January 9th

Oh. My. Badness. (Well, I can hardly say ‘goodness,’ can I? Haven’t got much of that, you know, being pure evil and all.) It’s amazing how much has changed in just a few short months.

There I was, on top of the world, Dark Lord and all, killing Mudbloods left and right, saved a load of money on my broom insurance by switching to Blokeco, and now where am I?

Lying in a filthy Muggle hospital on a cot that’s as lumpy as Nagini after eating a few door-to-door salesmen, that’s where. And guess what?

1. I’m currently in a hospital room with walls that are the exact same colour as Draco Malfoy’s face right after drinking Midnight Surprise Fruit Wine, Carpet Cleaner, and Dessert Topping and right before vomiting into my 100-gallon tank of prized snakehead fish.

2. My roommate is a hapless oaf who broke his leg tripping over a molehill, and let me tell you, he’s making a mountain out of it, constantly whining and blubbering and demanding tax refunds. I just wish someone would drop an anvil on his head and get it over with.

3. GET. ME. OUT OF HERE!

So why am I wasting your time and depressing you with details of my so-called life? Well, for one, I’m ridiculously bored. Want to know what there is to do in a hospital? Other than asking rhetorical questions, not much. And for another, my previous blog received rave reviews, such as the following:

"Perfect! It's exactly what I was looking for to use as a liner for Hedwig's cage!
--Harry
P.S. VOLDEMORT IS A LEWZER!"

"Dear Voldemort-Person,
I used to think you were lame. Then I read your blog, and I've changed my mind. I think you're THE LAMEST OF THE LAMEY LAME PEOPLE! Also... lame! That too!
Love,
Ron.
P.S. Literally, haha. How are those bones doing?"

"I just read this blog, and I feel so enlightened. It really sucks me into your world, and I feel as though I can really see things from your point of view. At last, I understand what it must feel like to be a complete moron!
--Hermione."

You’re weird.
--Luna Lovegood.

Okay, so they aren't exactly raving... more like ranting, actually, but hey, at least they read it!

NOTE: AT LEAST I CAN SPELL LOSER, POTTER!

ANOTHER NOTE: So I'm lame, Weasley? Let's see YOU dive headfirst into a tank of tarantulas to retrieve the latte you dropped. Are you man enough for that?

A NOTE TO TACK ON TO THE END OF THE PREVIOUS NOTE: Okay, I just reread my blog and have come to the conclusion that maybe I am lame. But then, you’re even lamer for READING it, Ginger Knob.

Now that my self-esteem has been successfully punctured, deflated, and collapsed like a ruined soufflé, I feel I must tell describe how awful it is to be stuck here with--get this--no magical powers at all. Darn Nagini and her eBay addiction.

I have absolutely nothing to do! Now that the last chapter of my favourite story, “A Past Reclaimed,” by nuw255 (The ending was so touching that I cried; then I realized that I died in the end and was forced to e-Crucio the author), I’ve been reduced to obsessively watching “The Simple Life” (I can just feel my I.Q. rapidly dropping like a broken elevator… even my analogies are getting stupider) and writing letters to the producer of the Power Rangers demanding that they allow me to replace the blue one. I think they misunderstood my letters, because they got me a restraining order instead of a role in the show. Those crazy bureaucratic slip-ups!

You know what also really annoys me? The computer they have here in my room. Not only is it a piece of junk, it’s a Hewlett-Packard. This means that every time I turn it on, those two hateful initials, HP, flash onto the screen. Laughing at me. Mocking me. I hate it!

And don’t even get me started on hospital food! Today, for example, I received meatloaf that looked more like mangled squid intestines (and tasted even worse), green beans the colour of my skin, cauliflower that was (somewhat ironically) green and covered in cheese that was the exact same colour, mangled squid intestines that looked more like meatloaf (I’m not sure that’s an improvement), and pudding that

I’m quite sure it’s not safe to eat food that’s still moving and begging me not to eat it. And I’m fairly certain that it was not, in fact, Kosher as I had requested. (In regards to my religious preference, I am a Scientologist, but I always order Kosher because it eliminates the risk of getting green cheese on my mangled squid intestines.)

Naturally, I got the nurse who delivered this horrendous meal with a good Avada Kedavra. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that I now have no magical powers to speak of. Furthermore, my wand’s been confiscated, and I was actually brandishing my cheese fork. So instead, I merely poked her in the arm and glared.

She laughed, but I think she was really intimidated.

On the bright side, I’m mostly healed. On the dark side are many Death Eaters. But that’s beside the point! My bones are almost entirely mended, but I still have to go to at least three more sessions of Parentheses Overusers Anonymous before I can be discharged (and I really don’t get what’s up with that. (It’s not like I have a problem! (I know I can quit any time I want))).

They used to let me do arm-strengthening physical therapy by letting me help out in the hospital kitchen, but they decided that was probably a bad idea after I exploded my fourth toaster in as many days. I tried to explain that it was a new cooking method and that I preferred my ready-made toaster-friendly pastries ‘well done,’ but they seemed to think it was a terrorist plot. Naturally, I was affronted. Wherever would they get a wacky idea like that? (Beside the fact that it’s the truth.)

However, just when I’d relinquished the faintest hope of ever reclaiming my position of Dark Lord extraordinaire, a nurse entered with two letters for me.

Mail! My ears perked up. What if they contained news that I’d won the lottery? What if they contained an interesting new strain of poison or virus that I could use against the insufferable medical team here? What if they held my magical powers, Filch having taken advantage of the six-month warranty and decided that he really didn’t deserve awesome magical skills as much as I did? What if they were new issues of my two favourite magazines, Evil Monthly and American Girl? What if the hokey pokey really was what it was all about?

The first letter was from some Nigerian prince offering big money in exchange for help in an African currency exchange.

The second letter changed my life…

COMMENTS:

Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
You think you’ve got it rough, dawg? Ha. Try sitting in some whack prison cell. No government officials to bribe, no hairdressers to style these luscious locks, no bling-bedecked robes (we get ugly neon orange prison robes instead, which may be ghetto but lack aesthetic charm), and no room to break-dance. And notice that Wormtail didn’t even get the first post. You wanna know why, brother? HE JUST DOESN’T CARE. Ohhhh, burn!
--Posted by daddylusciouslocks

RE: Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
This is your cellmate, Biff. You seem tense, man. Tried yoga?
--Posted by dementorssuck

RE: RE: Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
What’s that?
--Posted by daddylusciouslocks

RE: RE: RE: Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
It’s where you wear spandex and contort yourself into weird positions and hum to yourself.
--Posted by dementorssuck.

RE: RE: RE: RE: Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
That is not for me, man. That sounds like something my son would like.
--Posted by daddylusciouslocks

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
A-HEM! My comments section, much like my review page, is not to be used as a chat room! And what’s with all of these ‘re’s? I swear, it’s just like a skip in my “Sound of Music” soundtrack right after the ‘do.’
--Posted by thedarklord666.

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
You know, you’re right. Your analogies ARE getting stupider.
--Posted by hbpmaster.
P.S. Your grammar is horrible.

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Subj: AAAARRRRGGHH!
Ever feel like you just don’t have a loyal slave in the world?
--Posted by thedarklord666.

Still January 9th But A Bit Later

Mood: I think the words ‘fiendish glee’ would probably best describe it.

Music: “We Are The Champions” by Queen.

When we last left our antagonist, (that’s yours truly, in case you haven’t guessed by now), I had just opened a letter that changed my life. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m guessing here that I should tell you what it said?

Ha, I still have plenty of evil left in me. I know, leaving off where I did on my last entry was probably sufficient to induce hair-tearing, flesh-melting, mad hippogriff disease, spontaneous shrieks of irritation, Cyndi Lauper, mood swings, stress zits, and THIS: http://www.rathergood.com/jelly/. But that’s entirely irrelevant.

Well, I ripped the letter open and threw the envelope across the room, causing it to hit Moaning Molehill Man in the eye (ten points!) and pulled out a piece of pink, perfumed stationery. The perfume smelled a tad bit like human B.O., but I ignored that for the time being.

The letter read:

Dear Lord Voldemort Person,

Mungo Phelps here, wondering if you'd be interested in a new recruit for the position of Death Eater. If so, I've got the man for you. He’s duct-taped to a chair with a gag in his mouth. But unfortunately, he doesn’t really want to be a Death Eater, so I’m going to have to go with my second choice: ME!

I'm eighteen years old, and I just graduated from Sheepsores Sorcery School in New Zealand. Wonderful place if you like peace and quiet and beautiful scenery. Unfortunately, however, I don't. It's dead boring here! Sometimes, all this peace and quiet and beautiful scenery just makes a man want to kick a kakapo, fly to smelly and grubby old London, make an incredibly stupid mistake that changes his life, risk said life, and end up baking scones for a snake-faced sociopath with no nose. And, well, that's what I intend to do. I've already kicked the kakapo and flown to smelly and grubby old London, and I'm in the process of making an incredibly stupid life-changing mistake, and I don't want to give up while I'm on a roll!

So, why do you want me as a Death Eater? Well, for one, I'm extremely attractive. Yes, I know, this will be far from important when I'm wearing a mask, but think about it. If we were walking down the street about to do some dastardly deed of derring-do, people would notice right away that you were Lord Voldemort, no matter how devious your disguise. But with me along, people would be too busy gaping at my gorgeousness to even begin to, um, view your Voldemort-ness. (Help me out here, I'm running out of alliterations...)


And with my brilliant ideas on your side, you'll never fail. Why, I have a brilliant idea for you right now. Although as I stated before, I am eighteen and every inch of a man, I suppose I can swallow a tiny teaspoon of my pride and pass for a bit younger. I bet I would do marvelously going undercover as a seventh year student at Hogwarts-- you have no idea how much that would benefit you, now that Dorko Mouthboy or whatever his name is has had his cover blown. The only thing you'll have to do for me is pay for my dates, because this brilliant intuition of mine is telling me that those Hogwarts girls won't be able to keep their hands off of me!

Well, cheers!

Your prospective servant (I hate that word; it's so... servile! How about 'personal advisor?')

Bruce "Mungo" Phelps!


Well, butter my back and call me a lobster! That was quite the fortuitous stroke of luck. Some cocky kid wants to get in with the Death Eaters, and apparently, the news that I’m about as useless as my own hairbrush has not yet reached New Zealand. And if this Mungo person comes to apply for the position, I’ll just handily leave out that little detail.

I’m beginning to formulate a plan here. A wonderful, terrible plan, a plan to end all plans, a plan with no saturated fat and twenty percent less calories than the leading brand of commercial plan available on today’s market. The boy wants to be a Death Eater, I’ll let him be a Death Eater! He doesn’t need to know that all of my other servants are either in prison, traitors for the Order of the Phoenix, or Draco Malfoy. (I still can’t believe that the little prig managed to weasel his way out of getting sentenced to a stay in Azkaban just by making Bambi-eyes and a ‘sad puppy’ pout. What kind of evil is that, I ask you?)

So I can’t do magic? So, what? I’ll just tell him that as part of his training period, he has to do all of the magical ‘dirty work’ to prove himself worthy. After all, he can’t question my motives! I’m Lord Voldemort, after all, and my only motives are evil and a really good man-pedicure! (Have you seen my toenails lately? They need some TLC, and fast.)

And he wants to go undercover at Hogwarts? Well, fantastic. What better way to steal my magical powers back from Filch, kill Harry Potter, and woo Minerva McGonagall all in one go? Plus I’ve been wanting to get a new Horcrux or two, now that I‘m technically (shh!) mortal-- and guess where Gryffindor’s sword is stashed?

Even more importantly, what’s with all of these rhetorical questions?

My mind made up like a mime’s face, I leaped off of my bed and packed my beds, ready to bust out of this Popsicle stand. “Hold on, Riddle Mansion!” I called out loud, although I knew my house couldn’t hear me from where I was (it was more for dramatic effect than anything else.) “You just wait, I’ll be back in a flash!”

Speaking of ‘back in a flash,’ I decided it was probably for the best to change out of my rather revealing hospital gown and threw on my favourite set of especially dark black robes with decorative blood stains and a cute little polo pony on the front pocket. I then slung my duffel bag over my shoulder, stole the complimentary flowers from the vase next to my bag (evil operates in strange ways), and raced out of the door to sweet freedom!

(Which, apparently, was right past a rather beefy and menacing-looking security guard.)

“Hey, pal, where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

I folded my arms defiantly and cocked my head back. “To get what I want!” I replied, my eyes smoldering rather effectively. (They don’t call me Smolderin’ Volders for nothing, though I’ve asked them to stop many a time.)

The guard scratched his head. “But what about your Parentheses Overuse Association meetings?” he asked.

“Blast the Parentheses Overuse Association meetings! (I won’t be needing them where I’m going (and besides, what’s it to you whether or not I go? (I mean, it’s not like you have a master’s degree in grammar or anything (and please don’t pummel me if you do!))))” I shouted as I raced past him toward the revolving door.

THWONK.

Oh, right. Revolving door.




January 10th

My house apparently missed me greatly while I was away. I say this because, well, it certainly looks worse for the wear. For example, when I knocked on the door, random important structures of the building broke off from the main structure and crumbled onto my head, and a large sign scrawled in extraordinarily bad penmanship proclaimed, “TERMITE CAFÉ. LARVAE EAT FREE ON TUESDAYS AFTER SIX.”

Luckily, however, Nagini was the same as ever. Impudent.

“Volders!” she hissed as I crossed the threshold into the den to discover that there were pink knitted monstrosities covering all of my delightfully distasteful knickknacks (ie. skulls) and that somewhat repulsive curtains made of shed snakeskin covered the windows. “The third most important man in my life!”

I squinted at her, a difficult feat when you’ve got no eyelids.

She blinked at me innocently, an equally difficult feat.

I knew Barry Manilow trumped me on her list, and I had accepted that, but who could have possibly surpassed even him in importance?

“It’s Kaa,” she told me sheepishly, which is an adverb that makes particularly small amounts of sense when applied to a reptile. “I met him online.”

“Nagini!” I thundered. “What have I told you about online dating?”

She stroked her chin in thought with the end of her tail. “Last thing I remember you saying about it was, ‘Well, Nagini, I’m off for my blind date with blondeD. Wish me luck.” She paused. “Which, now that I think about it, poses a rather compelling argument against online dating.”

Well. We clearly had some things to straighten out (ie. Who wore the pants in our relationship-- as I type this, she appears to be attempting to try on a pair of my jeans, seemingly ignoring the fact that such a task requires having legs), but they would have to wait until after my encounter with Mungo Phelps.

It was a rather dramatic entrance, actually, although his nonchalant reaction to Nagini’s attempts to devour him was disappointing to say the least. I looked up from my Daily Prophet (I was reading the advice column and chuckling to myself about some pathetic buffoon whose worst enemy read his blog and tricked him into being publicly humiliated by assuming a fake identity… seriously, who on earth is that stupid?) to see a somewhat astonishing-looking person.

“Egads!” I yelped. “Why are you wearing obscenely tight leather pants and no shirt?”

Mungo Phelps flashed me an eye-blindingly white smile. “I’m an OC,” he explained.

“Oh,” I grumbled. “That would explain it.” Like most OCs, also known as original characters or Prats R Us, this boy had an overabundance of good looks. He had enough abs to star in ‘300’ and make up an entire additional Spartan while he was at it, and his light-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes were a stunning shade of yellow-amber that was strongly reminiscent of the colour of my shed after my septic tank exploded onto it, and he had Johnny Depp’s cheekbones. In a jar.

“Are those Johnny Depp’s cheekbones?” I confirmed.

The boy nodded. “Yep. The police are looking for me, and Johnny’s pretty mad, but think of all the money I can make on eBay for these!”

I suddenly realized that perhaps it would be best to shift into ‘intimidating’ mode, so I settled back in my red velvet armchair (it was originally white, but I‘m afraid my violent tendencies changed that rather quickly), gripped the armrests in a suavely commanding fashion, and boomed, “So, you wish to be my newest recruit?”

“Yep,” replied Mungo. He seemed to like that word. “And don’t worry about looking for any others. I’m all you’ll need.” He grinned again with those obnoxiously perfect teeth.

“Is that so?” I said dispassionately. I got to my feet and strode around him appraisingly in what I’m certain was a very terrifying manner, despite that fact that Mungo yawned while I was doing it.

“Um…. Yep…” he replied.

I stared at him intensely, my pupils boring into his. A full moment of silence rang around us, and it was as though someone had accidentally sat on the remote control for the world and put it on ‘mute.’ My eyes flashed. “Oh, okay. Spiffing! Welcome to the Death Eaters!” I gave him a congratulatory handshake. He had a very firm grip, which should be read as ‘he broke three bones in my right hand.’ “Come,” I said, “kneel.”

“Mungo,” he corrected.

“What?”

“Mungo. Not Neil.”

It took all of my willpower not to roll my eyes, but I did want to cling to my last vestiges of evilness. “Come, Mungo. Kneel. I am going to give you… the Dark Mark.” As you can probably tell from the italics, that last bit was uttered in highly theatrical and mystical tones that caused Wormtail to wet himself the day of his initiation. But Mungo seemed unimpressed.

“Er, no, um, actually, I’d rather you didn’t. No offense, but I really don’t want a great filthy tattoo marring my perfect skin,” he told me.

Nagini gasped in surprise, causing her to gag on the large hamster she was devouring. “You pathetic little boy!” she hissed. “You’re so full of yourself!”
He, apparently a bearer of numerous incredible gifts like most OCs, must have been a Parselmouth because he responded calmly, “So? Better than being full of someone else. That would make me a cannibal. And that is, in fact, frowned upon in most societies.”

Hmmm. So the cheekbones weren’t the only things he stole from Johnny Depp.

Mungo clapped his hands together. “So! Are we leaving for Hogwarts or what?”

“We are indeed,” I informed him. “The sooner, the better. Just let me fetch my luggage.”

And so I packed everything I would need-- food, robes, my computer, my complete collection of “Pokemon” DVDs, Nagini’s terrarium, personal toiletries, dress shoes, loafers, basketball shoes, cross-trainers, running shoes, jazz shoes, neon orange Chuck Taylors, flip-flops, hiking boots, snow boots, go-go boots, moccasins, ice skates, those nifty shoes that light up when you walk, bunny slippers, swim fins, pumps, mukluks, galoshes, steel-toed boots, ballet slippers, and stiletto-heeled slingbacks.

Mungo squinted at me as I attempted to heave my heavy bag onto my back. “I think you have too many shoes.”

“Shut up!” I replied angrily.

And with that, we walked gallantly into the sunset, through the revolving door.

THWONK.

Head-On, I hate your commercials, but I love your product!


COMMENTS:

Yo, dawg, you know you still haven’t given back those slingbacks you borrowed from my son that LOOK SO DELECTABLY GOOD ON NAGINI.
--Posted by daddylusciouslocks.

This is… depressing. I never thought I’d say this, but I believe you’ve sunk to new lows in DISRESPECT FOR YOUR BELOVED PET SNAKE.
--Posted by hbpmaster.

I’ve thought long and hard, master, and I think that I’ve finally come to the conclusion that NAGINI IS UNDERAPPRECIATED.
--Posted by wormtail77

Hey, at least I managed to stay out of prison! And it’s not like you wouldn’t use the Bambi-eye tactics yourself, you know. It’s the Slytherin way to BE APPRECIATIVE OF SNAKES, SO WHY AREN’T YOU?
--Posted by prettynpureblood

Hello, this is Reinholdt Aristotle Brandt, personal secretary to misters Crabbe, Goyle, and Greyback respectively. They wish to inform you that, although in their current incarcerated state, they WOULD BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO SHOWER NAGINI WITH GIFTS AND THINK SHE AND HER BOYFRIEND SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO GO TO THE PARTY ON SATURDAY.
--Posted by rab411.

NAGINI! Stop editing my comments section, YOU ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS SPECIMEN OF YOUR SPECIES, YOU! YOU DESERVE TO GO TO THE PARTY ON SATURDAY FOR SUCH GENIUS!
--Posted by thedarklord666.

Edit your posts? Why, whatever do you mean?
--Posted by sparklediva00.