On Halloween, Ron walked down the hallway. He walked into a big person and fell down. The big person was Goyle. Goyle got angry and muffin pieces flew out of his mouth like a stupid fat person.
"You got cream on me you stupid SLYTHERIN" Ron shouted. Goyle sputtered icing out of his fat mouth.
"Shut up you dumbhead!" he excreted.
Goyle fell over from the weight of his empty skull and then the idiot fell asleep. Ron wept. The imbecile was so stupid! And fat! God was he a mo-ron!!!!
The next day Ron walked down the steps in his pajamas, his hair askew. Goyle was standing at the bottom of those very ledgy things. Ron went up to him and shoved him.
"What are you doing here!"
"I'm here to settle this here matter!" Goyle kicked a chair. Hermione screamed from atop the fireplace's mantle, where her flowing blonde hair was rustling gently in the wind.
Goyle punched her in her fat face! Hermione screamed and Ron screamed louder. Goyle lashed out in fear and anger.
Hermione slapped Goyle hard across his ugly, fat, fugly-ugly, mugly
mug. Goyle bounced backward against the yellow-stone wall and his
bacne poped in a revolting collective explosion of bloody, stinky
brown puss. Ron puked. Then, Hermione puked. Goyle cried in shame
like a wounded rhinoceros. He remembered the obese, homely Ravenclaw
girl who had let him touch her ta-tas, which until now had been his
biggest, most humiliating and pus-logged secret. He stared at the
violent violet vomit bedecking the green and brown faux-wood linoleum
tile floor. They all stared at each other in disgust and horror.
Goyle turned and walked off like a little pissy female bitch.
"What a pussy!" Ron called after him, scratching his drippy ballsack.
Hermione glared at him, her genderous race belittled.
"What a dirty tower," she thought to herself.
Ron looked at her again and began to speak: "That Goyle has such a
fine ass, but he's such a damn WOMAN!" Hermy gasped and Ron slapped
her across her spacious, furry, bumpy, bluish cheek. "Quiet,
cuntbag!" he screeched like a banshee forcing a hummus-filled balloon
up a lovely rosy baboon's behind.
"Whatever," Hermione pooped. "What's going on?"
Just then, Goyle reappeared with drama. He dramatically lept from
behind a statue onto Hermione's supple, lickable back.
"I HATE short people!" he screamscreeched, cupcake flying from his foaming maw.
Hermione's stoutness had finally kicked her to the ground. She
moaned in a manner similar to that of a dying closeted actor, popular
in the 1940's or perhaps a video star of the 1860's. Her love rod
burst in an explosion from her infested dockers. Her feces left her
anus in a flood and created a hole in the other side of those fetid
trousers. Ron watched, frozen in horror. His girlfriend cried and
shrieked as her bubbling, boiling cunt-cauldron was viciously
penetrated and sodomized by Goyle's stump of an arm. He snarked and
began pumping to and fro. Ron blushed as he realized he was
developing a raging erection.
Goyle backhanded Ron to make him stop staring at his fine, fine ass through his shredded dockers. Ron growled and puked all over Goyle in reckless abandon.
Hermione gasped and realized with relief that Dumbledore was approaching them, cock in hand. His manstick weighing on his groin like a weight, Dumbledore waddled into the disgusting, fluid covered room and let his urine run free from his bellybutton.
Goyle looked on in horror as his worst nightmare arrived in a purple velvet robe that reached just to his navel. He was also wearing a cockring. Goyle felt an erection tug at his external genitalia with the blush of a blushing bride.
Dumbledore's vinyl mid-thigh length chaps rubbed together at the femurs, making a sound not unlike a dying camel wearing a yellow knit thong in spring. Cracking his hip-joints, he thrust his pelvis back a couple of times and jiggled his old man funbags.
His nipples bruised easily, spurting blood as soon as he pinched and scratched at them with his cat-like claws and paws. He winced and poured salt into the wound erotically. Goyle was panting, and Ron and Hermione had already begun rubbing each other's cunts through their dockers-lable skirts while avidly witnessing the exhibit of aging flesh.
Goyle moaned as his high-heeled Ugg cleats filled with his own arousal. He felt the hairs on his legs float within their animal-fleece enclothed tombs. Dumbledore leaned back, leaned back, leaned back, and flung himself into the air to straddle the pink denim inflatable chair.
He began pumping and gyrating his slim hips up and down, left and right, to and fro, around and about like a young, homosexual boy band member. His sagging ass jiggled freely and the bat-cock in his hand twitched to the left each time his right foot hit the ground. The students were so horny they were in pain.
Hermione felt a rip in her liver erupt into a spewing avalanche of alcohol and bottle nipples. She continued to spank herself through her dockers skirt and she developed the fabric imprint on her face. Gyrating her knees to the sweet song Goyle sang as he fingered his fist. "Killing me softly with his SONNNNNNNG" Goyle shrieked in pacificity.
Ron became animalistically horny as he watched Hermione's display of feminine allure. His sperm-spitter was the hardest and widest and longest it had ever been; it was gurgling and puking up bits of precum and chunky tomato soup. Its size and strength were so impressive that it burst through his dockers skirt and hung between his legs like a sparkling slab of salami rubbed slick with olive oil and denture cream.
Dumbledore couldn't help but notice Ron's masculine stick of affection was wider than it was long. He wrapped his own tapioca hose around his neck and licked inside his nose. Mmmm.. reindeer flavor. Hermione flung her thigh-high four-inch heeled Ugg golf cleats around Goyle's feminine waist and bucked in an alluring display of passion much like that of a dwarf swimming across the Chunnel.
Ron's slimy chode became jealous and began to twitch and growl in a furious rage. It led him directly behind Hermione, whose nude form was busy humping Goyle's cockstick in wanton abandon. Ron stabbed Goyle in the heart with his pointy phallus, killing him instantly. Hermione turned to the orange-crotched Achilles and fell instantly to her knees. "I am yours," she stated. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled like the lubricated stained glass of an allegorical old testament scene in a Gothic cathedral in France, or something. His testicles slapped together in clap-like approval.
Pulling out a shiny shiny roll of duct tape, Ron applied a small square to the small of Hermione's back as a test-patch. Ripping it off, he noticed no irritation or allergic reaction so he applied the sticky pewter stickyness all over her mammoth-like back. Ripping it all off in one fell swoop like BatCockMan, his superhero alterego, he noticed that finally it was now only like a dense thicket. Smiling in the afterglow, Hermione moaned at the hair-removing pleasure that had just befallen her. She groaned and creamed Goyle's dockers-brand culottes.
Hermione shrieked in badger-like ecstacy.
Dumbledore was reminded of the Sorting Hat's near insistence in placing Hermione in Hufflepuff. Dumbledore had insisted. "It's all part of the great plan!" he said, cackling and stroking his beard like a criminally insane celebrity, a habit in which he only indulged in private.
"But she's such a bumbling idiot! She's so fat and socially imperceptive!". Dumbledore had one the dialogue, proving the interlocuter wrong by revealing the inconstancy of language.
"Rhetoric rocks," Dumbledore pondered as the hairs on his sagging testicles pringled in response to the sight of the pudgy-bodied Hermione plucking those off of Ron's tight, youthful gonads.
Goyle licked around Harry Potter's Huffleclaw boxer shorts thong combo. He carefully twisted them into the boy who lived's Hershey highway through his shit-covered dockers. Harry groaned like a mutant wildebeast with rabies upon spotting a particularly luscious creampuff, also known as Hermione. His baby meat taco filled with glue and he screamed "I AM HARRY FUCKING POTTER" at the same time Goyle yodled "I AM FUCKING HARRY POTTER"
Hermione turned her head slowly 'round to make sure the deluge of gooey, sticky, lucscious semen would completely coat her head of murd-covered brillo-pad hair. The holy rain ran through her hair making it dark and wet-looking and dripped onto her ample bosom, dripping down into a heart pattern encircling her tiny, bullet-like, dark brown nipples.
The four-inch extentsions off of her bazoombas quivered in delightful agony until they fell off and rolled down between the floorboards. Harry punched her face with her own foot and creamed his pantyhose. The entire scene was like a well-choreographed production of the Nutcracker on Broadway.
Hermione began peeping like a small, freshly-hatched chick as she climaxed, massaging twelve layers each of semen, tomato soup and liquid feces deep into her white, flakey scalp. The gashes left where her nipples had once jut out like fell trees were sensitive to the point of pain, and the white-hot pokers that her headmaster was jamming into these gashes intensified the zenith.
Dumbledore Pokerhands, as he was called in high school, continued poking Shithead's nipple holes while gearing up to "finger" The Chosen One's nasal cavity. His juicy stem beam bobbed of it's own accord, knocking over pink phallic lamps and erotic tapestries depicting goblin and houselves going at it.
Goyle latched onto Dumbledore's hairy camel-schlong with his suction-cup buttcheeks and rode it like a horny filippina cowgirl. Dumbledore giggled and blushed, eyelashes fluttering like buttery fatterflies, flashing his eyes like a doe on ecstacy. He liked it. He really liked it! Goyle squeezed his tube of toothpaste-flavored Crisco between his nether-cheeks and began to work Dumbledore's magenta-colored cunt-ram within his boy-crack. The zits and boils that lined his bacteria-laden lichen-zone pooped one by one, adding to the creamy, corpulent pus-lotion that slicked and streamlined Dumbledore's miniature wild hog. It burned.
It burned so good! His polluted canal exploded in tepid eruptions of pleasure, grazing up to his greasy, trendily-coiffed mucky-urine colored tresses down to his greasy, trendily-painted mucky urine-colored toe nails. He bit down hard on Ron's flabby inner thigh which lay before him like a virgin on a hill of roses that were actually flaming spears.
Ron whimpered and lumpy, beef-pudding-colored cum dribbled out of his piss-hole. Hermione gobbled it up greedily, like a naughty little badger. Dumbledore almost reverted back to his chin-stroking pleasure-pose before being "sucked" back into reality by the gentle tugging of Goyle's asscheeks on his cock. He spooged, the tar-black licorice pudding spraying and coating the entire room. It was pitch black.
The Pitch-Black blackies burst forth from the erotic tapestry depicting a goblin and a houself going at it. They smothered UglyBitch's cream-shooting joystick and soon it was dirtier than Harry's forty-seven cavities. They continued until they found the safety of Goyle's midnight pleasure hole.
Everyone followed them in, settling down and lighting a fire for camp. "This is where we'll have to spend the night," said Frodo. They all fell asleep, gentle as the Virgin Mary.
Goyle cried in loneliness. He was more alone than when he was with his friend Mr. Paint on Goyle's Hand. He burped like a card-dealing coke-addicted ragamuffin as he felt Gandalf kick his duodenum. Those pointy-toed Uggs were a bitch to feel in the duodenal region. Inside the bowels of the Slytherin, Harry set himself on fire to amuse his unattractive compatriots. No one cared and he died.
Ron slowly walked over to his body and tickled it fervently. Harry's body turned pinkish blue at his ministrations. Hermione joined in until Harry began to giggle and snort in response. Dumbledore sat down on top of his boy-bits and beagn to grind like a video ho.
Gangster bro Kingsley Zissou dangled his meaty pussy lips and sang a little ditty about Jack and Diane. HermioFuckFace wondered about her first girlfriend, well, stalkee, Jenny, who changed her number. Her buttocks dragged along the rocky tile until the lacerations were so deep they required the special care of a cardiologist.
She was euthanized for the better chances of the group as a unit. They forded the river, taking careful care not to fall under the barrage of dry dirt, or was it nasty ugly bitch shit? that was filling the sky. They each called out a curse to the goddess of idiocy.
Harry started: "I am the boy who lived, great Achilles Alexander Potter III, and I have most hating feelings towards your hairy face! You are ugly!".
Ron joined in: "You are such a filthy slut, even your mother would not care about you!".
Dumbledore's two pence: "My role as headmaster of this school prevents me from freely expressing the intensity and depth of the hatred and disgust i harbor towards this revolting goddess of dumbness! May she remain forever under the boot of the Great Father Zeusor!".
Goyle: "Cupcakes!"
He reached down his throat and vomitted profusely. In his khaki dockers underoos he had found a vanilla cupcake! He ate it with the glee of a small child trying an ecstasy-crack combo for the first time. Meanwhile, Hermione slipped into a new pair of Dockers stirrup pants and gently fondled the sweet split of DJ Dumbledore's rear end.
A flashing pink lightbulb flew on in Ron's empty skull. He had a conversation starter! "I really like the uniforms this year." Dumbledore stared at him, his high-heeled ugg cleats twinkling like eyeballs and his black, wrinkle-resistant Dockers Kangaroo Pouch grew tight with pressure. He was getting another erection. Cockmaster Dumbledore was still just as fertile and virile as during his filthy, corpulent college days. Rock on!
"Let's go streaking!" he shrieked, his voice sounding a bit like Dakota Fanning's. Hermione burped like an arab.
Harry was quickly out of his lederhosen and onto the streets, stilettos clanking merrily. For a second he thought he saw his mother, Vold A. Mort, but it was only the supermodel Kate Moss. He lunged forward with the force of a leather daddy and screamed a primordial ooze. Ron clamped his arms to his groin and howled out of his asshole, squirting mustard all over Goyle's white ceremonial robe, made by dockers.
Kate Moss scoffed. "Fat whore," she hissed. She no longer had vocal chords. They had weighed on her throat like a weight; they weighed too much. "I like your fat clothes, though," she added thoughtfully, as if she hadn't also removed her own brains. Harry's tapioca blaster dribbled piss into Kate's mouth. "Mmm," she said. Harry's piss was calorie free.
Dumbledore's knees cajoled around KateyKate's neck, creating the same friction that a greased lightning does on a rotting floating tarmac. He collapsed, his old man ligaments and shit and shit just couldn't take it anymore. He had to get laid. Flinging Hermione down like dung on a carpet, he grew an extra toe, one twice as bony as the other seven he had, and shoved it into one of Hermione's more obvious facial pores.
Hermione was dead, so it didn't matter. "UNGH!" Dumbledore caw-cawed, glorious as an American bald eagle. "I'M GETTING LAID!". His toe nestled snugly in Hermione's facial pore, he then filled her left nostril with his fist, her cuticles with his pimples, her armpit with his armpit, and began working his random appendages to and fro in Hermione's orifices, slowly working up to orgasm. But before he could, Hermione respawned in the dungeon and Dumbledore was left unsatisfied. "What a wanker," Hermione said to herself and to the twelve rats and Snape that joined her in her dank, sticky, smelly, sweet bud of a respawning point. "Higgeldy Piggeldy."
Snape lept upon the deceased spawn of The Pope and Cher. And Justin Finch-Fletchley. Barbie sneezed in approval, plastic limbs cracking into pieces. Dumbledore was bleeding from the little piggy who had no roast beef because he'd forgotten the toenail in Hermione's eye socket. He slipped a couple of kangaroo pouches on his feet for arch support and lateral training.
Dissolving in the stomach acid, Professor McGonnorhea kicked his way out of Dumbledore's cavernous food landfill. Clawing through his green strapless vest dockers, she burst forth in a spray of garbage and meat pie. Her legs faltered like those of a skanky colt as she tried to make her way to its mother, but her femurs broke and she fell like a falling colt-like person.
Hermione laughed as her head of house groaned in abject pain. She daintily placed her finger unto her clitoris to collect some genital warts bacteria and then withdrew and began fisting McGonagall with the same hand. Her broken femurs dangled helplessly as she was impregnated by Hermione, contracting twelve different STDs. The walls of her birth canal split at the pressure and her cunt began to burst forth a flood of dark brown blood. Old people blood.
Harry, snarfing his chocolate cigarettes post-abortion, rubbed his own feet in autoerotic asphyxiation.
McGonagall died from bloodloss and Syphillis. It was a sad day for everyone. They cried together like whinnying donkeys on a number of illicit prostitutes. Together.
Together, they drew ponies in the sand. They, together, slept in a suitcase made of salmon shit. The salmon was fresh, seattle-grown, and full of omega 3 fatty acids.
And then they all suffocated.