So this is Elf Land, I thought as I looked around. It was not what I expected. Certainly there were no happy little elves in workshops making toys for Santa Claus, nor were they making ballet shoes for penniless cobblers. Still less was Elrond rushing to meet us and usher us to Rivendell. No one joyfully singing Tra-la-la-la-lallay, come into the valley.

“Where are the lollipop trees and lemonade springs?” I said to my guide.

“That’s the big rock candy mountain you’re thinking of,” he sneered, his malevolent eye staring at me.

Somehow, I couldn’t help think he was not entirely trustworthy. But what are you going to do? You meet a worn old man that offers to show you the way to Elf Land, it’s not like you can say, “No thanks, dude.” This is adventure; real adventure. Like Scooby-Doo adventure. You can’t turn that down.

I did start to ask him about how he knew where Elf Land was and if he was trustworthy, but then he made clucking noises; chicken. No one calls me chicken.  So sure, I said, lead the way. I’m the bravest of the brave and the hardest of the hard.

To be fair, I’ve been searching for Elf Land for a while. So really, what’s the harm in following the warty old dude? What the worst of the worst that could happen? Not find it? Except I’m pretty sure this was the real deal. It’s not like there was a big sign saying WELCOME TO ELFLAND or anything, but somehow it just felt sort of elfie.

Anyway, I’m not sure I really was welcome. I rode the old mare along the way, following the old dude, and at some point I realised I was not in Kansas anymore. Not that I’m from Kansas. I’m not some backwards inbred.

Elf Land was hot, too hot to be wearing armour, and I so wanted to scratch my bits. That’s the thing about being a knight: the gear is heavy. It’s like going around with a trash can wrapped around you. Armour, shield, helmet, lance, sword, mace, truncheon, horn, pennant; I felt a touch of pity for the old mare that had to take it all.

So anyway, Elf Land is a bit bleak, hot, and dusty, maybe not so unlike Kansas. The old fellow stopped and pointed down the road.

“This is as far as I come,” he said. “I ain’t going in there. Them Elves is crazy like.”

“Come on, old dude,” I said. “I’ll protect you. That’s what us knights do. Ravish fair maids, save old dudes. Kill dragons.”

“Isn’t it ‘rescue fair maids?’” the horribly disfigured creature asked.

“Are you questioning my knightly training?” I asked. “I don’t see you wearing armour and looking like Heath Ledger.”

“No, no, sir,” said the snivelling peasant, touching his forelock. A forelock is the hair on the front of your head, by the way, so stop laughing, that’s not what it means.

“You promised to show me the way,” I said.

“No, I never,” lied the ugly, deformed monstrosity.

I started making chicken noises, but it seemed to have no effect on the cowardly, frail, old man.

“Either come with me or I’ll have to kill you,” I decided, magnanimously giving the old codger a choice.

“I’m not coming,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” I said. And then I brained him with my morning star. The old liar fell down dead.

Well, there was nothing else for it, on we go, me and the old mare.

The land was filled with weeds, cockle, and spurge. Here and there we met an elf or elf maid going about their business. They would look up with dull, elvish eyes and point down the road. You could tell they were elves because they had pointy ears like Mr. Spock and lots of little sharp teeth in their mouths. I’m not sure what they were up to in the fields and I didn’t really care. They could have been ploughing or hoeing or scattering seed or getting timber. While they were at it, they sang an elfish song; I say “song” but it was more like rhythmic grunting. What did I care? I was here to conquer the land and make it mine. I really only had business with the Elf King; the chopping of heads kind of business. When I got my hands ‘round the Chief Elf, I was going to rip its head off. None of the elves and elf maids spoke to me, which was cool since I don’t speak Elvish. When I spoke to them, I shouted as loud as I could to help them understand.

“Where is Elf Hame?” I shouted, and they would point down the road. See? If you shout loud enough, people do understand you no matter what language they speak.

In the distance, I could see the Dark Tower. That must be where the Elf Lord stayed. So I rode that mare as hard as I could to the tower. The tower was huge. It was the biggest tower ever. It was taller than it looked on account of it being very wide. The tower was wide and tall. The tower was on the 76th percentile. I know that because I measured it out. I know you all have measured your towers, too. Remember guys, it’s not the length of your tower—or the width—but what you build with it.

The tower leant a bit to one side, but that was cool; after all, we call it the Leaning Tower of Pisa, not the Drooping Tower of Pisa. The tower was on the 82nd percentile for width. That’s why they called me “Stumpy” in knight school.

Anyhow, I get to the tower and there’s all these bones lying about the place. I guess that this is from the brave knights that came here before me but didn’t manage to conquer the tower. I wondered if there was anyone I knew. There were a lot of bones. Big bones, little bones, soft bones, hard bones; there were bones of all shapes and sizes. Some bones were straight and some bones were bent and curved. Some of the bones were sharp and pointed and other bones had knobbly bits on the end. I wondered then what my bones would be like.

Let’s get to it, I thought, and got my horn. I grabbed the horn and gave it a great big blow. I blew and I blew and blew. Then I took my gigantic battering ram and smashed it against the gates until they flew open wide and let me in.

At first, nothing happened, but then there came a sort of rumbling sound, and this humongous guy came out storming and roaring and ready to go at it. Well, I‘m not scared of a guy, no matter how humongous he is. I can take them all. I’m completely ready to go at it. I give my horn another blow and then whip out my lance and drive forward.

The one-eyed monster roars, and in his open mouth, I see a great tusk, the biggest tusk I have ever seen. The Elf King’s long, pink tongue licks his tusk.

I thrust my lance into the monster again and again and again. I take my club and beat it mercilessly. The Elf Lord grabs my lance and jerks it back and forth. The monster grabs my head and swings me ‘round. I drop my lance and draw my sword and stab it into the elf. I push it in deeper and deeper. The blade slides in easy, but then it is wrenched out of my hand. The giant grabs me and opens its mouth. A great glistening chasm opens before me. I take my dagger and push it deeper and deeper until my fists are covered with blood and mucus and some white spittle that smells of rotting vegetables. The elf convulses in an orgasm of pain and I push ever deeper until, in one last spasm, he expires.

The old king falls to the ground and I rip off his helmet. For a moment, I look at the one-eyed monster and wonder why it looks so familiar, but then I push the fallen crown onto my head, a ring of rusty gold. Then I decapitate the beast.

All hail the new king. The gates of Elf Hame stand open, spread wide for me to enter. I stride in and ascend to the throne. Job done.

Now that I am king, all the elves obey my every wish. So of course, there is an endless supply of maidens to torture and maim and force my attentions on.

Sounds cool, huh? But it’s not all it’s cracked out to be. I keep the old king’s head on a pole and somehow it seems that it looks more and more familiar. I’m not sure if the head is getting more like me, or if I’m getting more like the head on the pole. And it’s dull, all this wicked tyrant monster stuff. It’s like being stuck in an endless loop of Fifty Shades of Grey with better dialogue. I mean if all that sadomasochistic shit is your thing, knock yourself out. But it’s all so repetitive and slightly ludicrous. Take bondage: it’s okay for a bit, but then you find yourself obsessing about reef knots and stuff. It’s like being in the Boy Scouts. I hated the Scouts. And to be honest, most of all this porn stuff takes itself too seriously. There’s not a lot of laughs in there. I guess if I were a porn star, I wouldn’t be too happy if the girls started laughing when I whipped my stuff out. But come on! It’s so boring? Yeah, this was no good. If I stayed here doing the same thing, I’d end up like my dad.

I thought long and hard about what to do next and it was clear there was only one thing I could do. I took my chopper and chopped the tower down.

Dude, what are you doing, you just chopped your tower off! I can hear you screaming.

No, no, I didn’t. It’s a symbolic tower, not a real one. Don’t you get it? The tower is just a symbol, not real. It’s about making your tower the centre of the universe, the ruler of your subconscious. It’s about worshiping your own tower. Chop it down.

Don’t worship your dick, it’s not that big a deal, no matter what percentile you’re on. Take Saint Olav, for example. You do know about that, don’t you? Well, don’t worry: every day’s a school day. St. Olav was the first Christian king of Norway. He visited these dudes that were pure pagans and worshiped a horse’s dick, a sort of Thor’s Hammer. Every night after dinner, they’d get this horse dick that they had dried and said prayers to it. I know it sounds weird, but it’s not that weird. The king goes ‘round to their house and has dinner, then they get the horse dick out and start saying pagan prayers to it. St. Olav’s not having this, so he takes the horse penis and feeds it to the dog. Basically, that’s what I’m saying: if you’re worshiping a cock, then feed it to the dog. Let it go. It’s just a penis. Everyone has one; almost. At least half of us have one. It’s no big deal.

So that’s what I did: I let go of my cock and rode out of there. In the distance, I could see two huge mountains, two gigantic hills, two great big swelling mounds.

Once I got there, I came across a fountain of milk and honey. How cool was that? And there were all these really hot babes cavorting in the fountain. They were all candidates for Miss Wet T-Shirt. So of course, when they shouted me over, I slipped off the horse, slipped off my crusty old armour, and dived right in. What can I say? I could say a lot, but I’m not going to. You want me to paint a picture?

Anyway, my point is this: you don’t have to metaphorically murder your dad for permission to get a stiffy. Cut off your dick and get in touch with your feminine side, or better yet, get in touch with someone else’s feminine side. You won’t regret it.

I fell asleep and started to dream. It was real weird. I can’t remember it all, but it had something to do with a dragon in a cave and a fountain of blood.