BEN CARSON STABBING VICTIM: ‘CHOSEN ONE?’

A number of troubling allegations have shrouded Republican presidential candidate Ben Carson’s history and political credentials with mystery and doubt.  However, not until very recently has there been serious cause for alarm.  Just this morning, the stabbing victim of Mr. Carson’s admittedly dark, angry past has come forward with a haunting, lightning bolt-shaped belt buckle scar and a claim to be the “Chosen One” of an ancient political prophecy, foretelling the demise of the GOP’s maniacal bad seeds, including surgeon-turned-politician Dr. Benny C.

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The victim and survivor of Mr. Carson’s bout of wild knife fury, a rather hairy potter and general craftsman by trade, has chosen to withhold his name from publication for privacy and safety reasons, and, consequently, will be referred to simply as the Boy Who Lived (or BWL for short).  When asked why he hadn’t stepped forward earlier with such prophetic forebodings, the Boy Who Lived replied that he hadn’t even been aware of the ill-omened tidings until an enormous man carrying a disturbing birthday cake broke into his home to inform him of his destiny.  [The intruder was later positively identified as 55th governor of New Jersey Chris Christie.]

Additionally, according to the BWL, he only survived Carson’s fury–and just barely–through the protective powers of his belt buckle which had, incidentally, been imbued with a stupid idiot’s love – the force most despised by Carson, which warded off his pointed metallic advances and broke his pathological power, banishing him into the shadow realm of his home bathroom where he huddled, in a haughty, contemptuous state of broken disdain, his madness diminished but by no means destroyed.

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The BWL claims that he was later contacted by a crazed, bespectacled figure who incessantly waved rotten tea leaves in his face, shouting in a strange Brooklyn accent that the “GOP horcruxes must be destroyed.”  The Boy Who Lived was unsettled but didn’t take the ravings particularly seriously until he discovered while watching the news that the deranged clairvoyant had been none other than Bernie Sanders, yet another presidential hopeful, spouting promises of socialist nirvana while simultaneously advising the destruction of horcruxes on the side.

Though the BWL attempted to contact Sanders once more to determine the nature of Ben Carson’s purported rightwing-swinging horcruxes, he never heard from bespectacled Bernie again, only receiving a grave warning from the Socialist Party USA to cease all correspondence immediately lest there be “dire consequences for us all…”  Shortly thereafter, however, Mr. BWL received a number of peculiar emails from the personal address ‘madame_prez_HRC@yahoo.com,’ listing the horcruxes, one by one, in odd, ominous succession.  The list reads as follows: 1. Donald Trump’s hair[piece] 2. Ben Carson’s watercolor self portrait with Jesus 3. George W. Bush’s special golden goblet (rumored to contain Osama Bin Laden’s tears) 4. Sarah Palin’s spectacles 5. Ted Cruz’s bible 6. Trump Towers, and, last of all, 7. The wall between Mexico and the United States.

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Should Bernie Sanders and the mysterious “Madame Prez HRC’s” emails be truthful, the Boy Who Lived surely has a daunting quest set forth before him and we ask that all US citizens, muggles, wizards, elephants and donkeys alike, stand united in support of this brave hairy pottery artisan as he embarks upon what’s certain to be a frightfully unsettling journey.  And remember to at all times keep your eyes peeled for anything peculiar or wicked lurking in the shadows of the political underworld, whether it be a knife-carrying Carson, a wig(?)-wielding, bigotry-bearing Trump, or really just any politician with a particularly mischievous look in the eye.  Which might just be each and every one of them.  Godspeed.

Voldemort’s Cover of “Hello” by Adele

As some of you already know, I recently attempted to post a Lord Voldy version of Adele’s “Hello,” but that ended up being a twisted, husk of a failure because the angry copyright monsters stripped me of my sound and left me with an unsettling silent video of an evil sorcerer’s weird face instead of the darkly magical music video I’d originally envisioned … SO since they’ve forced my hand, I have had no other choice but to go Voldemort himself for some disturbing though legally acceptable vocals. And He (Who Must Not be Named) has provided in spades.

Please enjoy this haunting ballad:

(Work)Life Pre-Russia, Pre-Lawschoolio: Unexpectedly, Delightfully Peculiar

As some of the members of my friendz and family flock already know, while biding my time in motherland Columbus before blasting off agaaaaaiiin (<stole that line from Team Rocket), I’ve been working in between a small law firm and an interpreting agency (literally in between – my desk is positioned in no-man’s-land limbo terrain between the two fine establishments) respectively run by a hilarious, wise-cracking attorney and his particular-though-warm, equally entertaining Russian wife.  It’s been a dandy and unexpectedly bizarre work environment, which is my ideal since I seek out and thrive on eccentricity like Voldemort thrives on unicorn blood in the Sorcerer’s Stone shenanigans…….

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Anywhooooo, since I’ve been working here for over two months now, at least 47,056 extremely odd incidents have already taken place, but sadly my lil pea brain can’t remember them all and, even if it could, my lil pea fingers would hurt a lot and maybe even snap like a dang kitkat if I attempted to type up an account of all the weird things that happen in my life (even if merely limiting it to my werq world).  So, in light of these pitiable realities, I’ll limit myself to sharing with you a fistful of noteworthy recent events just to fingerpaint ya a clearer picture of the current goings-on of my vida loca, chica.

  • Some random bros came in one day about a week ago and, apparently, took QUITE a zoom in photo of my face while I was talking on the phone, which, I’ve just found out, is to be used on the company website.  Unsurprisingly, my glorious 15 minutes of fame includes an extreme close up shot of my unflattering giggle face.  I imagine that the caption under the photo on the company website will read, “As per the Employment Non-Discrimination Act of 2015, we now hire psychopaths.  Don’t be alarmed; we only hire the upbeat ones 😉 Shhhshhhshhh…”
  • A conversation that I had with my boss on the phone once:

“Hey Jim; there’s a client out here asking for you.”

“WHATCHU SAY?!?”

“MANE, I DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYMO’!”

“Well, sheeeeit tell him to come on BACK.”

“Aight, homey.”

And we never discussed this exchange again.  (Just as a side note: my boss is a 68 year old attorney)

  • Once, just as I was about to step into the elevator to take it down to the ground floor, a large metal coggish rod fell right out of the top of the sick, little metal death box’s ceiling, landing at my feet and terrorizing the woman and child behind me who had been following me to what appears to have been our imminent doom.  When I told my boss, he responded with a laugh and said, “You do what you want, but I’m taking the stairs.” (Incidentally, the elevator was repaired shortly thereafter.  I still take the stairs.)
  • Today, unbeknownst to me, the firemen in the hood had earlier used a nearby fire hydrant, which sent demon-possessed bubbles rushing all throughout our building pipes.  Classically, hoping for a glass of water, I instead received an explosion in the face.  This may have been alright, I might just have been able to have proceeded unfazed and with some lingering dignity from this event, had I chosen to forego my nice scalding hot afternoon cup o’ tea.  I did not.  I came out of that one with neither poise nor dignity, only extremely burnt red sausage hands and a newfound fear of hot water – or, as psychologists refer to it, Agua Caliente Diavolo.
  • BREAKING NEWS: as I was writing about my hot water burns above, I received a call from my boss claiming to be the head of the Walmart lingerie department and informing me of some great new sales.  I found out from him that there’s a sweet, new 2 for 1 sale taking place this very moment, so I ordered two of everything – who am I to pass up a topnotch Wally World offer like that?
  • About once a week, I have a very pleasant phone conversation with a prison inmate calling for an attorney who is frequently not in the office.  So that his call from prison isn’t completely wasted, we usually have a quick, profound chatsky.  So far, we’ve discussed the subtleties of prison cuisine, the philosophy of forgiveness and regret, redemption tactics, my favorite Halloween candies – pretty much all of the important stuff.
  • I was once asked to dispose of a single m&m; on a separate occasion, I was asked to frighten away from the parking lot outside of our building a man named Pablo who can’t/won’t stop spinning around a huge, bedazzled sign advertising his used car company.  I’m not yet certain how to best go about describing my job duties/responsibilities on my resume.

Regrettably, I’m gonna have to stop myself there because the third degree burns on my frankfurter fingers are starting to flare up.  Gotta go run and grab some bandages for these blistering bad boys.  If my next entry is difficult to read and words look like this: lksjaghlksjdfgksj;ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhfd sdkgjhskl;jgh dffffffffg sdghsdklg;hl, just know that my fingers will have likely been amputated and I will be attempting to type with my mangled fists.  On that note, catch ya later, gators. 😀

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Donald Trump: Smug Muggle or Idiotic Wizard simply disguised as one?

So has anyone noticed that Donald Trump is just a confused Professor Lockhart masquerading about as a muggle? Still using those wily memory charms and making people believe he’s committed wondrous, fantastical, fictional deeds… Someone had better alert St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies that their patient has escaped…

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Identity Crisis: Wizard Born into a Muggle’s Body

Philbert McFlorence, a citizen of Oniontown, Pennsylvania, claims to have been born into the wrong body—that’s to say, that he has been born into the body of an ordinary man rather than that of a wizard, which is, tragically, the identity to which he has related since he was a young muggle boy. Immensely uncomfortable with his non-magical existence (“I’M NOT EVEN A DAMN SQUIB!”  shrieked Mr. McFlorence at a pitch that certainly defied the limits of the average muggle’s vocal range), Philbert contends that he is a “prisoner in a butterball body that betrays [him] with each impotent ‘Avada Kedavra,’ with every failed Fidelius charm.” When we asked Mr. P McFlorence why he was pointing a tiny twig at us with a trembling hand, he bellowed, “CRUCIO I’M SUCH A FAILURE CRUCIO MUDBLUD SCUM CRUCIO DON’T MOCK ME” and proceeded to aggressively poke a swirly smudge of what might have been black eyeliner on the underside of his left forearm. Whether he was itching a cancerous black mole, trying to wipe a bit of dirt off of his arm, or attempting to summon a dark wizard lord to violently murder us is, at this time, unclear, but we wish Mr. Philbert McFlo-Rida all the best and sincerely hope that his legally dubious, witch doctor muggle-to-sorcerer surgical procedure (scheduled to take place next week in Parangaricutirimicuaro, Mexico) goes “brilliantly,” as the British wizarding youth say these days.

Casey Normando

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Mr. Philbert wouldn’t allow us to take a photo, so we had no choice but to paint a haunting portrait of his tormented gaze instead. Notice the vague resemblance to Mad Eye Moody

 

Une Folle en France

As a number of you may have already known or suspected, I’ve recently hopped the pond and moved on over to France, a fromage-filled, delectable wonderland. My mission and raison d’être here is both to teach English and to upgrade my own level of Français. Before my departure, I’d been feeling fairly confident in my French abilities; I had been reading French Harry Potter on the daily in NYC, and, obviously, mastering Harry Potter in French is the highest mark of impeccable language skeeillz. I was surprised to find that reading Harry Potter and conversing with a family of French natives are, in fact, two entirely different things, and you cannot compare your aptitude for bilingual wizard fiction comprehension with real-life, speedy, colloquialism-ridden French convos. It’s apples and oranges; sorcerers and squibs; Severus and Spongebob.  I’d like to think that it was merely jet lag causing me to stumble through introductions, forget how to say “breakfast,” occasionally mispronounce a word so appallingly that the family thought I was swearing at them (this happened only once and was due in part to trickery of the mastermind pictured below), etc.  It could also simply be that the average French dinnertime conversation does not consist only of Harry Potter vocab.  Who really knows.

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Thibault: Trickster/Mastermind Extraordinaire

It’s been a week now, though, and each day I sound less like a demented buffoon and more like a refined French lady (although, I, of course, realize that the leap from “demented” to “refined” is a large one, and it may take me a sec to work out the kinks and transform into a glorious French butterfly.

However, this week has been all about rest, relaxation and the transition from sleep-deprived lunacy to my natural state of a functional, cheery, semi-maniacal gal. Living with an absolutely wonderful French family at their gorgeous poolside home, while exploring the gigantic, magical forest to be discovered just down the road from the house has helped me immensely with the transition into what appears to be an extraordinary new life and adventure to be had here in Poitiers.

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View of the poolio from ma chambre and Nicholas being tossed around in la piscine 😀

Nevertheless, my fingers remain firmly crossed for Monday because that is the day that the real adventures begin.  I will teach (for the first time !!whoahowahowhoah!!) English to the three boys who live here with me in this magnificent home, aaaand my French university classes begin bright and early that fine journée; maybe I’ll make some new international homeys. Fingers crossed, fingers crossed, doigts croisés!

A bientôt, y’all.

Tom’s To Do List: A Day in the Dark Lord’s Life

I found Mr. He Who Must Not Be Named’s to do list drifting around a Burger King parking lot and thought that I should share:LV'stodolist

  • Arise from the bottomless hellhole abyss in which I slumber and take a bubble bath prepared inside of a coffin filled with Lucius Malfoy’s tears
  • Liberally apply sunscreen to preserve smooth, milky pallor
  • Purchase pet serpent to be worn as a boa; whisper sweet Parseltongue nothings into its ear when feeling lonesome
  • Go to dry cleaner; pick up black cloak, black slacks, black hooded cloak, black wifebeater, black boxer briefs – INSTEAD OF LEAVING MONETARY TIP, SET BUILDING AFLAME AND CURSE ALL MUGGLES WITHIN VICINITY
  • Send job resume to Hogwarts again
  • Go canoeing; cool off in the infinite shadow depths of my private, inferi-infested lake
  • Slip more love potion into Bellatrix’s butterbeer
  • Take firewhiskey shots and vent about Harry Potter in my new diary (since those assholes impaled my other one with a basilisk fang)
  • Go drunken dementorback riding
  • Alternate between joyous cackling and furious shrieking to make H.P.’s scar hurt
  • Grab cocktail with Severus Snape; maintain heavy eye contact to be certain that his loyalty remains unfaltering; check that other half of the BFF bracelet remains on his wrist
  • Read another chapter of Lord of the Rings before bed (fingers crossed for my boi ♥Sauron♥)
  • Cast the Dark Mark to use as nightlight
  • Cry myself to sleep thinking about a young, bespectacled boy named Harry, the Boy Who Lived to Drive a Lord Loony