A Letter to Gandolf

gandalf-reading

Dear Gandolf,

Let me begin by establishing my complete recognition of the fact that you are an entirely fictional character. You’ll find, Gandolf, that something of this nature is hardly a deterrent where I am concerned. If you can help me than this small snag in our inevitable relationship will be of no consequence. The last I heard you had set sail for the White Havens, so I am addressing this letter to you assuming that is still your residence. I do not know where that is so I hope that the postage applied will be sufficient to see this document safely into the wisest of hands- yours. I also worry that you have once again changed colors on us and this letter will fail to find you, as my letter to Prince years ago.
I am familiar with a few of your adventures and the role you played in them. For the most part it seems you talk big but let other people do the work. Please take no offense, this is just my observation and I am unaware of the work you may or may not do behind the scenes. It seems you trade in information, and it is information that I am now in need of.

I hope that despite the caliber of the experiences that are yours you can find my story of some interest. Now, let me describe to you the nature of my problem.
It would be counter productive to ask your help if I did not start at the beginning of my tale. As with a great many narratives mine begins in the bedroom. However, I do not believe that my father would appreciate me giving an account of the occasion. Besides, I am sure he is the only one that could do the story justice. So we shall skip that, and my birth, and move directly to the portion of my tale that bears weight on the current situation.
It began last month. It was innocent at first, but it has grown wildly out of my control. I am not one to wear jewelry of any kind, and maybe that is the root of my current problem: namely my ignorance on the subject of the proper way to wear these shiny accessories. Before now I was cynical when it came to the subject of dangerous jewelry.

Had I been Frodo, and you had told me that my ring had an evil and destructive nature that would consume my life, I would have laughed at you. I would have sooner believed that my shoelaces would revolt against my tyrannical bow tying policies and strangle me in my sleep. Now, my dear wizard, you may count me as a believer. If you told me my underwear would tire of my dribbling and cut off the circulation to my legs I would strip them from my beautifully tanned and sculpted thighs and buttocks right now.
You may rest assured of one thing; I will never buy a box of cracker jacks again. I, like Frodo, have happened upon an evil and destructive ring in the most unlikely of places. I took my prize from the box and without any thought of potential danger I slipped it onto my finger. I have used all sorts of lubricants and oils, of which I have many, but to no avail. I have been to countless jewel smiths, but they, like me, are unable to get the damn thing off of my finger. I write to you, dear Gandolf, in all urgency. One of the fingers that I am now typing with has turned a nasty shade of purple and because of the swelling I often press several keys instead of just the desired one. Help me please! I beg an urgent response if not your personal appearance.

Your friend in need,

Mitchell Inkley