Volume 67, Issue 8

To the Rambler:

In a previous exercise in polysyllabic gymnastics, Avi Mermelstein, Editor in the Golden Cellar, issued a clarion call to all, in Volume 67, Issue 6 "Let the hate mail begin."  And the call went unheard, echoing in the apathetic gloom that painfully hangs over the snowy landscape of our (dare I say it?) hallowed institution.  But the numinous is not the inspiration of our fellow Torah U'Madda-nik.  Mr. Mermelstein’s prompting is clear and simple, needing no flowery SAT words to describe: idolatry.

The sports teams this self-proclaimed expert in mediocrity and fandom touts as newsworthy, nay, attention worthy, grip his heart in a hold that leaves little elbow room for his Creator.  And while this university paper is otherwise exquisite, you employ the enfant! You reap what you have sown.

Now I admit I have never met this particular Avraham.  But I can just imagine him:  his hook nose and beady eyes, long lanky "hippie" hair with beads, black hat, kippa srugi, blindingly shined shoes and teva sandals, tweed jacket, peot behind his ears, tzizit with just four techelet strings (and no white ones). …I cannot imagine his pants, but we can logically deduce from the previous sentences that it is chosen with a similarly malicious intent.  A dark mind inhabits these pages.

What sets this form of idolatry apart is its shameless appeal to the baser emotions.  Throes of anger, passionate rooting, throbbing ennui – this constitutes the toolkit of his foul taxidermy.  Those you recognize from heartfelt pleas to their Lord during Ordo Matutinarum now alternatively hoot or bawl ineptitude of their enpadded loves onscreen.  Manly love, they say.  Perhaps this “Avraham” truly is, but these masses are of the Theban legion!

To test this dire accusation, I entered the lion’s den itself:  The Morgue Lounge.  And how appropriately named it is.  To the eye of witness, whom I shall call “Z” and “Mr. Z” respectively, I staked my reputation on the humanity of my fellows.  I proceeded to kneel, my outstretched hands upraised in praise towards the NFL saturated electronic box.  My activities attracted no attention, and the lost sheep before me continued to worship the electronically graven image.  And so, verily did I up the ante, placing both knees aground, bowing, and exclaiming, “we’re not worthy,” with the associated hand-motions.  Still, no response!  Faced with a moral dilemma, I chose to lay myself down in the manner of ye olden times, fully prostrate upon the floor (ever so slightly did I raise my knee to avoid the technical bounds of The Law!).  The sound of my flesh slapping the ground aroused the mild interest of the rearmost “fans,” for a passing one and a half seconds.

Crushed with failure, yet filled with bold purpose, worn out with exhaustion, yet bolstered by cliché, I turned my back onto my erstwhile brethren – whom I maintain were but temporarily possessed! – and walked towards the main lobby, and the guard’s desk.  The guard –alert, or so I thought, to the nefarious doings in The Morgue Lounge—gave me a queer look as I crossed the ground between us.  An ally!  One piqued at my convincing demonstration of the Evil permeating our lounge!  Surely he deserved an explanation for my actions, and we could join forces.  The common language of zealotry would overcome his inability to speak in human, and my lack of fluency in his native gibberish.

I gave the guard a tight whatcanyado grimace, jerked my thumb over my shoulder, and named the Devil behind me: “idolatry.”  To my horror, his response revealed this ‘guard’ for the true yahoo he was.  “They get a touchdown?,” he asked!  Not only was he unimpressed, but biblical prostration is considered a normal response to a so-called ‘touchdown’!  I am never showing him my ID again.  I am positive the Roshei Yeshiva will agree on that point.

He who aids and abets the worship of Touchdown, who ogles his Budweiser priestesses, or reenacts this hateful worship should be snowballed post-haste.  For if this is not accomplished now, then with what armaments shall these fiends be brought low?  This is true for the brainless ninnies, but how much more so for the editor of their precious column.  The Truth as I see it must be known and acted upon!

fiat justita,  ruat caelum
I hate you Avi Mermelstein.

with my dignity intact,

Amitai Blickstein

The author, a junior at Yeshiva College, majors in Pre-Engineering, and apparently, has aspirations for the clergy of any religion that will take him.  He is also Avi Mermelstein’s friend and morning seder chavrusa;  ergo, the Commentator Staff has no clue where on God’s good earth the contents of this letter came from.  We just work here.♦

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