Okay, let's do this.

First thing's first, I'd like to credit everything and everyone that went into the making of this chapter: two Beatles songs, two Veggietales songs, one Weird Al song, a pointless biology assignment, the Blue Extreme (our flag team) and flag camp, and of course... the two guys who got this whole thing started... should we mention them by name, Rachel?

Why not? They're so darn cute!

Haha… Smitty and Newman, thank you!

The bestest boys in the senior class, ladies and gentlemen!

Smitty is the drum major in our marching band, and Newman is a section leader, and they wrote this random spoof essay that inspired this whole thing. We included a couple parts of it…

Indeed!

Haha. Nice pole, boys. :snort:

I mean… uh… nice stick… wait… NICE HOE! dangit!

Nice... tool? No, that makes it even worse

Oh gosh :giggle fit:

Urgh. Allow me to explain… today in seventh hour they were carrying around some sort of weird... er... gardening utensil? Mainly just a long pole with some sort of pointy metal thing on the end. (Which, of course, caused a lot of unintentional pole/stick/hoe/tool jokes.)

And they were using it as a cattle prod. It was weird, but so totally them.

And this, kind readers, is why we love them.

Oh so much.

Okay, so seriously...haha… serious. Hehe, anyway… seriously, here's the chapter!

For history of magic, Sirius Black and James Potter have been assigned the task of writing a papper about a historical figure in the Wizarding World who has inspired their lives. Well, they think about this question. They sit pondering for a very long time. They think and they think, which is not something they normally do. Sirius thinks harder than he has ever thought before, straining until his brains almost burst out of his nose. James looks around the room, searching for inspiration. Something that requires this much thinking has got to be important. He asks Sirius for ideas, but Sirius merely mutters, "Crabalocker fishwife," and falls out of his chair. The stress is getting to him.

And, as he lies on the floor, an idea occurs to him. This stroke of genius could only mean one thing. This thing haunts the minds of professors, researchers, and scientists the world around. Only he stores the knowledge of those things in his head. It sits in his head like a canary on a willow branch. The canary calls to itself, "Self, I am a canary. I shall spread my butter of wings across the bread of the sky." This butter that the canary speaks of quenches the thirst of all who eat it. All who eat of the butter shall travel away on the hilltops of time to feast in the kitchen of eternity. In this kitchen they will open the ironclad chest of humanity and look down in it and say, "Hey look! I see fresh bacon!"

But that is beside the point. The point is, our dear Sirius has just had an epiphany. He knows who to write about. For he has heard tell of a little-known witch by the name of Eleanor Rigby.

Eleanor Rigby was a lonely woman. She lived in a house. Alone. With no one else. Some say she lived in a dream, some say she was crazy, some simply say she was a loner. She waited at the window, wearing the face she kept in a jar by the door. Did anybody ever stop and offer her a Prozak?

Well, she fell in love with a walrus named Francis Bakingham Woolingworth Edmond XXXVII. Francis enjoyed prancing around singing the My Little Pony theme song in his spare time. Francis's genetic material was a little bit out-of-whack, so he liked to buy shoes. He had very complex taste in shoes because he had large flippers. And a liver. Francis owned an organized shoe store. He was a master counterfeiter and reproduced dollar bills. His favorite pink tutu was a stimuli that got him up in the morning.

But, unfortunately, Francis did not return Eleanor's affections. Heartbroken, Eleanor gave up on life. She spent the rest of her days picking up rice in a church where weddings had been. She died in the church when she was maimed by a crazed demonic coconut. Her last word was, "DONUTS!"

Eleanor Rigby was buried by lonely old Father Mackenzie, who was very annoyed at having the darning of his socks interrupted. Nobody came to Eleanor's funeral, not even Francis, but when he learned of her death he was very shaken. He realized that he must do something with his life.

(Please note that at this point one Mr. Remus Lupin informs Sirius and James that they have misspelled the word "papper." Apparently, it should have only two P's instead of three. They pay no attention to this announcement, as James has just sat on a cornflake and Sirius is convinced it is a sign of the apocalypse. Besides, since when do they listen to what Remus says?)

Early one morning, Francis was sleeping when he was awoken by the sound of deafening rhythmic BANGS. Perplexed and annoyed, he opened his door and bellowed "WHAT THE HELL?" His question was quickly answered when he saw that there were three gay men playing bass drums, marching down his hall. The men were being followed by a team of ballet dancers who were screaming, "UH-HUH! THIS MY SHIT! ALL THE GIRLS STOMP YOUR FEET LIKE THIS!" Finding this slightly odd, Francis killed them all.

Now that he was awake, our friend Mr. Francis decided that he might as well get his day started. First he took a shower, because he was a very malodorous walrus, especially in the mornings. Not to mention he was covered in the gay men's blood. Next he decided to brush his hair. Don't ask how he could do this, as he has neither hair nor opposable thumbs. But soon he ran into a much larger problem: he had no hairbrush.

Now, this was even odder than those obnoxious musical intruders. He knew he had used his hairbrush only the day before. He wrapped himself in a towel and set out through his house in a fruitless search for his hairbrush. Feeling very anguished, Francis cried out:

"Oh, where is my hairbrush? Oh where is my hairbrush? Oh, where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where oh, where ... is my hairbrush?"

Having heard his cry, Father Mackenzie entered the scene. Shocked and slightly embarrassed at the sight of Francis in a towel, Father Mackenzie regained his composure and reported:

"I think I saw a hairbrush back there!"

Now very much heartened, Francis sang out with every fiber of his flabby being:

"Back there is my hairbrush. Back there is my hairbrush. Back there, back there, oh, where, back there, oh, where, oh, where, back there, back there, back there ... is my hairbrush?"

Having heard this joyous proclamation, Remus Lupin entered the scene, because he wanted to be included too. Shocked and slightly embarrassed at the sight of Francis in a towel, he regained his composure and commented:

"Why do you need a hairbrush? You don't have any hair!"

Francis was taken aback. The thought had never occurred to him. No hair? What could this mean? What would become of him? What would become of his hairbrush? Francis wondered…

"No hair for my hairbrush. No hair for my hairbrush. No hair, no hair, no where, no hair, no hair, no hair, no where back there, no hair... for my hairbrush!"

Having had enough of Francis's song, a young and dashing man by the name of Sirius Black entered the scene and shot Francis. Multiple times. While laughing maniacally. Also, his best friend and partner in crime James Potter was there, because he is also writing this papper.

When the boys had left, Francis merely lay on the floor, reminiscing on his life in his final moments. And bleeding, that too. He remembered a time when he was quite young that had a major impact on his life. His inner monologue kicked in, and if you had been in the room, you would have heard an eerie voiceover, just like in the movies. I'll bet you didn't know that happens in real life, did you? I didn't think so. It's a simple spell, really, but can be a right pain in the ass if you don't know how to take it off: you end up broadcasting your innermost thoughts to the whole of the Great Hall.

Mister Moony would like to express his astonishment that Mister Prongs has ever had an innermost thought.

Mister Prongs would like to strangle Mister Moony for bewitching his parchment yet again – leave me alone, nosy!

Mister Moony wishes Mister Prongs and Mister Padfoot a good night and advises them to not turn in this rubbish if they want to pass the class.

Mister Padfoot asks Mister Moony to shove it.

Anyway…

Aha. Yes. Francis's inner monologue…

Ten days after I turned eight I got my lips stuck in a gate. My friends all laughed. And I just stood there until the fire department came and broke the lock with a crowbar and I had to spend the next six weeks in lip rehab with this kid named Oscar who got stung by a bee right on the lip and we couldn't even talk to each other until the fifth week because both our lips were so swollen and when he did start speaking he just spoke polish and I only knew like three words in Polish - except now I know four because Oscar taught me the word for lip. "Usta!"

Usta. Now that's a fun word.

Anyway, in these final moments, Francis suddenly found inspiration. He knew what he must do: he must create a cure for lip ailments! Grabbing a nearby quill and parchment, he quickly wrote down his instructions. They were as follows:

For lips cures to work properly, we must first attach leeches onto the surface of the pudding to extract the essentials: toothpaste, a broken can, a hammer, a megaphone, two twigs, ¼ cups oregano, the eyeball of an eyeless organism, and a pinwheel. By attaching them to the eagle by means of the equation hb(v-11/π2)-f-sequence-1turtle/11 we simply organize a field day. This is how lip cures are created.

And then he died.

What is the moral of this story? Could it be that unrequited love is the most painful thing of all? That sometimes we have our best ideas in the most unlikely situations? That the reflections brought about by death can be the very catalyst that turns us in the right direction?

No, actually, none of those are right.

The true moral of the story is… and, this is of course a roundabout way of saying it. All Sirius and James are really trying to say here is…

THEY

HATE

SAUERKRAUT!

And by the way, if one day you wake up and find yourself in an existential quandary full of loathing and self-doubt and wracked by the pain and isolation of your pitiful meaningless existence, perhaps you can take small comfort in the story of Francis Bakingham Woolingworth Edmond XXXVII. Francis loves you. And other male walruses, but that's an entirely different sort of story.