Boris the Sock's Your Body, Your Sock
By Cynthia Stout and Fern S. Davant

Boris is the resident entertainer. His talents include song, dance, and overall mischief-making. His manager, Miss Fern S Davant, and his owner, Miss Cynthia Stout, bestow their utmost love upon their darling sock. Fern sold him to Cynthia over the enchanted sock black market at a horribly marked up price, but Cynthia and Fern have been friends and co-owners since then, training him to be a performer and anxiety reliever for all residents of Gryffindor Tower. His adventures are sure to provide hours of entertainment as he haplessly walks into trouble at every turn of his Hogwarts experience.

Ah, love was in the air everywhere you looked around, and Fern was frolicking around outside. In her underwear. In the snow. Yes, it was not because of Fern's Ritualistic Pagan Dance o' Winter that she was frolicking, it was because she'd lost a poker game very, very badly.

After she had made it safely back inside, with only a couple frost-bitten body parts, Fern began complaining loudly between shivers. "I'm going to be sick for Valentine's Day. What will my date do?"

"Date?" Cynthia snirked, "The only person who's even looked at you was Professor Black, and his eyes were saying, 'You missed a spot.’"

"Well, well, well," stuttered Fern. "He's just covering up because he knows he wants me. Who can resist the most blenderly woman in all of Gryffdom?!"

"I don't know Fern, maybe someone who doesn't want certain appendages cut off?" retorted Cyn. "Besides, what fun would you be if you had to behave? Those damn girls in room 1563 would get away with their childish pranks!"

"Psh," Fern growled, "I'm currently in love with Anakin Skywalker."

"You are aware he's a fictional character," Cyn informed Fern.

"Meh, who cares."

Boris at this time was highly puzzled. As he sat, he decided to ask the girls a question that had been weighing heavily on his mind, "Hey, what's love got to do, got to do with it?"

"Absolutely nothing," replied Cyn. "Evidently, if you're like Fern, it's just how hot the other person, or sock in your case, is."

"Hey! Are you calling me shallow?!" roared Fern, slightly angered and partially proud.

"Of course not Fern. It's all about the personality right? Not the clothes, not the tunic, not the hot hair or any thing of that sort," Cyn asked.

Boris pondered, "So I just want to find a hot sock that I think I like and what then?"

"Well, there's a subtle difference between complete utter physical infatuation and someone you wanna marry," Fern butted in. "See, dating is a proud and noble ritual in which you ask out someone, take them out to dinner, grill them mercilessly, and decide in a short period of time if you want to pump them or dump them."

"But how do I pick who to 'date'?" questioned Boris earnestly.

"Well," supplied Cyn, "first you have to decide what kind of sock you're in to. Then go to places where that kind of sock would be. Or sometimes you can just randomly find some sock you see on the street, or maybe it'll even be a sock you've known for quite some time and just decide, 'Wow, I want THAT sock!'"

"Well, there's other ways, too. You can go on unscrupulous chat rooms, use a sleazy dating service, or use a sleazier dating phone service. Of course once you find someone you have to use a pickup line."

"A pickup line?" Boris questioned.

"Yes," Fern said, "A pickup line is the first thing you say to someone that really makes them want to get out of your dreams and into your car."

"Can I have an example?" Boris asked.

"Sure," Fern said, "My pickup for Anakin would be, 'Is that a light saber in your pocket or are you happy to see me?'"

"But, you know Boris, the best pickup lines I've heard are ones where you compliment the lucky sock. Fern's comment was a form of a compliment, but lines where you compliment that lucky sock on how pretty it is would work well," Cyn added.

"So, like... complimenting a sock on how sparkly white it is would be a good thing?" Boris supplied.

"Well, sure, if they're a white sock. If they're a rainbow toe sock that went through the wash with some bleach, that might not be so good," warned Cyn. "But do what feels right in the moment."

"Let's see you try it Boris," Fern interjected, "pick out one of the lovely socks in this room, will it be Bacholorette 1, 2, or 3."

Boris carefully perused the room, and picked out the sock on Fern's left foot. "Hey baby, I'm rubber, your glue, what bounces off me sticks to you."

"I don't think that's a pick up line." Cyn moaned.

"HEY! THAT’S AN INANIMATE MALE SOCK. Leave Jordache alone," Fern screamed pulling her left foot away.

"I don't care. He's hot. Just look at that ribbing! It makes me drool," Boris argued. He walked up to Jordache and rubbed lightly against him. "Hey Jordache?" Boris looked nervous. "Would you perhaps, maybe, if you have some time, like to ummm... got uthah mvieswifmuh?"

"Boris, what the heck did you just say? I don't think even a sock could understand that!" Cyn cajoled.

Boris cleared his throat, "I said, would you like to go to the movies with me, Jordache?"

"OOOH! 'Movies', yeah sure you just want to neck," Fern said.

"Do socks even have necks," Cyn questioned.

Boris interrupted the minor squabble about sock anatomy, "Well actually, I really enjoy toe-ing."

And so, Boris dragged Fern's left foot, and more importantly Jordache, to the cinema. Fern avidly watched the movie, in an incredibly awkward position as the two socks toed. It was a really good movie about pirates. Or hobbits. Or piratey hobbits. Well, Fern couldn't remember. Afterwards the trio went to dinner were Boris began fervently proclaiming his love.

"Oh Jordache, I've never known a sock anything like you! You make my seams quiver with excitement! I don't know how I lived without knowing this feeling!"

Fern wiggled her toes, as she read a magazine entitled 'Male-Order Brides'. Jordache jiggled. Boris continued, "But where is there a place in this crazy mixed-up world for the love of two man-socks?"

"San Francisco," Fern answered in a high pitch voice.

"YOU TALK!" Boris yelled with joy.

"No, it's me you cotton ball, just screwing with your head. But it’s true."

"Then it's decided," Boris screamed with joy, "Jordache will you marry me in San Francisco?"

Fern tapped her foot a couple of times and Boris began crying tears of joy.

"Cyn, isn't San Francisco in Japan?" Fern asked when they returned home.

"No, US."

"Oh, is it in the state of Quebec?"

"No, California."

"Oh, well, you better drive."

To Be Continued…

Next Month's Episode: I Left my Sock in San Francisco