Friday, December 22, 2006
Evening Edition: Pops Bucket And The Prisoner Of Secret Sorcerer Chambers... of Fire
Seeing as I'm on vacation now, I realized I can simply stay up until all hours. Eventually the time-zone switch will rain down jet-age disorienting somnambulance on the Eastern Time Zone based boarders à Chez Pops. And look! It's even Friday already here, so I'm not even cheating! I toy with the fabric of time as we know it as a cat toys with a three-legged mouse, half-interested, disdainful, resenting the promise of a challenge that can never arise; and I do it all with casual Kirkian elan, by which I mean I am--right now--wearing both a girdle and an egregiously elaborate Hair Replacement System while being furiously serviced in a sexual manner by a woman whose race I am wholly unconcerned with.
Man, I'm really tired.
All I really feel like covering this late is the fact that author Joanne Klavichordia "Just Kidding" Rowling has announced the name of her seventh and "final" Harry Potter book.
It will be called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
We know it's true because there is an article about it in Wikipedia the Infallible, which is, as the name suggests, you know, sort of infallible-ish.
Deathly Hallows. It sounds awful, I know. But you should consider that JK Rowling is by now worth more money than the Queen, Bill Gates and the Pope combined. At this point she trails only Oprah and the estate of Lord Fauntney Glorbindel Redpomms (OBE), the inventer of porn.
By now, Rowling is free to do almost anything she likes. Uselessly inaccessible as "Deathly Hallows" may be, word is that her first choice for the title was "Harry Potter and the I Hate Children". She was talked down by the reasonable pleas of her agent, her husband, her publisher and the fourteen vodka gimlets she regularly consumes before noon. Remember, she is in the process of writing. You have to be pretty fucked up to think up a name like "Nymphadora Tonks".
When asked to comment or clarify or explain, well, anything related to this "Deathly Hallows" nonsense, Ms. Rowling responded by engaging in a series of increasingly acrobatic (and, over time, cardio-friendly) sex acts with a series of barely-legal Argentinian pool boys on a giant pile of rubies in a room built entirely of caviar-fed live minks.
Wriggly, wriggly walls. But then she's the only one who would--economically speaking--be aghast at the saying "It's good to be the Queen." The rest of us would just prefer not to have all those stupid, ugly royal children. There are your deathly hallows right there.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 1.13 (for what time it is right now in the AM)