Somewhere in my Elsewhere in the Middle of Nowhere on the ever-revolving world of Over Yonder, right over There, Harry Potter, The Boi Who Lived(but didn't get laid), The Chosen One, Lord Voldy-poo'z

Successor, sits, diabolically. No, he's not doing anything. He's merely sitting. Diabolically. 'Cuz he's all evul and stuff.

Meanwhile, in Squaresville, Gondor's Finest are sleeping off all the caffeine they drank, Kurt Cobain is jamming/angsting it up with Jimi Hendrix over at the Café Wha? and Neo and Anakin are gamboling in Vegas. Basically, no one's partying, getting laid, getting stoned, or chuggin' booze. This is actually a good thing, since at least the latter two really are not good. But still, Harry Potter and the author have nothing better to do, so they decide that a party must be had, with only the cool people invited. It doesn't actually cross the boy's mind that he may as well write himself off the guest list before he does anything else. Ah well, this isn't just going to be a party anyway, it will be the chance Harry needs to prove that he is the true Chosen One, so he must invite Ani and Neo. Since it's a special-wecial occasion, Harry will also need to learn French, because he's heard that women dig French people(and just about anyone with a cute accent who's not American), and he actually would like some action. So, he begins to write out the guest list. Then he does all that stuff that people do when they throw a hoe down. Er, have a party. After some debate between himself and the face on the back of his head, Harry decides to have the doohickey at Hogwarts, since, like, he can do that...um, among other things.

"Say..."

"What?" says Harry, annoyed at being interrupted.

"Why the fuck do you have BLUE eyes? Aren't they supposed to be green? Because they were in the BOOK."

"No! Shut up!" Harry seems rather...agitated.."I am not!"..yes you are..."AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!111 IT'S NOT MY FAULT, IT'S THE #$&& DIRECTOR'S FAULT!111111111"

And thus, the invites are sent out, the teachers and other such staff members(snort) are locked up in some broom closets, and people prepare their spandex suits.

BUT. Harry, being stupid, forgot all about the music stuff, as in, what the hell are people supposed to freakin' dance to! It's not like they can dance to mudbloods twangin' the rubber bands on their braces or something. This Kid Who Lived, being rather desperate this close to the day of the party, calls up some formerly dead rockers: The God of the Guitar, The Hippie Pop Rocker, and The Lovable Blond Angst-Muffin. Yes, that's right, this party will be rocked off by none other than Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, and Kurt Cobain, due to the author's manic obsession(hah, "manic depression," snerk) with dead rockers! W00t!1

Suddenly, Harry begins a wild, erotic dance, and the song "Maniac" (a one-hit wonder) begins to play, only this time it's Barry White singing, his sexeh deep voice resounding off the walls of wheresoever Harry might be at this inconceivable space in time.

"EWHATTHEHELLISGOIN'ONINHEAH!1" Harry screeches, his voice at once like nails on a chalkboard and a deep well.

What? Oh, sorry. The author stops huffin' stuff and gets back to the story. Whatever that is.

Munch munch..

MUNCHIES!1

No, seriously, the author isn't on crack, for rizzle. S/he's actually just crazy like that. Peace.

Righto, Harry likes to get phonkay, so he majicks time into speeding up to the day of le party/badass showdown. He stands like a dork in the doorway to Hogwarts, greeting the guests because he was dumb and forgot to hire a freakin' doorman. Jeezus. Which reminds, him, Harry ties a string to his finger so he won't forget to take down that autographed picture of Satan hangin' over his bed. Honestly, Harry didn't need more reasons to be considered Satanistic. Or Satan's Homeboi. Or something. Yeah..

The Three Formerly Dead Roxorz, as they call themselves, are standing on the piece-o'-crap stage, arguing sexily about who's playin' what instrument. Johnny's pretty chillax, but Jimi and Kurt have, ahem, "authority issues," and thus feel the need to be like, cool and stuff. 'Cause they're cool like that. Anywayz, they also don't know what music to play, at least until the author tells 'em to quit their bitchin' and just take requests. They quail at such awesome authoritah.

Some randomly adrogynous person walks up and requests "Shake Ya Ass," by Mystikal, and is immediately rebuffed. The author doesn't like that song much anyway, so it's all good. Someone else wants to hear some Mozart, but they're a dork, so whatever. Miscellaneous other people come up requesting music, but they're all turned away because their requests are like, omg, totally lame. Then a small, winged little adrogynous child floats down in a purple haze, and asks softly for "All Along The Watchtower." The Three Formerly Dead Roxorz are in such sublime awe, they immediately begin playing, Jimi on guitar, John on bass, and Kurt on de drums. Dig it, man.

By this point the party is rather well advanced, and Harry is practically clawing his panties off because the other two Chosen Ones have not yet arrived, and also because some wonky people have started to moonwalk. Which is just wrong. Unless you're like, on crack or something. Yea.

Suddenly, there is a hoo-mungus 'splosion, and everyone is thrown around, only to land in compromising and/or promiscuous and/or vaguely erotic positions.

Harry leaps up, and, with ridiculously melodramatic hand gestures, starts yelling obscene curses, because he ended up sprawled on Kurt's face. Even though many of us would probably give our left fallopian tube and/or testicle to be sprawled on Kurt Cobain's face in that way, Harry's just being, like, pissy and stuff.

So yeah, the 'splosion. It's Oscar Wilde! He immediately captivates all the dazed party guests with his witty and flamboyant personality, because he's just hot and cool like that.

However, his witticisms and flamingly-gay-and-lovable quirks will have to wait, 'cause the whole big-ass room gets enveloped in a mauve haze. Yea, that's right. MAUVE. Not purple. MAUVE. You know you fear it.

But you don't get to find out who has come a-knockin' in smexeh leathah boots. At least not yet. XD

BWA-HA-HA...

the term "angst-muffin" being the invention, not of the author, but of a friend of the author. Peace.