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(11/11/09 5:00am)
We are two of over 350 students who are strongly opposed to Tucker Max's appearance on our campus this Wednesday night. This event is a slap in the face to the women on campus, the sexual abuse survivors, the sexual and racial minorities he denigrates with unprintable slurs, the physically disabled, and anyone who does not fit into a white, Western-European, narrow-minded standard of beauty. We are appalled and disgusted that the HOP deems it acceptable to use our tuition dollars to bring a man to campus who routinely and blithely refers to women as "cum dumpsters" and "hos" and believes that "[y]our gender is hard-wired for whoredom," especially in light of the fervent and widespread opposition from students, faculty, and some members of the administration.
(04/01/09 5:00am)
George Washington University's Lisner Auditorium housed a chaotic enactment of an ethnic truism this past Wednesday night: All Jews know each other. Certainly, the majority of the audience for world-renowned Israeli fusion band The Idan Raichel Project was, in fact, Jewish.
(02/25/09 5:00am)
After I paid a stranger 50 bucks to put a hole in my nose, but before said nose began hemorrhaging, I tottered over to the mirror and examined my face. "God, I'm cool," I thought, an opinion contradicted by my lunatic shrieks of "It hurts! It huuuurts!" only moments before. Then the room got hazy, the dull throbbing in the right side of my face intensified, and I plopped back down into the vinyl chair to which my piercer had threatened to strap me if I didn't stop squirming, screaming or hounding him with neurotic questions like "Does nose piercing routinely lead to dismemberment, would you say, or did you just have to put that on the waiver to cover all your bases?"
(09/26/07 5:00am)
For when you have wrenched all possible jokes about The Office out of your mind-numbing job and are three minutes away from a catatonic slump on the copy machine:
(02/22/07 5:00am)
It was a Wednesday morning like any other. The alarm beeped petulantly, far too early. The blankets had managed to wind their way around me in bizarrely tight and complicated swaddles. I stumbled into the shower with all the joy and enthusiasm of a soulless corporate hack going through the 9-to-5. A classic case of the dreaded midweek doldrums, the pandemic condition comprised of one part stress, two parts sleepy inattention, and one part seasonal affective disorder.
(02/21/07 5:00am)
Remember the Shoebox Lady? Sometime in the mid-90s, Hallmark realized capitalism shouldn't be limited to the roses-and-syrup set. An entire division of ostensibly "snarky" cards sprung up next to the estrogen aisle, and the Shoebox lady was born. A grizzled old gal with clouds of smoke-gray hair, the Shoebox lady wore determinedly unfashionable sunglasses and saggy fannypacks, brandished the occasional cane for maximum geriatric emphasis, and espoused punch lines that suggested the recipient of the birthday card was a minute away from a hasty Eucharist and familial squabbling over the will. The other "funny" cards, heavily laden with ironic pictures of David Hasselhoff in spandex and snapshots of grumpy-looking bulldogs, didn't stand a chance against the Shoebox lady's wizened, slatternly grousing.
(02/15/07 5:00am)
We were halfway into our 9 a.m. Arabic class, each of us thinking longingly of bed, when we were jolted out of fantasies of flannel and down by political dynamite. My Arabic teacher, a kindly Palestinian man with a penchant for caps straight out of Newsies, had said those four magic, evocative syllables: 9/11.
(02/09/07 5:00am)
So, you want to hear something disgusting?