Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Slytherin is BAD.















Dear Harry,

I am bludgeoning down our austere wall of the fourth to issue the following bequest:

As you well know, I am a Slytherin.  Innumerable Facebook, Quizzilla, and officially licensed Warner Brothers online quizzes have told me so, thus, it must be true.

So, when I ventured forth from my cave-like dwelling to brave a second opening weekend viewing of your most recent film, I made sure to put my best Slytherin foot forward.  Draped in elegant fabrics of silver and green, each carefully placed jewel, bauble, and crest all seemed to breathe, like the delicate panting of an over-worked house elf, "I'm better than you."

Mission accomplished.

As I settled down into my only mildly offensive movie theater chair, I sat in an amicable silence, pondering the shame Matthew Perry must feel now that he is no longer the answer to nearly every single pre-movie trivia question.  My reverie was brutally interrupted by the manic shrieking of two humanoid creatures (Muggles, most likely), bounding up the aisle with all of the grace of your vile friend Hagrid, after he has been gagged, bound, and intravenously injected with the sweaty combination of mead, fire whiskey, and heroin.



The two creatures seemed eager to hurl themselves into the two empty seats to my left, but for some reason, they stopped short.  The first creature, upon examining my Slytherin finery, craned her neck around to peer back at her companion.  And, in a voice so shrill even banshees would marvel at its libretto, the creature declared, "We can't sit here! She's in SLYTHERIN."

As the second creature looked on in horror, I finally came to realize I was the one these two fiendish Gryffindors found to be so reprehensible.  In my mind, I issued a retort so staggeringly witty, so shrewd, and so scathing, Shakespeare himself would have wept at the adept craftsmanship of my comeuppance.

In truth, however, I was magnificently drunk. (I find it best, dear Harry, to witness your trials whilst respectfully inebriated, so as any sympathy pains I might experience can easily be dismissed as a bout of my own impressive self-loathing.)  So there I sat, simply marveling at these two beasts bred of the noblest of bigotries, not uttering a word.

Finally, the second creature agreed with her comrade, in what could only be described as a tone as serious as Severus on his 600th day of mourning the death of Ian Curtis, "Yeah.  We still LIKE Harry."

Being that I am a blond-haired, blue-eyed Caucasian girl in her twenties, I am no stranger to mindless discrimination.  But these comments struck me in such a way that only a rare breed of douche-baggery can.  Finally, my words found me.  My lips couched within a contemptuous sneer that only the wealthiest of rich bastards, Draco Malfoy himself, could begin to appreciate, I offered my reply: "So... don't sit here."

Clearly unnerved that their abrasiveness could actually be heard and experienced by the rest of the unfortunate world around them, the two creatures stomped off into the darkness, and I was once again, left alone with my thoughts to ponder the absence of Matthew Perry's acting career.

So, dear Harry, now that this brief bit of history has been explained, I will leave you with my simple plea:

TELL YOUR GODDAMN GRYFFINDOR FRIENDS TO CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

I humbly await your response.

With love and fire whiskey,
Ashley Rae

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