Posts by Jacko:
An Open Letter to Dumbledore and the Hogwarts Community:
Hogwarts needs a Hillel House. A Hillel House would provide space for Jewish witches and wizards to engage with, study, and advance their relationship with magical Judaism. It would serve as a place of academic and spiritual discourse for magical Jews to explore their faith and understand how to worship God in a society where we can materialize or transform whatever we want, traverse thousands of miles in an instant and make a jelly bean of any flavor. But above all, it would help fight the rampant anti-Semitism on this campus.
For too long, the school’s magical Jewish community has existed at a status of invisibility and marginalization. The placement of Care of Magical Creatures excursions on Saturday mornings makes it impossible for magical Jews to both keep Shabbat and learn outside of the classroom. Hogwarts’ Autumnal Feast always seems to be scheduled on Yom Kippur, a Jewish day of fasting. The school’s kosher options are few and far between, normally consisting of just swamp cabbage and pumpkin bread. Not to mention the “only available worship space” on Jewish Holidays just happens to be right next to the Womping Willow.
On top of these institutional obstacles, Jewish students seem to encounter another bias incident every day. In my Charms class, one girl keeps turning my yarmulke into a bat. And whenever I eat in the great hall, I have to sit next to the potion’s master or else students slip pork’s bane into my swamp cabbage.
The attacks are not just directed at me. One of our brightest young Jewish wizards, Herschel, can barely show his face in class. Every time he goes to Defense Against the Dark Arts, one or two jokesters turn his pais—or as the students so lovingly call them, “Jew curls,”—into gilly-worms. Do you know how many charms it takes to retransfigure gilly-worms? A lot of charms.
Our ability to practice our rituals has even come under fire. Last year’s Passover service was interrupted with a hail of dungbombs, the ark that holds our torah was filled with pixies, and this winter, our Hanukkah menorah’s candles were replaced with Shrieking Shirley fireworks purchased from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Requests for an investigation were ignored.
We, the Jewish witches and wizards of Hogwarts, need refuge from these patterns of intolerance. We don’t need to be constantly harassed over the fact that a burning bush can be summoned by any competent third-year with a simple fire incantation. And we shouldn’t have to feel unsafe. One Jewish first-year loves quidditch and is a talented seeker, but is too afraid to continue playing on her house team after receiving anonymous threats that she would soon get a bludger launched at her “ugly Jew face” This cannot go on.
Once a student spat at me and said her patronus was a swastika. That’s not even an animal.
These incidents are not the cause of isolated bigots, but rather part of a widespread, toxic environment. That’s why we so desperately need a Hillel House. We have already found a Jewish house ghost, Mortally-Maimed Moishe, who is completely on-board. We have designed robes—blue and white—and we think we would name the house Hirschenbaum after Chaim Hirschenbaum, the first Jewish wizard to serve as secretary of owl postage in the ministry.
A Hogwarts Hillel would be a necessary source of refuge from the storm of anti-Semitism, but the storm itself must be stopped as well. Dumbledore, you cannot allow Hogwarts to continue to be a home for such vicious attacks and hatred. If the school does not make any steps towards progress and inclusivity, we will report the abuse to the ministry. We have powerful friends in Gringotts.
Brindlebarb is a 5th year Herbology Major
John Réalguy, Professor of Philosophy, has been teaching at Dartmouth for over 5 years now. While addressing a class last Monday, Réalguy could be heard saying, “You all know I’m not a real professor right? Frankly I’m surprised you are all still going along with this.”
Réalguy recalls how 5 years ago he wandered into the Philosophy department looking for a bathroom. “I came across one that said “For Philosophy department use only” so I lied and said that I was a professor. Ever since then they have given me classes to teach. Let me be clear that I know absolutely nothing about Philosophy.”
Students in his class Philosophy 53: Thinking Hard, report that they have never received any homework nor taken a test. “At first I thought it was kind of strange,” said Sam Pentucky ’14, “but you have to admit the man knows his stuff. I’ve never heard ideas presented in this way before. It has changed how I look at the world.”
“After five years it’s hard to come up with this stuff everyday,” admitted Réalguy, “So my general lesson plan is just to turn on the news and say literally anything that comes to mind. Some days it’s a rant about how 9/11 was a lie. Other days it might be about how yoga pants could be the key to eternal salvation.”
Reviews of his class are always overwhelmingly positive with students commenting that he “challenged them like no other professor” and “presents ideas that no one else could even dream of.” He has had dozens of students, like Stacy Lively ’15, approach him to do research. “I remembered how sometimes in class he would go take a nap in the corner because he needed to “get over a hangover so he could think better.” Who else is going to teach you such practical skills?”
Réalguy notes that while it has been a great five years, it has been getting trickier to keep things going. “The backstory is always the hardest part. I have to be careful what I make up. I once accidentaly told people six different ways my aunt died so I have to remember that I have six different aunts.”
For Réalguy, teaching has become “the most fun hobby I’ve ever taken on. But who knows how long it will last?” As of the time of writing the process had begun for considering Réalguy for tenure.
The Sorority Alien
This alien, normally a parasitic , Omega Centaurian shapeshifter just loves her sisterhood. She’s always either talking about the next mixer she’ll attend or which Sigma Nu’s DNA she wants to replicate. And she wears so much makeup. Probably just to cover up the mercury blemishes her skin is developing in our oxygenated atmosphere.
The Stoner Alien
This alien, usually one of those body snatchers from the Lower Andromeda Quartile, can barely make it to class, let alone take field notes on human weaknesses to exploit for methods of colonization. He just sits in his dorm and inhales zero-gravity cannabis through his exo-pulmonary apparati.
The Bookworm Alien
These aliens never leave the library, soaking up as much about our species as they can like the true homophiles they are. Whenever you want to meet up with them they are either “studying up for a midterm” or “analyzing human crowd patterns to maximize tractor beam efficiency”. They’re total buzzkills.
The Frat Star Alien
This alien, typically a Fornax-Cluster native, really knows how to make his cyto-synthetic-skin-suit party. He will put down beers like the black holes his galaxy is so famous for. You can find him raging at a toga party, prowling the basement scene for a lonely hottie or taking soil and air samples to best calibrate shield materials for his enterprise’s fleets.
The Activist Alien
This alien will never shy away from injustice. She will stand up for whatever cause she believes in. Granted, she is just doing so to better understand and prepare for the human protests following her solar system’s imminent invasion of our planet. While she may be standing next to you now with at picket sign rally against your cafeteria’s use of non-local kale, soon enough, she will be the one breaking up your anti-alien-overlord sit-in.
The voice-mimicking matrix employed by this barium-based extra-terrestrial will hit every note in the tenor part of that Sara Bareilles song that was arranged by her group’s musical director. When she’s not pretending to be an instrument with the “BarTenors” she’s most likely contacting the mother-ship of her interstellar mining company with updates on Earth’s manganese reserves. Also, her solo of Regina Spektor’s song Eet is amaaaaaaaazing.
The Hood Museum’s newest art installation, on the surface a run-of-the-mill pile of dead fetuses, has sent the art world into a frenzy surmising its full emotional and intellectual weight. Since its unveiling Tuesday, the piece has ensnared both the hearts and minds its many viewers.
“This is totally a neo-Dadaist commentary on the scotomization of hermeneutical injustice,” said Bryce Stevens ’15, slowly encircling the heap of rotting unborn fetuses. “I get it. And I’m just so humbled.”
The poignant piece took up a 10-square-foot space on the first floor of the Hood Museum, where . Various lights have been scattered around to cast shadows off of the spindly limbs and grotesquely small faces of the fetuses. As viewers paced around the pile of miniscule, blue-gray humanoids, many were moved to weep openly. The pristine silence of the affected audience was ruptured only by the occasional burst of gas from the rotting baby corpses.
“How was I this apathetic about the post-synoecistic underpinnings of gender identity in Afro-Asiatic communities until now?” said a teary-eyed Jessica Roth ’17. “It just really makes you think, you know?”
Caroline McAllister ’14, an art history major, immediately fainted at the sight of the piece.
“It’s my mother,” she said upon awakening.
Praise for the piece fell short of universal, as some failed to grasp the full weight of the artwork. “Look, it’s just your typical everyday pile of dead fetuses,” said Eric Fitzler ‘16. “Like one you could find on the street.”
Nevertheless, the room was abuzz with excitement by the time artist Jak Loone made an appearance.
“I just really like dead fetuses,” said Loone. “Look how gross and shriveled they are!”
Loone then giggled maniacally, readjusted his Cookie Monster hat and proceeded to pee on his work to a standing ovation.
- One sock.
- A monster!! DA…I mean…MOM!!
- Nope, sorry, that was a sweater. I forgot about this one, I used to wear it when it was cold on the boat.
- My nunchucks. How else can I defend the family?
- Just some oregano. It’s my “pick-me-up” for when I’m sad.
- 30 boxes of pop tarts. Uhh I need to eat something with the “oregano.”
- A box. Within the box is a ball, a string, and a letter. The ball was my favorite toy when I was young; I used to bounce it for hours. The string is what’s left of the rope that tied the family boat to the harbor. I remember the day it snapped, the day my father took the boat and left us. As I’ve grown older and my feelings toward my father grow colder, I’m not sure whether I miss the boat or the man more. Within a week of him leaving I received the letter from him. He didn’t explain himself, he just wished me a good life and left me some money. I bought this box. Innocence lost.
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The Big Game
February Football Fest
The Lombardi Showdown
The Amazing Concave Dish
Doritos Commercial Championships 2014
Men’s Lingerie Bowl
It Sure Ain’t Chess!
The Fake Fight
Le Petite Sport
Rugby, innit? It innit.
National Couch Day
El Bowlo Supero
Bruno Mars (feat. Seattle Seahawks & Denver Broncos)
❄ Snow F’sho
❄ Cocaine Wonderland
❄ Christmas In February
❄ Politically Correct Fairy Tales
❄ Nuclear Winter
❄ The Snowpranos
❄ Midterms! Midterms! Midterms!
❄ The People We Lost 2013
❄ Covidien Corp. Presents: A Very Covidien Carnival™
❄ 30 Years of SportsCenter
❄ The Glee 3D Carnival Experience
❄ The Last Temptation of ChrICE
❄ Werner Herzog’s Aguirre: Wrath of God
❄ Frozen Snow Turds
❄ Green Key