When I was a lad in college, we had an assignment that went over very well. We were to take a few sentences from one author and rewrite them in the style of another. It taught us something about the nature of composition or some such. Here's an example, and I beg the denizens of this fine community to contribute.

JRR Tolkien as written by Hunter S. Thompson, from The Hobbit

Gandalf moved over the hill, his nerves at the breaking point, dreading the final confrontation with the lightweight hobbit who had too much power over him. "Good morning," he said, feeling the scratch of too many vodka martinis finally catching up with him.

Bilbo was a low-rent punk...living on the edge since he was old enough to walk. He'd been up all night drinking Singapore slings with the Gamgees, and his eyeballs felt like twin beavers about ready to build a dam between his ears. "Good morning," he said, stuffing his pipe again, grasping at straws to calm him down, wondering whether the Gamgee boy had run off with his twenty dollars.

The old wizard swatted absently at a hallucination, trying his damnedest to focus on the diminutive little prick who'd probably been out all night buggering the local schoolchildren. "Look," he said, "pay attention. This is important. I need you to go over these mountains, see, and do something about this dragon. He's a dragon for fuck's sake. Been tormenting the land about the mountain for years; time he cashed his check. Are you willing? Have you got the nerves?"

Bilbo's first sane thought was, what's in it for me? But his inborn greed and instinct for self-preservation won out, coupled with delirious dreams of what might be if he winged it across desert miles with an expense account and a wizard in his pocket. He said, "You'll provide the dwarves, of course. And I'll need mescaline, lots of it...."