In 1964, a mysterious Klingon visited Tolkien. Or so it would seem. "I am QuH'hKtQvHgg'Q", he introduced himself.

"No, you are not", analyzed Tolkien. "You are my neighbour Bob Potatoshire. Your forehead just became wrinkled from excessive frowning."

"You are correct! But how could that have happened?" the man shouted, flabbergasted.

"You have read too much Harry Potter", deduced Tolkien sharply. "That makes everyone frown. Let my wife Edith iron your forehead, and you will be back to normal in no time."

And so it happened. The ironing hurt horribly, but as he had indeed read Harry Potter, Bob Potatoshire deserved it. He went home happily.

"Your powers of deduction are so awesome!" swooned Sherlock Holmes, who had been watching the whole scene. "Allow me to be your doormat!" And he fell down flat on his face in front of the Tolkiens' main door.