Wednesday, May 18, 2011



            Harry’s fate had been sealed.  The Sorting Hat had proclaimed that he would become a member of Gryffindor House.  Relieved, he made his way to his comrades.

            “Wait,” Dumbledore said.  “There is one more trial that you must undertake.”  He withdrew from his robes a small plastic package, which he ripped open with his teeth.  “I give you… the Sorting Condom.”

            Harry’s blood froze.  He had, after all, spent the last few years of his life in the public school system.

            “Harry,” Dumbledore said (or, rather, intoned), “I want you to put this on your penis, and the Sorting Condom shall tell you who shall be your true love.”

            Dumbledore handed Harry the condom.  “In my day, your professor put the Sorting Condom on for you.  But alas, the wizard attorneys are far more powerful now then they once were.”

            Harry turned his back to the crowd, and attempted to put on the condom.  Ten minutes later, he had succeeded.

            At once, the condom spoke; it’s rough voice muffled from under Harry’s robes.  “Well, folks, he is, in fact, a Jew.  But I think we all suspected that from day one.  Let’s see here…” the condom groped Harry’s as-yet-undeveloped manliness for several seconds.  “Yeah, yeah, ok, ok… Ginny.”



            “My sister Ginny?”  Ron Weasley shouted.


            “But she’s only nine years old!”

            The Sorting Condom sighed (at least, it felt to Harry like he sighed).  “You don’t  need to move on this right way.  You’ve got seven books.  And don’t worry—you’ll have other flames here and there.  But Ginny is the one.  Trust me—you’re gonna love that spicy ginger pussy.”

            “Hey!”  Ron shouted.

            “The Sorting Condom doesn’t lie.  Sexual compatibility is not something to be underestimated.   And it’s not always something you can fix with the wave of the magic wand.  Speaking of which, Ginny’s going to like it rough, so perfect the expecto patronus spell.”

            “I’m going to kick that condom’s ass!”  Ron shouted, kicking Harry in the balls.

            “Hey!  I… didn’t do anything!”  Harry fell to the floor, groaning.

            “Your turn, Ron,” Dumbledore proclaimed, with a peculiar smile on his face.

            “I’m not wearing that after Harry put it on!”

            “This is a sacred tradition,” Dumbledore said.  “Either you’re putting it on, or I’m putting it on for you.

            Harry, recovered from the blow, removed the Sorting Condom and handed it to Ron, who leered as much as a ten year old can leer under such circumstances.  Grimacing, Ron turned away from the crowd and fifteen minutes later, he wore the Sorting Condom.

            The condom groped around for a moment and cleared his throat.  “Kid—you gotta wash this area.  Seriously.  I swear to God, I think there’s a little bit of fondue down here.”

            “Get to the point,” Dumbledore said.

            “Right, right.  Ok, Ron.  Let’s see… uh huh… uh huh… uh huh… Hermoine.”

            “Fuck you!” Hermoine shouted.  She, more than anyone, was shocked with her word choice.

            “Don’t worry,” the Sorting Condom continued.  “She’ll mellow out after she gets on antidepressants.  But I’ve got bad news for you.  She’s going to need a lot of foreplay.  So you better clear your calendar.”

            “Now it’s your turn,” Dumbledore said, turning to Hermione.  “I present to you the Sorting I.U.D.”

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