Originally written in 2005 for the Toilanddrouble 'article of clothing' challenge. Definitely qualifies as crackfic.
“Aw, quit the bellyachin’,” said the bathrobe.
“But he dropped me, on the floor,” wailed the waistcoat.
“I’m wrinkled. And I think I may have spotted.”
“You’ll be washed and ironed, same as the rest of us,” the bathrobe pointed out.
“But I’m made of the finest imported silk- I can’t be washed. Oh, what’s the use of trying to explain to a bathrobe,” it added bitterly.
“Here now, are you insultin’ me, weskit?”
“It’s waistcoat, not weskit, you cretin.”
“Well, pardon me, your highness. But seems to me the only ones got a right to complain around here are the nightshirts. They ain’t been worn in months, not since that gardener fellow moved in.”
“Pfft. Nightshirts. They’re only made of lawn. I’m made of-“
“The finest imported silk, yeah, yeah. Now stow it, would you? Some of us would like to nap. We’ll be needed in the morning.”
“Someday you’ll be torn up into rags, you- you- hunk of wool.”
“Sticks and stones,” the bathrobe said, yawning.
“Sam, did you hear that?” Frodo asked sleepily.
“Nay, my dear.”
“Funny, I thought I heard voices arguing.”
“Now who’d be arguing, love- the clothes? Go back to sleep.”