Hufflepuff: A Fate Worse Than Death

My favorite fringe character from the first film, other than John Cleese’s “Nearly Headless Nick,” is the “Sorting Hat.” Think of Dick Cheney, but if he became a hat. The Sorting Hat’s principal role is to determine which students belong to which house (dorm). If I were a character in Harry Potter, three of the four would do the trick. Slytherin: because, as a polyglot, the idea of learning Parseltongue is freaking awesome; Gryffindor: because I’d be bff with Harry, I’d get obliterated with Seamus, and the elder Weasley twins and I would be the oligarchs of Mischiefia; and Ravenclaw: because, though a misnomer (ravens don’t have claws), it’s the most badass name and its apparently the hot Asian house, so, naturally I’d gravitate towards it. But if the Sorting Hat DARED to place me in the fruitiest house name bar none, Hufflepuff, (it’s even worse in French: soufflepouffle), I’d rather fucking kill myself. No, really, I’d throw the hat off my head, stamp on it, then, turn my wand on myself, and Aveda Kadevra myself into oblivion. Imagine, if you were placed into this house, for the next seven years, you would be defined by something called “Hufflepuff.” Whenever you’re introduced to anyone in the magical world, Hufflepuff would invariably come up, followed by immediate snickering, and insinuations that you, good sir, are a coward and a puh-puh-pussy. That, my friends, is a fate worse than death.

Thoughts on Harry Potter (social)

As you can tell, I’m very opinionated when it comes to Harry Potter, and it comes up in conversation a little too frequently for a 24 year-old male. One time, I was discussing Harry Potter with my friends Nick and Mark(aka Gree), his older sister, and a couple of her friends. We, as happens ever so frequently in intellectual discussions, determined who most closely resembled which Harry Potter character. The girl across from me was a Luna Lovegood doppelganger (almost white hair and that distinct aura of undiagnosed psychosis). Mark, a fellow Irishman who likes the drink, was deemed to be Seamus Finnegan (Seamus in the first book/film, famously tried to cast a spell that would turn water into rum with disastrous consequences!) We determined that Nick would be Shrek (conveniently neglecting the fact that Shrek is in no way related to Harry Potter). Well, Gree’s sister decided that I reminded her of Neville fucking Longbottom. Mister Longbottom is a rather dimwitted, though emotionally complex, reserved, buck-toothed, and rotund Briton. You’re one for six, Ms. Greeley! (and we all know what the one is; let’s play a little game called process of elimination to figure it out: I’m relatively intelligent; As Hermione Granger once said “you have the emotional range of a teaspoon,” and that is surely the case with me; reserved? Perhaps in a rancorously obnoxious sense; and I have unabashedly gorgeous teeth structure, thanks to years of costly dental work, though I could use with a little whitening treatment; and as an Irish Francophile, I’m pretty sure I’m even less British than Zhong Han…which leaves us with…moving on. Well, there is one undeniable similarity: Neville is a herbology enthusiast, and in college, so was I… I don’t know why she chose Neville, everyone else tells me I remind them of Lee Jordan. Weird! In all honesty, I’d probably say I’m more like Snape (at least with my old haircut) than anyone else. I am plein with evil, though deep down, I’m a decent human being. I rove brewing potions (the alcoholic variety). I despise ignorance and suck ups. Not to mention I’m an Alan Rickman disciple, which is always my excuse for when people find out I’ve seen Love, Actually more than ten times). Back to the story, after being likened to Neville Longbottom, I told Katie (that’s Mark’s sister) that if I’m Neville Longbottom, then she’s Bellatrix Lestrange (the bitch who killed Nev’s parents), which is pretty much the Harry Potter equivalent of dropping the c-bomb.

Harry Potter: How The Epilogue Ruined One of the Greatest Series of Our Time

SPOILER ALERT: If you haven’t read the last book in the Harry Potter series, stop reading this shitty brog and get to it. My biggest qualm with the book was the epilogue. The day I finished the book I received a text from my brother that echoed my sentiments (and went something like this): “I loved it (the final installment), until the epilogue. The epilogue fucking ruined it.” How could a mere page and a half ruin 800 pages (it might have been more or less, I honestly don’t remember) of pure masterpiece? Simple: we find out that Harry Potter settled for a ginger. Harry Potter could literally have any girl in the magical world. He fucking defeated Lord Voldemort. It doesn’t get any sexier than that. Oh, wait, it does. Not only is he the absolute definition of a hero, he was undoubtedly a world class athlete. Given his meteoric rise at the position of seeker in the early part of the series, and with the elimination of the previously omnipresent malevolence providing him with the free time to return to his true passion, Quidditch, Harry would have surely represented the English national side in the magical world’s most popular sport. A sporting icon and the world’s savior and he settled for a fucking ginger?! We find out in the seventh book that Harry easily could have scored (again) with the utterly adorable Cho Chang (undeniably the hottest Glaswegian since Shirley Manson of Garbage. By the way, aren’t English demonyms awesome?!). Luna Lovegood was hot in that aloof, there’s-a- thirty- percent-chance-she’ll-stab-me-in-my-sleep kinda way. One of the two Indian twins was really, really, ridiculously good looking. And, of course, the ultimate no-brainer: Hermione Granger! Since the first movie, male adults have been attempting to justify crushes on this pre-pubescent, nebbish Muggle-born sorceress. Finally, after roughly movie number four, our secret obsession no longer seemed so perverse, and we could openly admit an attraction to her gentle, Anglican features and little miss sassypants attitude. As a mate (for Harry, of course), she’d be categorically infuriating and, yet, simultaneously, completely fascinating: which would translate to incredible hate sex AND completely satisfying make up sex for one Harry Potter. But noooo, Harry decided to ride the Ginger Express all the way to the Pearly Gates (actually, I imagine that most in the magical world would scorn religion, but you get my point). Even if she wasn’t a ginger, this is a terrible idea. First of all, this was the dumb, gullible bitch that opened the Chamber of fucking Secrets which almost resulted in Hogwarts being closed permanently. What an r-tard! Secondly, dating your best friend’s sister almost inevitably ends in complication (duh). The friendship and marriage stages of the relationship are fine, but the “it’s clear we’re having sex and I tell all of our other mutual friends every disturbing detail about what a nympho your sister is, but the two of us are going to continue to ignore the elephant in the room. Capisci?” phase of the relationship would be disastrous. Between best friends, nothing should be secret. (My friends know this all too well, as when I’m inebriated, I tend to speak with the utmost candor). With Ron and Harry, all of the sudden, a huge part of Harry’s life is off-limits. Classic guy conversations revolving around reasons why my wife/girlfriend is a rhymes-with-runt are now a major no-no. Not to mention, that hilarious story about you farting while your wife is giving you head might as well have never happened. All of this is why the epilogue ruined the book; we find out that, in a matter of paragraphs, Harry’s life is eternally devoid of true happiness.

Thoughts on the Harry Potter series (cinema)

-In France, I have no cable (TV or Internet). Only three channels, and even the reception on those is mediocre at best. And it really is, as the cliché goes, a blessing in disguise. I end up reading constantly (I’ve finished two books already, and I’m a terribly slow reader). I swear I have read more books in my life in France than in America as a result of this dearth of distractions. We do, however, have a DVD player, but only with a limited collection of DVDs (€29.99 for a DVD? That’s like 400 dollars. No, thank you). Within the collection are some true classics (Heat, Goodfellas), some real howlers [7 Seconds with Wesley Snipes and Troie (Troy in French)] and, most importantly, a sizeable portion of the Harry Potter collection. For the record, I adore HP. I have read all of the books (actually, except for the first one because I’ve seen the movie so many times, I feel I wouldn’t have the patience at this point) and own at least one copy of every movie (I have three copies of the second film in three different regions. I’m that cool). Stemming from my myriad viewings, I have slowly begun to watch the films in a, to use an en vogue economic/historically railroad-related term, “decoupled” fashion. Some of the lines in this movie are fucking hilarious. Like when Filch, the caretaker, while lamenting the advent of less stringent punishment at Hogwarts, wistfully informs first year, 11-year old students: “God, I miss the screaming.” How sadistically brilliant! Or in the second film, the nurse gives Harry a potion in an attempt to regrow Harry’s bones after an unfortunate Quidditch accident and an even more inept magician trying to heal them. Harry takes a sip and immediately spews it all over everyone in his general vicinity. What is the nurse’s reaction: “Well, what did you expect? Pumpkin Juice!” Yes. That is EXACTLY what I expected.