A Response to the Barnard Bulletin
Recently, we, the Jester, received the honor of being honored in the center-spread of the honorable Barnard Bulletin. Usually reserved for nude hunks, the center-spread displays what is currently on Barnard girls’ minds, while the rest of the publication tells them what to think about. The article can be read here.
In response, we would like to devote a portion of our precious yet unlimited web space to return the favor. This article was carefully researched. We, the Jester, had to re-Google search how to spell “Bulletin” because my computer crashed. Behold, the Barnard Bulletin:
The Barnard Bulletin was born on December 12, 1875, when Thelma T. Yool shot Bernard Hoppher, the Editor-in-Chief of the Bernard Paper very near the spleen. Instantly, she founded the magazine as the Bernard Bullet-In. (The name has evolved over the years in a manner similar to how Charles Darwin morphed into that pterodactyl.)
Originally, the magazine was used for feminist issues: meeting times, bra-burning instructions, and cupcake recipes. It branched into the issues of tribalism vs. tribadism, songs vs. tongs, and ovaries vs. over-easy.
When women were liberated in the 1990s after Susan B. Anthony’s encounter with Rodney King, the Barnard Bulletin constructed a memorial to Scheherazade out of the leftover shackles. The cost, partially emotional, yet mostly financial, prevented further ventures into alternative printing. Instead, the Bulletin trudged forward, fighting the Cold War with Ugg Boots and protesting street performers, especially those damned mimes.
Today, the Barnard Bulletin says, “Fuck you” to anyone who opens it (using singing-birthday-card technology). It plans to release a weekend magazine known as the Barnard Brassiere - a support magazine for its readers in early 2010.
We sat down with a current editor of the Bulletin, Alana Goldchest, hoping that she could answer some of our many questions. She then sat on our lap, letting her silky locks drape over our nose. We then feigned calm through our nervous jitters. She then stroked our hair, and said, “Hello, funny boy.” We quickly terminated the interview and relocated Jester headquarters to a bathtub full of ice.
