A/N: Just a crazy, creepy parody of Half-Blood Prince. By the end of this, my goal is to have offended every ship, plotline, character, and plot device possible. Or just lightly mock…Or just ridiculous-ify it all. All in good fun, all in good fun. As for the rating, I just put M because I wasn't sure. I thought that language might push it up to M, but otherwise this seems like a T story to me.

Story got mysteriously deleted...repost.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, not me. The madness and creepiness are mostly mine though.

Spoilers: Half-Blood Prince. Obviously…

Summary: HBP parody Includes Oedipal king Harry, green bowler lust, a special edition of 'When Shippers Attack,' mysterious pineapple symbolism and the weirdest unbreakable vow ever.

Harry Potter and the Half-Baked Pineapple

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The Catfight at 10 Downing Street

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"Doo dee doo dee doo." The unnamed prime minister of a country that calls pants 'trousers' and copulating, 'shagging' hummed a little ditty as he shuffled important papers around on his imposing desk. He made a mental note to hire a new assistant named Weatherby. He didn't really know why. But this was just something that needed to be done.

While it may seem that the prime minister, or, let's call him "Barry" for lack of a better name, was in a good mood, he really wasn't. In fact, Barry was in such a bad mood, that if you had thrown a chicken at him, he might have ripped its head off on the spot. The humming was just his defense mechanism against chicken-ripping type thoughts. Really.

Lots of random shit had been happening lately. Important people murdered. Expensive bridges collapsing. A rather unfortunate incident involving the Queen Mary's Strip Joint and another man who couldn't be named (let's just call him Bradford). And all the swirly mist was just pissing him off. The little guy in that painting seemed to be moving, and Barry was pretty sure that he hadn't in fact, turned his office into a makeshift opium den. But he might have. He could never remember important things like that.

Now the guy in the painting was talking to him. "I'M NOT LISTENING!" Barry answered pointedly, while screwing his eyes shut, sticking his fingers in his ears and then humming some more. It really was quite a wonder that Barry was prime minister at all. His maturity showed no bounds.

Suddenly the fireplace filled with green flames and that Cornelius Fudge guy was spit onto the rug. Barry attempted to appear calm, collected and dryly sardonic. "Oh, if it isn't the Minister FOR Magic! I hope you enjoyed my fireplace. The flames are quite a pleasant green shade, aren't they?" Barry found that taking control of a situation was most easily accomplished through starting off the conversation, pretending to know stuff, and most of all, emphasizing random words. Random words.

Fudge was impressed by these tactical skills, he just didn't show it.

So anyway, Fudge started blathering about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, death eaters, Dumbledore, and…ooh, alliteration? Funny! Barry noticed a luxurious green bowler hat atop his desk. As Fudge kept yammering, he slowly inched his hand forward, until the hat lay in his grasp.

"Beautiful, beautiful bowler" he murmured, stroking the round cap. "Oh, Bradford." But no, he couldn't go there. The bowler sat placidly, yet Barry could sense the emerald-bright desire emanating from its surface.

Fudge stopped speaking, staring at Barry incredulously. "Were you even listening? The fate of the world is at stake, and you're…stroking my bowler!"

Barry clutched the hat to his chest possessively. "What, never been in love before?"

"I have a stick up my ass the size of Lucius Malfoy's cane. What do you think?" Uncomfortably, Fudge realized that there was an actual stick up his ass, and that it might actually be Lucius's cane. He was rather…indiscriminate with where he left that thing.

Without warning, Barry swiped all of the papers off of his desk in one dramatic movement. "That's it, bitch! Nobody comes in here and judges my love items! It's time for a smackdown, Prime Minister style!"

Forgetting magical superiority, Fudge leapt upon Barry with an unearthly shriek. Those two pulled out every move in the book. There was hair-pulling, foot-stomping, name-calling and a couple of purple nurples thrown in just for kicks. Oh, and there were kicks. Oh, were there kicks.

"Hat fondler!"

"Hat wearer!"

"Muggle hat fondler!"

"BRADFORD!"

Rufus Scrimgeour flooed in during the catfight of barely-concealed-sexual-tension. "What is this shit?" No one responded. The green bowler lay forgotten on the ground, and Rufus felt his eyes drawn to it. "Heh heh heh. I'll just be taking that." He slipped the bowler into his rather large pocket and loped back towards the fireplace, forgetting why he was there in the first place.

Meanwhile, the narrator, who is I, drifted away from the action. The tension might have been smokin' hot, but really, did anyone care? Mostly, everyone just wanted to hear about that damn Harry Pothead kid. What's so great about him? I've got a scar on my head from when I got hit by some shrapnel, and nobody thinks I'm so fucking special. If you think about it, the boy's actually damaged goods! Yeah, that's right. He's mentally unbalanced and his scar makes him look like a sissy boy.

But everybody kept whining about it. Is it my fault that the first chapter of this saga is unrelated to the boy wonder? Is it my fault that the next chapter will not be about him either? Is it my fault that random crap keeps happening, random crap that will never be discussed again and serves barely any purpose to this tale?

And if it's not about Pothead, it's about that Malfoy kid or Snivellus. Next, they'll be expecting me to wax poetic about the git's greasy hair and haunted eyes or harp on the ferret's reigning status as nonexistent sex god. I'm not a fucking Slytherin press agent!

It's third person omniscient, asshats. I can focus on whoever I want. Just because I have to fill a quota on Potter-related material doesn't mean that I can't focus on more important matters in addition to that. As narrator, I set the tone of this story too. What if I told you that every italicized word was a clue? Yeah, that's right. Go get a notebook and copy down all the italicized words. Run, fatty, run!

Oh shit. Look what you made me do! I've lost my train of thought. Actions happened that I can't transcribe because I DIDN'T SEE THEM HAPPEN. Now I'll never see how the fight was resolved. Might as well tell you what happened afterwards though.

Barry and Fudge ran away together to the Dominican Republic after bonding over the mutual loss of Bradford…I mean the bowler. It was actually the only thing that made sense. I mean, why else would no one even attempt to resolve the earlier death eaters, murder, blah-blah-blah bridge collapse thing? Oh well. Has anyone seen my green bowler?

And that's how you narrate a story. Unhh!

A/N: The last line was an Arrested Development shout-out, if you watch the show. In the future, I'm sure our lovely narrator will bitch less and transcribe events a little more. Next up, the whole Spinner's End deal. Sorry for the shortness of this chapter, the next one should be longer (I hope).

as always...Read & Review please!