"In a hole up in tha ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled wit tha endz of worms n' a oozy smell, nor yet a thugged-out dry, bare, sandy hole wit not a god damn thang up in it ta sit down on and ta eat: it was a hobbit-hole, n' dat means comfort.
It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, wit a shiny yellow brass knob up in tha exact middle. Da door opened on ta a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a straight-up laid back tunnel without smoke, wit panelled walls, n' floors tiled n' carpeted, provided wit polished chairs, n' fuckin shitloadz n' fuckin shitloadz of pegs fo' basebizzle caps n' coats, tha hobbit was fond of visitors. Da tunnel wound on n' on, goin fairly but not like straight tha eff into tha side of tha hill. Da Hill, as all tha gangstas fo' nuff milez round called it n' nuff lil round doors opened outta it, first on one side n' then on another. No goin upstairs fo' tha hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lotz of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted ta clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all was on tha same stupid-ass floor, n' indeed on tha same stupid-ass passage. Da dopest rooms was all on tha left-hand side (goin in), fo' these was tha only ones ta have windows, deep-set round windows lookin over his stupid-ass garden, n' meadows beyond, slopin down ta tha river.
- J. R. R. Tolkien, Da Hobbit