I’m gonna snog Harry Potter by Margie McKendry, 42-year-old Misandrist Nerd
 Only six more months 'til that sweet piece of Hogwarts ass is legal. I know all you ladies— and probably a few of you broomqueens out there — have seen my award-winning Daniel Radcliffe Web site, complete with countdown clock and a hot pix gallery. But once that little lightning-head hottie ain't jailbait, I got news for you: I'm gonna snog the shit outta him.
Like the other day, me and my ladies were throwin' back some brewskies and makin' anagrams out of chapter titles — you know, typical Friday night — when Mr. Me-So-Horny Potter shows up on Conan. So my bud Dana belches and goes, "Hey Margie, I wouldn't mind playing a good game of Quidditch with him, if you know what I mean," and I go, "Yeah, me neither. But instead of capturing the Golden Snitch, he'd be capturing my Golden Snatch!" Ooooh yeah! You can bet all the galleons and knuts in your gringott that I got a full round o' high fives that night.
A few six packs later and shitfaced, we got adventurous. We tried to levitate Dana by doing that "light as a feather, stiff as a board" crap, but I guess she was too fat — probably all those damn pumpkin pasties. So the next logical event for us drunken misandrists was telling our best dirty HP fantasies. Dana's was OK — something about using Harry's Nimbus 2000 as more than a broomstick — but it was nothing compared to my ultimate Radcliffe vision. Those Hogwarts' hussies were as intoxicated by my filthy fantasia as Winky the house elf after 11 butterbeers from Topopiti's Tillywombat Ticklebottom Tavern. Have a look at it — try to contain yourselves! Cast a Self-Coeitus Suspendus if you must!
See, I'm Harry's wand teacher, Professor Moonbeams, and it's time for another N.E.W.T (Nastily Exciting Wizarding Test). After he fails his Hippty-Hongalong Hex, that sexy piece of sorcerer meat falls to his wonky knees, begging for some extra credit. But there's only one way to pass Professor Moonbeam's wand handling now: The naughty way. I close the door, unwrap his two-tone scarf and whisper something so dirty, so manky, that all the finicky ficklefoos roll over in their wizzies.
"The Action That Must Not Be Named! But I've never done that before!" he cries. Immediately, I see the erotic enchanter's firm rump nipping for the door, casting a Frocky Smocky Unlocky along the way, but it's too late. I've already put the Curse of Vaselinies on the doorknob.
"Harry, don't be frightened. I'll be as gentle as a Billy Beatle. If you want to pass my class, we must do You-Know-What." I pause, seeing he is becoming more comfortable, realizing that within seconds I'll be ripping off his knickers and appreciating every inch of his wand with the hands of an experienced, older wizard.
I snog his face. He smiles. I pull a Twiddle Twaddle out of my desk. "If you'd like," I offer, "We can mix in some toys I bought from Holepot's Owl Emporium." He takes the Twiddle Twaddle from my hand. We chuff and do the Action That Must Not Be Named until our bodies feel like they're under a Jelly-Legs Jinx.
But hey, that's just a fantasy. If I pulled that kinda shit 'round the real Hogwarts I'd be locked up in Azkaban for a good five to ten. Plus, ever since my sassy bitches heard my unmatchable Potter fantasy, they treat me so good — I'm officially off Hagrid's Eyeballs duty for our Harry Potterluck nights. So now I really don't mind waiting' for Radcliff's rock-hard wand to turn legal. Looks like until my favorite lust-conjurer turns the big one-eight, I'll have to be content with my ladies, my Web site and my extremely dirty and pornographic imagination.
What a sweet piece of enchanted ass.
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