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Culture Shock: Everything You Need To Know About ‘The Lord Of The Rings’

In the 60 years since its release, J.R.R. Tolkien’s epic fantasy series ‘The Lord Of The Rings’ has captivated the imaginations of millions and evolved into a global cultural phenomenon. If you have yet to dip your toes into the series, this primer will give you everything you need to know about the books to hold your own in conversation.

Lord Of The Rings author J.R.R. Tolkien wrote the entire trilogy during one epic bath that lasted 912 days: J.R.R. Tolkien was a very grimy man who needed to take incredibly long baths to manage all his grime. One such bath, taken when he was grimier than usual, ended up lasting a full 912 days, affording him the time to write the entire LOTR trilogy. Written on waterproof paper using a specially constructed floating typewriter, J.R.R. Tolkien’s fingers became so pruney during this lengthy soak that he was forced to write the last few chapters by biting onto the bowl of his pipe and typing with the stem.

J.R.R. Tolkien was inspired to write the series after getting run over by a car driven by a man named Bilbo: While he was a young man serving in the British Army during World War I, Tolkien came up with the core ideas for the LOTR trilogy after getting run over by a big, slow truck driven by a 3-foot-tall Austrian man named Bilbo, who shouted that he was on his way to drive his truck into a volcano to end his life.

Tolkien wrote the books as a gift to his nerd-ass wife: The world has J.R.R. Tolkien’s total dork of a wife to thank for The Lord Of The Rings. Tolkien wrote the books as a gift to his dweeby spouse, who had huge glasses, scoliosis, and a recreational microscope, and whose Geek Squad-lookin’ ass was super into elves and dwarves and all that lame-ass shit. Tolkien reportedly didn’t even like any of that fantasy garbage and preferred to write about cool shit like warplanes and blowjobs.

When Tolkien died, police found his body beneath a goblin who was trying to do CPR on him: Tolkien, who died in 1973, was found unresponsive in his house in Bournemouth, U.K. beneath a frantic goblin who was standing over his body pounding Tolkien’s chest with its stubby paws and attempting mouth-to-mouth between panicked screams. Tolkien, who at that point had been dead for over 72 hours, was unresponsive, but the goblin persisted with the chest compressions until authorities forcibly removed the famed author’s corpse. Had authorities waited any longer to enter Tolkien’s property, the goblin likely would have become hungry and eaten him for sustenance.

The LOTR trilogy was adapted into a popular early-2000s film series called The Magical Adventure Buddies: Loosely adapted from Tolkien’s works, the three-part film series, helmed by director Peter Jackson, smashed box-office records with titles The Magical Adventure Buddies Score Some Radical Treasure (2001), The Magical Adventure Buddies Take New York (2002), and The Magical Adventure Buddies And The Runaway Genie (2003). The outrageous, party-hard antics of protagonist Frodo McAwesome and his ragtag gang of enchanted misfits succeeded in introducing a whole new generation to Tolkien’s works, which otherwise would’ve faded into obscurity.

anonymous asked:

Once I went to fantasy Costco at night and I saw the Costco cryer. I started crying too, because seeing other people sad makes me sad, and the cryptid waved me over to it. I didn't see it's face but it hugged me. I left when it stopped hugging me and I'm pretty sure the staff was scared because I walked in, basically disappeared for 4 minutes, and came back crying. Wild times on the moon amiright -B the Intern

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Turning 50 Means Finally Accepting That You’ll Probably Never Be Activated As An Unstoppable Rogue Agent

This year, I turned 50 years old. As I celebrated with friends, family, and my incredible children, I found myself reflecting on my past and considering my future, the choices I’d made and the roads not taken. And in closing that chapter of my life, I realized something important: Turning 50 means finally accepting that you’ll probably never be activated as an unstoppable rogue agent.

And you know what? That’s okay.

As a young man entering adulthood, I remember feeling like my potential was infinite. Would I be attacked at my stifling day job by masked men and somehow take them all out with just a staple gun? Black out watching TV and snap back into consciousness to find myself sprinting across the top of a bullet train? Would I pick up the phone one day, hear a voice rasp “Virgo Rising,” and suddenly remember all 71 of my confirmed kills as an asset of the Erebus Foundation? It seemed like a matter of time before the world would take note of my talents and give me my due, or send the very protégé I’d trained to liquidate me once and for all.

But growing older meant facing reality, bit by bit trading the lives I’d imagined for the life I was actually living. Every time I checked my balance at an ATM without a conditioning-activating trigger word flashing across the screen was a reminder that ambition had its limits. Every time I was mugged without me effortlessly snapping the thief’s wrist with reflexes I never knew I had, I had to acknowledge that it probably wouldn’t happen the next time, either. And as my body got stiffer and my mind more stubborn, the prospect of discovering a cache of fake passports and experimental handguns behind a false panel in my freezer began to seem, more than anything, like a hassle.

As time goes on, though, you come to realize that living the life you’ve built is more than a fair trade for never putting a bullet between the eyes of the Russian scientist who made you a living weapon. It turns out those youthful fantasies of fame, glory, and an entire control room realizing they’ve tracked your signal to their own building just can’t compare to the joy of your daughter’s laughter, or the satisfaction of a hard-won promotion. And while I may never kiss the only woman who claims to know everything they took from me, our knives at each other’s throats, I still get to wake up every morning next to my wife of 25 years, who is just as beautiful as the day I met her.

I’ve made a lot of memories in my 50 years, and while they may not have huge, unaccountable gaps triggered by a Frank Sinatra song, they’re mine, and I cherish them. Of course, I’ve considered the possibility that my whole easygoing-family-man identity is an implanted persona with false memories, a reward for years of bloody loyalty to the Ghost State. But until a council member attempts a coup and sends a Seraph squad of my own clones after me to clean up loose ends, what difference does it really make?

Now that I’ve made peace with my first 50 years, I can look forward to the next 50 without bitterness over never waking up speaking Mandarin or writing in Cyrillic without even realizing it. I’m sure life’s still got surprises up its sleeve for me, and even if my hidden past never destroys my hope for a future, I can’t wait to see what they are.