Archive | 11:05 pm

My Time at the Harry Potter Premiere

19 Nov

Thursday night at midnight, the latest Harry Potter film, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows pulled down its loosely fitting Adidas track-pants and shat all over countless American youths. As a journalist/satirist/satanist/blogger, I decided that it was my duty to my readers to cover the event.

With poop.

“WOW!” the boy calls to his mother. “Look at his costume!” Excited, bouncing up and down in his puffy jacket and mittens, the boy points at me and my costume. The mother looks confused.

“You like it?” I ask him. His mother eyes me with the same lost look.

“Oh yea!” he responds.

“It’s C-3P0. He’s not from this movie.” I walk away and get in line to buy my ticket.

One can truly see the reason for the Harry Potter series’s success by looking at the line for one of its films–people of all ages, races, creeds, Creed, Creed was there, and genders–Harry Potter seems to appeal to all of these groups.

“It’s truly a beautiful thing,” I say to the man next to me. He seems to be of about forty. He’s slightly overweight, but seems to take care of himself–his clothes are fashionable and clean. Like I said, Harry Potter appeals to every demographic (gays).

“What is?” he asks.

I try to place my hand on his shoulder, but the 3P0 costume is incredibly limiting. It keeps pinching me in places I wish it wouldn’t. From the outside, it looks like I’m trying to hold back a sneeze. The man takes a step back and puts his hands up, creating his own personal sneeze guard. What arrogance, I think, imagining all the tiny, brown children all over the world who don’t have a pot to piss in (because they all piss in rivers and most of their dishes are made of clay or the skulls of their parents), that would die to be close to C-3P0 (I’d imagine he’d look like some sort of God to most of them.), and now this guy is trying to distance because I might sneeze. I’m wearing a mask, idiot.

“I’m wearing a mask idiot,” I say. He begins to respond when my refried beans-nacho cheese-cereal-whiskey lunch dinner bursts through the mouth of the mask, covering him in a substance better used for removing rust from car batteries. “Oh god,” I say. He looks down at his chest and stomach, now glossy with vomit. He has yet to even start to speak. His expression is quiet horror. He doubles over and throws up, his vomit splashing against the concrete.

I waddle to the restroom and change out of my C-3P0 costume.

Now unrecognizable, I feel much better about the premiere.

Returning to my spot would be a dead giveaway of my identity, so I opt to take the hit and move to the back of the line. There, there are some kids doing magic tricks.

“Tada!” one boy says, and pulls and seems to retrieve a card from thin air. It’s quite believable. He tries to do it again and I reach out and swat  his hand out of the air, trying to grab the card before he could. I end up hurting him pretty bad, I think.

“What’s your problem, man?!” one impish, Indian boy yells at me.

“I j–”

“What a freak!” I hear another one of the kids say. I can’t see which one said it. My vision was blurred by my own tears.

In that moment, my life halted. How far had I fallen? I prayed that this was the bottom and that I had no further to plummet. A group of pock-marked preteens had just openly chastised and rejected me. Oh, Harry. Where are you now?

Where are you when I need you?

I return to the restroom and get a good cry out.

I come back, ashamed, and stand behind the group of pubes. I’m getting antsy. I’m ready to see the movie. I want to see the movie. I want to see the movie.

Finally, like a more insecure running of the bulls, the doors swing open and the crowd surges forward. I’m getting pummeled. Frightened, I call out a spell of protection.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” I call out, reaching up to the sky. “Wingardium Leviosa!” I call to my new god, but he answers me not.

I’m trampled by 126 Harry Potter fans.

I die.

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