After seeing a misspelling of the name "Harry Potter" ("Harry Poter"), I started playing around with the phonetics and spellings of all the HP titles. Here's what I got:
Harry Poter and the Sorcerer's Pwn
Harry Poter and the Chamber of Sucrets
Harry Poter and the Giblet of Fire
Harry Poter and the Pilsner of Azkaban
Harry Poter and the Odor of the Phoenix
Harry Poter and the Half-Bled Prince
Harry Poter and the Deathly Halos
NOTE OF IMPORTANCE: This is the only Potter-related Post I have written. Let's keep it that way.
I don't know anybody that likes the packing part of moving. The new people, places, and activities--maybe. But packing all your stuff up and then unpacking it again makes me (and therefore everyone else) cranky. For instance:
1. I have too much stuff, which hurts my soul.
2. The stuff I have is in poor condition, which hurts my wallet.
3. Boxes take up more space than the stuff they contain. They are the most inefficient storage and organization units ever concieved (except for Windows Vista).
4. Texas and Florida are really far apart, especially when you have to go by way of Kentucky.
5. I should be outside packing and unpacking, but it's so boring that I'm using any excuse to avoid that task--currently, potato salad and Pleonast are filling in. On a scale of excitement from 1 to Yippee!, packing and unpacking ranks about as high as lung cancer.
But I am looking forward to seeing everyone in Tampa. As to your conmplimentary (in both senses) advertisement: you KNOW that since you mentioned her, I'm going for Rachel first. Just kidding. But in the spirit of dating, here's a little love letter I wrote. If you're single and in Tampa, this was written especially for each of you individually. Also, your name is used as an internal-subliminal acrostic, as are the names of the two shooters from the grassy knoll.
To My One And Only [The Exorcised Version]
I love you like [instinctive action of specific animal], like [thread-
bare allusion to misinterpreted classic love epic], like [pawky double
entendre at the expense of a foreign national’s accent], and I will love
you even if [improbable natural disaster] and until [wildly implausible
cataclysm].
Your body is like [awkward simile blurring romantic love and
unmitigated lust]. Your face is as beautiful as [unintentional
objectification via comparison to inanimate object]. When I see you,
I feel [unpolished and thinly veneered description of raw sexual urge],
and I want to [see previous].
I wrote you a [travesty of traditional literary form]:
The first time I saw you,
I sat behind you in class,
What I like best about you,
Is your hot sexy [intentional objectification].
I love you more than [item of overly-obvious importance], and I would
do [vague and/or impossible task of no practical value] for you. If you
asked, I would [more overtly pointless feat of unimaginativeness] and
enjoy every [minute measurement of time] of it.
[Universal symbol of acceptance of offer of love], and we’ll [action
indicating ignorance of life skills and Federal statutes]. Our love is
[oversimplified expression of totality] to me. I hope you [accidental
quotation from early Beatles song]. If you don’t love me, I will [melo-
dramatic physical or emotional self-mutilation].
Hey, Mason. Caroline here. It was great seeing you Sunday. Your song is [some overused adjective describing an exaggarated sense of awe and amazement].
Transformed,
I sit up, note my surroundings
with jaundice and eyes,
and ask you for a drink of water
to wash the taste of conception from my mouth.
I am a literary poem of distinctly plebian bent,
and smell faintly of unwashed social Darwinism.
My one goal is to grab you by your eyelashes and serenade you
with the scents of jasmine and metaphor, for
I tolerate no imagistic laziness, no impotent analogy:
I lift the weights of philosophy three days a week,
maintain a strict low-abstraction diet, and swim
sibilantly in the over-chlorinated pool
of post-Eliot rhythm and assonance. That’s why my eyes are so red,
sweet reader:
because I am an insomniac—the poem that never sleeps
with the same Muse twice. I watch myself in the full-length
mirror above our bed long after you fall asleep,
planning tomorrow’s regime of synecdoches and sit-ups
to sculpt my gorgeous body.
My hair is beach-blonde, wavy, and calcitrant,
like a William Carlos Wheelbarrow stuck in third gear.
I bear the scars of a lifetime’s pencil-scratchings, and
when you kiss me, I may taste
your soul, and take it for my own.
your mind and mine may be totally different, but it's still cool that you're moving to tampa. just stay away from you-know-who or die. :) when do you get here?
In the beginning was the Void, and the Void begat the Force
with the noise of 144,000 Pentecostal “Amens,” and the Force
begat George Lucas’s plaid shirt. The shirt begat Feng Shui
(pronounced “woo tang”), Feng Shui begat Chaos so many
times that it scarred the birth canal, and Chaos soon begat a
suppliance that gilded the edges of minds demanding to know
where it all began. And all was lunacy for 4 hours after—
until Galileo was born. Then all the planets took numbers
(Uranus drew 42, doubled up laughing, and got stuck), had
their hair cut, ate their vegetables, bombed a Sunday school,
washed in the blood of angels, never wrote their birth parents,
changed their names to Betty, Eugene, Leonard, Helga, Fatso,
Landon, Bo, and Sand-dollar, protested child-labor restrictions,
moved to Cleveland, and became addicted to Stanley Kubrick.
Einstein refused to comment
on the morality of their careers, saying,
“It’s all relative anyway. Have some strudel.”
So in a bitter distillation of the universe, it is an awfully
enormous loneliness to live in, and any meaning that endures
was long ago obscured by our very search for it. On hollow
summer evenings (when the dew collects like lightning
on our faces) let us lay around drinking wines of somnolence
and heartache for the comfort we felt in the fireproof-fabric days
of our blissful isolation and immense uniqueness in the cosmos.
…and that’s the thing
that really cracks me up
about Chaos Theory.
You would think, since I lived in your house for all that time, that you would know me better, but you were pretty young. You do remember us going to the Star Wars movies, right?
