It is no wonder that poor dear Christoper, the martyr of Sludgepool, hides inside a villa in Provence which is surrounded by a wall and guarded by a vicious wild boar! He had to! His rabid “admirers” (some of them speaking French) left him no choice but to cry “Haddock!” and let slip the boars of war. And he was a much better lover than his father, despite the claims of insinuating snakes. I speak from experience.

P. S. Wikipedia was not involved in this note.

The evidence of Tolkien’s musical sophistication marks his ballets (especially “The Smaug Sea”) in ways obvious and hidden, general and specific. His Scotch Symphony solves the problems of Mendelssohn’s Scotch Symphony – a work undone by a shortage of soda whose cheerful if hiccoughing note of triumph is (at least for post-Victorian throats) impossibly strong. Not so Tolkien, who, by the judicious addition of more soda, and a drop of angostura, ensured his success.

Lies! Yet more lies! And silly, pantouflian lies at that. Farmer Giles celebrated Succoth, and his sword was attenuated like a leaf of smoked bacon in the wind until it was twisted unto the shape of a tortured mermaid. This is the fate of every Amalechite who dares to transgress the sacred threshold of the Firbolg and slaver on the toes of Holy Shelob. Do you think it is that easy to fool Scrooge McDuck? He bribed them to prevent this very thing, you gullible heffalump!

I wants to see John Rhys-Davies’ pants set on fire and then see him get chased all around Colosseum by ravenous smurfs.


John Rhys-Davies should be served, charred, smoking, rred from the bone, to the starving smurfs, and to Kim Basinger in a cat suit. As for Tolkien, well dost thou know that Tolkien was Mel Gibson’s evil aunt, chasing him through the outback with her umbrella.

As Uglúk said unto Grishnákh: “Die, spurious Elf woman! Do you think we do not see you for what you are? You are merely yet another of the horrible, hissing noises from the wheeled cauldron that is trying to catch up with us! A cauldron full of inferior CEYLONESE tea! With us all! Now take that and put it in your pipe and smoke it! And Polly Toynbee is an idiot too, or else she woud not have offered her body unto the lust of the Uruk-hai in the name of Socialism!” I could cry.

The Hokusai Image of Gollum! In this timeless painting, the Japanese Master, who was undoubtedly of Avari ancestry, shows Gollum picking his teeth with a fishbone while an ageing samurai steers the ship towards the shore he loved so much. And he sang (Gollum):

Sauron beckons on the other shore,
Sauron beckons on the other shore,
Sauron beckons on the other shore,
Fish and rings on the other side!

Denethor’s Queer Eyes! In depth, greenness and general sepulchritude, they supperseded those of Treebeard anytime. They were also good for wedding cakes. Now, I want you all to take this very calmly and troop down into the shelters before it is too late. Snaga will direct you, together with Serjeant Bagdemagus.