Issue 104 (2013-2014)

Issue 104 (February 18, 2014)

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SPIRIT WEEK SIDEBAR

Sponsored by ASBC and Charmin Ultra

SCHEDULE HEYO
TUESDAY: USA DAY!!!! USA themed free dress and exciting Olympics fun during Enrichment!

WEDNESDAY: PAJAMA DAY!!!! Pajama themed free dress, exciting morning surprise, hula hoop competition during lunch!

THURSDAY: POWERBOWL DAY!!!!! (see below information) Odd grades wear black and white, even grades wear orange!

FRIDAY: FLASHBACK FRIDAY/AIRBAND!!!! Flashbacks must be from at least a decade ago, slackers.

PowerBowl Information by Chi Chi Chang

            What’s PowerBowl?

            ASBC has decided to change the name of the traditional girls’ flag football game from “Powder Puff” to “Power Bowl.”

            A “powder puff” is traditionally a soft pad women use to apply make-up. As an adjective, it can also mean “inconsequential; trifling; lightweight: a powder-puff company with little financing and a weak saleseffort.”

              However, I know when most people hear “powderpuff” they just think of our annual girls’ flag football game. 

“So what’s the problem, ASBC? Are you calling me a sexist because I use the word powderpuff?”

              Well, no. But the word “powder puff” is a remnant of a time when women’s sports were a joke.  Before Title IX, before Mia Hamm, the Williams sisters, Brittany Griner, the list goes on and on and on.

Yes, tradition has its place.  But I think we can let go of a name that suggests “soft, careless femininity” and move forward with a name that better reflects the game (Powerbowl, Superbowl, eh?) and acknowledges how far women’s athletics has come.**

**Keeping in mind we still have a long way to go.

 Articles

English Horror Story: Coven

By: Colin Garon (Super Scary)

                The young man seemed to appear out of nowhere. A bystander that night would have heard a loud crack, like a gunshot, and then seen the man, standing erect, his dark hair shimmering in the faint moonlight, where there had been no man before. In fact, such a bystander, were they superstitious enough, might suspect that this sudden appearance might be the work of magic.

                The superstitious bystander, of course, would have been entirely correct.

                The man pushed back his perpetually messy hair. His green eyes flashed with righteous fury and with the supernatural. A lightning shaped scar sizzled across his manly forehead. He was The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Who Thought a Lot of Himself in Book Five and Then Totally Ruined Everything, The Boy Who Was Emotionally Volatile and Generally Very Relatable. His name was Harry Potter, and he was a wizard.

                With a second loud crack, a young woman appeared. She scratched her head, which was covered with bushy brown hair and filled with intellectual capacity, and then followed her comrade. She was The Girl Who Also Lived, The Girl Who Knew a Lot of Things and Wasn’t Afraid to Share Them, The Girl Who Was Also Very Relatable But Often Took a Back Seat to Harry Potter Even Though She Often Wasn’t As Much of a Butt. Her name was Hermione, and she was a witch.

                The two hugged, and then broke apart awkwardly. Had they gone too far? Or not far enough? J.K. Rowling, about 10 years too late, watched excitedly, hoping that the course of history, which she herself had written, would change.

                “Harry, we shouldn’t be doing this,” Hermione murmured.

                “I do whatever I want,” Harry replied, an edge of magic entering his voice.

                “Harry, we’re both married. I’m married to Ron, The Boy Who Additionally Lived, The Boy Who Took a Backseat to You in Every Major Plot, The Boy Who Was Fairly Incompetent but Endearingly So. And you’re married to Ginny, The Girl Who Lived As Well, The Girl Who Seemed Like a Good Match in the Books but Who Was Disappointing in the Films, The Girl Who is Related To Your Best Friend, Whom I Happen to Be Married To.”

                “Gosh golly,” Harry exclaimed, the tip of his wand catching fire. “You’re right, Hermione!”

                “I know I am,” Hermione replied, a familiar know-it-all grin sliding smoothly across her magical witch face. “Pointus Provius!”

                With that, the argument ended. Harry and Hermione remained platonic. J.K. Rowling breathed a disappointed, fangirlish sigh. “Romancius Manufacturus!” she cried desperately. But the charm slid awkwardly from her Mugglish lips. She watched, a single tear sliding down her cheek, as Harry and Hermione shared some witty banter and an intense emotional moment, all built off of a foundation of platonic trust and appreciation. She yowled in distress as Harry and Hermione worked together to capture a wayward villain, and then did nothing more than high-five at the end. She tore out large tufts of hair as Harry and Hermione returned happily to their respective families. “Plottius Reverso!” she cried. “Marriageus Destructo! Accio Power Over Harry’s Romantic Future!” Her cries were in vain. She was powerless, alone, distraught. The camera zoomed in on her face as she let out a final screech of despair. Her characters, her children, whom she had meticulously created with specific futures in mind, couldn’t simply change their very natures at the drop of a hat and drastically alter the plot of her famous saga! Truly, all was lost. Or was it?

TO POSSIBLY BE CONTINUED