Some of you may be wondering why I'm writing this short little parody. Make no mistake; some fics actually do the whole "Harry leaves for another country" quite well, including to the USA.

But some fics generally attack Britain for everything, as though this fictional HP-universe means that everyone on this island is a fucking idiot, to the point that the author comes off as at least borderline racist. Well, apart from Harry, who plays the role of the author's mouthpiece, and of course, apart from any girls he bangs.

The real gem was when I once clicked on someone's profile and was launched into a riveting rant about how this guy screamed about how Britain was full of retarded sheep or something and ended it with saying that the US ought to nuke them. Yes, because of Harry fucking Potter.

The face palm that commenced put me into a coma for several months.

Anyway, that rant was what put the idea in my head, and many months later, I finally got around to writing this. Enjoy.

Harry stepped out of the airport. He took a deep breath, taking in the sweet smell of smog.

He'd finally not been able to take it anymore. The conniving manipulative mind of that conniving manipulator Dumbledore, the jealousy of his red headed ex-best friend Ron, the irritating-ness of his bushy-haired ex-second-best friend Hermione, the stalker-ness of his red-headed-ex-best friend's little sister Ginny, the treachery of his late dad's second-best-friend Remus, the dickery of his late mum's greasy-haired ex-best friend Severus- wait, he wasn't supposed to know that yet, er, the dickery of his late dad's greasy-haired arch-rival Snape, the general douchery by the Order of the Phoenix, the greed of the goblins who'd handed over his gold to various members of the Order-

Harry paused the thoughts in his head to give the reader a slight break.

And play.

-the sadistic and murderous mind of that sadistic murderer Voldemort, the numerous Death Eaters out to torture him horrifically and deliver him to Voldemort, the vaguely evil plans of his arch-rival Malfoy, the even vaguer evil plans of his red headed ex-best friend's mum Mrs Weasley, the-

Well, long story short, there were a lot of people who'd generally screwed him. Up the arse. Seriously, that's how bad it was, screwed up the arse. By a big dick. A twelve-inch dick. Screwing him. Up the arse. He got screwed up the arse by a twelve-inch dick.

Interestingly, that's the average number of inches given to Harry in most lemons.

So Harry had revoked his British citizenship in order to not have the Ministry's laws apply to him (except that's not quite how it works, but let's not go into that) and applied for citizenship with the USA, because everyone in Britain talks about how great the United States are, and everyone says that if they feel oppressed by The Man they'll go there instead.

After a couple of owls and a Floo call that took far longer than it should have because Harry couldn't work out what the thickly accented Southerner was trying to say, Harry was informed that his application was successful.

He made his way to Heathrow and took the first plane out.

Now he'd finalised everything the Muggle way, he had to get over to the American Ministry of Magic.

His heart swelled like a red balloon.


It had taken him years, but he was free. Free to live his life the way he wanted, how he wanted. Away from the sheep- he wondered briefly why he came up with that particular metaphor, before deciding it probably had something to do with the thick white woollen jumpers everyone had been wearing back home.

This place would be different, he could feel it. The American people weren't like the people back home. No, he was sure there weren't going to be any inbred people here, or any racists, or any people who blindly followed politicians or were easily fooled by the media, or any combinations of the above.

He held his fist tight. 'Mum, Dad, I'll make you proud,' he swore to himself.

Harry walked forwards, making to cross the road before him. It felt almost as though this was his last obstacle.

He was promptly hit by a car driving on the wrong bloody side of the road.

It kills over one Englishman a year.

Usually he's drunk, but sometimes it's a result of spending most of your life in a cupboard under the stairs and being unaware of the world around you.

This must be stopped.

Buy a ribbon.