Elite Harvard Girls Have Been Taking Over Buildings
They are doing well supporting terrorism. But demonstrations can get exhausting and there’s no Quiche Lorraine or brioche.
The Xyiwa Embassy Hosts A Party For Harvard Girls
by Douglas Gilbert
In the neo-post adolescent milieu, the girls of Harvard, Yale, NYU, Columbia et.al. were mesmerized together in a love affair with their Marxist svengalis: they were to sing, to cry, to laugh, to protest, to demonstrate for the pleasure of criminal minds ensconced by tenure, who colonized their minds to justify October 7. Pusillanimous in the face of evil, there could only be academic pussyfooting with Marxist theory that the silly girls would absorb and spout on command. Only students. Yet mean girls can provide purgatory for everyone who knows not the folly of the ancient world: living again in a world of rape, murder, conquest, but unseen for a while in the delusional elegance of writing. Philosophers have slaves seen and unseen.
The Harvard girls had been good at demonstrations. The famous trio had become experts in the art of hysterical shouting of slogans in the style of a protest song: “Terrorism is blessed by the oppressed.” But as good as they were at rationalizing the torture of an enemy for a just cause, they began to have difficulty suppressing weird anxieties, and the dorm seemed haunted. Simple shadows startled them. They needed a party to consume spirits. Breaking into the library and vandalizing it was no longer fun. A book about poltergeists fell off a shelf during their last occupation.
There was another building take-over scheduled, but the trio of Amy, Céline, and Erika became fatigued by their notorious Professor Dadahit Lure. They wandered. They resented even an easy assignment: an at least a thirty page term paper with at least twenty references. Even a debutante could fake that easily. Party, party, partying is better though their parents would be shocked at their vulgarities. Erika wanted to be an opera singer, but now she’s an ostensible political science and faux history major who does drunken karaoke and boisterous protest marches like a drum majorette doing kabuki dance and yoga in support of terror: “War is peace: kill the oppressor.” Amy had the pretension and jargon of a scholar, Céline the je ne sais quoi of a third wheel.
The girls had been told by their magic mushroom guru to avoid the haunted houses and the Xyiwa Embassy, but they threw caution away to ignore the boos that opposed, deciding to going partying, believing the layered seductive lies of a Fauci Lasagna presentation. Excitement was needed.
New excitement. For them demonstrations were now staid; they were tired of what cant the to-do chants bade, wanted vulgar elegance: festivities in honor of oppressed barbarians gone chic.
The Embassy invitation said that it was a two-tier deal: it was a dance party with the greatest bands ever and after; there’d be a psychology lecture with experiential therapy exercise and out-of-body experiments. Erika claimed that when she touched one of the engravings on the invitation that she got a shock. Amy said it was static electricity.
They couldn’t resist the bonuses. “This party month: an entrance fee of seven hundred dollars, but attendees will take away a gold necklace signifying payments for a kiss month.” So they went.
The Harvard girls, Amy, Céline, and Erika sashayed into the elegant foyer of crystal chandeliers in hypnotic light as if giddy rogue diplomats were twittering to titillate an errant spy or spook.
“Invitations please — cash or credit cards”
After Amy gave her credit card a security jeweler behind her examined her neck and fastened a gold choker necklace around it.
Céline said, “Gee, Amy, that’s like wide and solid; is that chic cool?”
Just then, someone jumped behind Céline saying, “Don’t worry dear,” as he snapped her choker on. “You’re exquisite in your collar.”
Erika was last and she found herself aghast wearing a collar before she endorsed her card.
They pranced to the dance floor singing in Bessie Griffin manner “… that’s what my man is for”
Céline giggled to the choir: “Amy, are you Egyptian?”
“Huh Céline… why do you inquire?”
“Curiosity is my middle name and your choker extols Amy right next to some Egyptian symbols.”
“Oh odd. Yours is Egyptian Céline”
“I’m feeling like an angst ankh…”
“Ha, oh… I’m dreaming up an ankh symbol but… where the Devil has Erika gone?”
“Probably being a drama queen somewhere cool with a debonair man whose fleecing skill is as white as snow ha…”
But like an enchanted evening, the thunderstorm outside erupted looming louder than the music, and inside was a big commotion across the crowded room.
Amy felt an evil presence, like a guru’s extreme warnings. “Is that Erika screaming?” The lights dimmed.
Céline spotted Erika being surrounded by security guards. “Hey, it’s Erika but I don’t know what
she’s saying.”
“Céline! They seized her by her arms and she’s sobbing.”
Céline started to feel a thump of panic, and a thunderclap made her jump. The room was getting crammed, and someone or something bumped her hand. “What are they saying to her?”
“A colloquy in effect that the key to safety is to exclude and reject party crashers.”
The guards moved away and left her alone.
“Amy, maybe we better somehow get to her and leave now.” The music got louder.
“I don’t know..it seems resolved, and she’ll be disappointed…”
“Yeah, I guess. Hey let’s dance and hit on a guy… Oh look, she snared a diplomat-type like a dashing attaché. She’s good.”
“Yeah, good, C. and she’s leaving with him. Maybe they’re going to the lecture room. Drama over…
So I’m going to the free bar. Then, let’s meet later to the right of the stage…where rest the unengaged”
“OK. If you get lucky, I’ll meet you at the lecture.”
There was a generous buffet and casual tables to mingle anywhere sitting down but also an area with paintings for the stand-up comedy of mingling or serious debate with raconteurs — the oppressors and the oppressed, the flirty and the flighty the seductions and the romance.
Céline and Amy roamed through it all with neither conquest nor defeat but fatigued.
After a few hours Céline and Amy bumped into each other.
“So Amy, did you meet a stellar intellect?”
“I’m bored with pompous puffery and the staid jargoneers who fear a joke on them like an egg white meringue, and confronted with counterpoint data deflate like a soufflé when you bang their door closed.”
“Huh what? Geez Amy, banging out a thesis tease of the oppressed?”
“Um yeah. I’m ruminating out loud chewing on it with my mouth open I suppose…”
The crowd had thinned out. Many had gone to the first round of lectures. After another round of thunderclaps, the music was turned up with lights and theatrical smoke.
Erika reappeared like an enchantment across the room. Amy and Céline screamed
“Erika!”
Erika didn’t acknowledge them. They pushed their way across the sprung flooring making people stumble into a new tarantella of the elite.
“Erika!”
Erika looked confused, and wasn’t wearing her necklace. “Are you talking to me? Um sorry,
my name is Tikva. Is this IDF headquarters?”
Amy was frightened. “Erika, where were you? What are you babbling?”
“I’m Tikva. I was in hell in the tunnels, under Shifa Hospital.”
“I’m Céline, yeah good joke Erika…”
“Who is Erika? I’m not Erika.”
“I’m Amy, and so um, you should find your necklace. It’s worth at least $300…”
“Oh hell, I have no need for a slave shock collar. But hell, listen you, Amy, you Céline: I was… ”
In chorus they watched her shake. “What? What?”
“I was raped, and torn, and tortured and…”
Céline gasped. Erika-Tikva pushed, and knocked people over running out the exit door.
“Céline, shouldn’t she go to the hospital and the police?”
“She’s acting weird. I’ll find her. I’m gonna bounce.”
“Yes, find her and get her to the emergency room expeditiously. Céline?”
“I’m jittery and uneasy queasy.” She reached behind her neck to unfasten the necklace. “Amy, help me with this.”
“Turn around. OK, um. I don’t see a latch.” She tugged on it hard. “Um, uh, well. Ut oh.”
“What?”
“It’s locked on. It needs a key and…”
Céline frantically yanked on it, and tried to turn it around. It seemed tighter. She screamed, and three security guards ran over.
Two seized her arms, and one stood in front of her. “Calm down. The key to safety is to exclude and reject party crashers.”
“Get this off. I have to leave now.”
“Let’s see. You’re Céline. You’re registered for the seminar, and you signed the legal papers. Don’t worry; we’ll take care of Erika.”
“Unlock it now! Let go of me.” The two held her arms tight.
“Let’s have a look.” He went behind her and put a key in the lock.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m tightening it a little so you won’t turn it around. Now why don’t you just go to the seminar quietly.”
“Amy, get your FBI friend… go, go, go…”
Amy ran toward the exit, but someone tackled her.
Céline was sobbing. “Ow, ow, ow, ow…”
“That’s just a small shock. we can make it stronger. So now you can be calm, and we’ll send a dignified escort for you. Or we can parade you around in handcuffs behind your back in front of your friends. We’ll leave now so you can decide.”
Céline was searching for Amy when the house lights dimmed down and stage lights of renown came up. “Attention. We have a special announcement: We are pleased to present the first annual J. Bliss Vanderbilt Award to our beloved Professor Alice for her work as the first female Musicologist of the Gay 1890s Society. You might say it’s the Gilded Age and as you may know, in the 1890s “Gay” meant showy and bright, cheerful, carefree which is why they called it the gay 90s. So let’s give a big hand of applause to our carefree Alice Harrison!”
A man rose in the audience near the stage with a Champagne glass in his left hand seeming to make a grand toast. With his right hand he rose up an ax. He drew it up and back, shouting “Blasphemy! There will be no gays from the river to the sea.”
He threw it into Alice’s chest and blood gushed into the audience before she fell in a thud splat back.
He rushed up on stage, and kneeling beside her chopped off her head.
From the wings someone shouted, “Close the curtain”
The audience was freaking out.
The manager came to center stage. “Is there a Doctor in the house?”
Someone shouted, “You idiot, she has no head.”
The manager was nonplussed. “Is there a clown in the house? … you? Yes, come up” He jumped onto the stage.
“I am Pagliaccio star of the buffoons. Yeah, so, tell ya ’bout my play. I stabbed Nedda because
she was unfaithful. The audience loved it but they thought it was part of the play. I killed. … Yeah, I think it’s a great added feature: an ax instead of a stiletto. Dead Alice: a triumph! And did y’ hear the joke about…”
Alice came out from the wings walked behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He said, “Don’t bother me now, I’m killing it… So Alice is actually completely dead?” Alice tapped him on the shoulder again.
She said, “Is there a doctor in the house?” The ax man came out. They all bowed. “I hope you enjoyed our play.”
The lights came up. Céline found herself standing next to a handsome uniformed escort.
Céline jumped. “Who are you?”
“I’m your escort. Shall we go to the Astral Projection lecture now?”
“Well, um, is that relaxing?”
“Indeed.”
Céline was totally absorbed in thinking about what just happened. She didn’t notice where she was going.
“Here you are. You can sit on the mattress. The lecture is starting now. Bye.”
The lecture started. “Astral Projection. You’ve probably heard of it. OK, don’t worry… Alright, make yourself comfortable. Put on the mask but make sure the hose doesn’t get tangled.”
Céline was exhausted. She lay down and almost started to fall asleep.
“We will do ‘mind awake, body asleep meditation’”
Céline was about to do mind asleep, body asleep because she was so tired.
“Stay with me. Focus on my voice. Cover yourself with your heart blanket. Put your arms at your side, palms up, hands through the loops.”
Céline wanted to sleep and dream, but listened carefully, trying to follow along.
“You will meet your energy body — the subtle part of yourself. Softly spread your legs out, allowing them to slacken into the stirrups and loops. Now totally relax and make yourself perfectly comfortable falling into the mattress. It is important to remain perfectly still. Take 5 big cleansing breaths: huge inhale, sigh out… Imagine a pure white light flowing through each part of your body, relaxing and calming — body asleep, mind awake. Energy is swirling around.”
The voice was still in her head. “Bring your energy body away from your physical body float out and tell yourself ‘open the portal’. Repeat, ‘Portal now, portal now…’ ”
Céline heard another voice say, “We’ve stopped her heart successfully.”
The lecture continued. “Know that you are karma and can return by thinking of the physical body that justice brings you in Gaza… Now think of the physical body you are drawn to. Wait for an entity to leave it and take possession of the body now. This is your body now.”
When Céline woke up, her hands were tied behind her back, and she found herself in a cave near a tunnel with another woman who was also bound. “Help! Help! Untie me.”
“I can’t. My hands and legs are tied.”
“What happened? How did we get here? Who are you?”
“I’m Amy.”
“That’s funny. I had a friend named Amy. You don’t look like an Amy. You look like a Rivka or something.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Céline.”
“That’s an odd coincidence. I had a friend by that name. But you look nothing like her.”
“Oh damn Amy, my voice is totally ruined. I sound like a different person.”
“Me too. Oh wait. I have a peculiar feeling. Céline, how do I not look like your friend Amy?”
“Well, um, you have black hair, and my friend had blonde hair…”
“You’re telling me I have black hair now?”
“Yes. And well, you have tiny boobs. My friend was big-breasted. Oh geez. It’s you Amy in a different body. That out-of-body thing, remember — you came back in the wrong body.”
A man with a machine gun came in the room. He looked at Céline. “You’re next. I’m going to spread you out — sa’akun bidakhilik mae alhubi alshiriyr.”
Céline screamed and tried to kick him. He deflected and she fell down, got up and was running up and back. “Untie me. My friends will kill you.”
Four other men came in the room. They spread her legs and tied her ankles to a log.
“After we rape you, we will tape a rocket to your body, and bring you to the surface. The IDF will get the blame. Welcome to Gaza.”
The women were gagged. Thus, the Harvard girls no longer had praise for these oppressed people, the praise that they might offer at a rally.
Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets 