Harry Potter isn’t bad. You’re simply sexist and terribly prejudiced because your monumental ego won’t let you read something written by a woman. You’re so brazenly engulfed in the flames of your own male chauvinism that your vile temper, the most remarkable and glorified attribute of every man, dare not entertain the very idea of a lady climbing up the stairs of a patriarchal society and achieving eminence. Your celibate heart cries out in ominous grunts—suggestive of a dying swine—whenever the topic of females gaining limelight is brought up. Your delicate scrotum chips off bit by bit as you enviously gaze upon the fair sex dominating you in every sphere of existence. The moment your nose starts dripping blood stained with disappoinment and your ears bleed with remorse, that’s when you finally realize that the Harry Potter novels must be eulogized and worshipped lest your guilty conscience makes you hang yourself in the closet.