Jeff Blehar

Granted, it’s a bit of a cliché, but I spend a lot of time thinking about what would happen if 100 Harry Potters faced off in a battle to the death against 1,000,000 unarmed Kermit the Frogs. (Like most men, I do this when not thinking about the Roman Empire.) Could the badly outnumbered Potters — their powerful magic best suited to dueling at close quarters — make a heroic stand against the onrushing green menace, or would hundreds of thousands of mindlessly determined frogs swarm the Hogwarts elite in an implacable amphibious wave?

Western civilization’s crude attempts to answer this question have heretofore been relegated to the arena of philosophical speculation, much as the learned medievals took to pondering how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. Until now. Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to watch all one and a half minutes of this stunning simulation, undertaken using the finest technological modeling tools available to modern researchers, and discover the breathtaking truth. …

More.

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100 Harry Potters vs 1 million Kermit the Frogs
byu/FeanorOath inGeeksGamersCommunity

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The hundred Harrys are idiots. Running chaotically in an unorganized mass toward these overwhelming numbers of attackers is the precise opposite of the proper defensive technique.

First of all, we need a straight line of Harrys presenting the maximum frontage of firepower.

We commence by laying down a heavy and devastating barrage of fire, wiping out the nearest Kermits and causing their cadavers to impede briefly their comrades’ charge.

We retire slowly, while at the time more rapidly withdraw, each Harry by Harry at both ends of the line.

While retreating, every even number Harry is firing fire bombs into the mass of Kermits, while every even Harry creates his own portion of a line of defensive obstacles.

The more rapidly moving ends of the line close backwards creating a closed circle.

In essence, Harrys continue to fire on the enemy and other Harrys slow the enemy, while the full set of Harrys arranges itself in a defensive circle.

We finally take a third of Harrys and use them to build an internal final redout and to form a reserve.

And we then proceed to dissect all the froggies.

https://t.co/Mnt3vVpIck

— J. David Zincavage (@DavidZincavage) March 17, 2025

From Robert Chambers, The Book of Days, 1869:

LEGENDARY HISTORY OF ST. PATRICK

Almost as many countries arrogate the honour of having been the natal soil of St. Patrick, as made a similar claim with respect to Homer. Scotland, England, France, and Wales, each furnish their respective pretensions: but, whatever doubts may obscure his birthplace, all agree in stating that, as his name implies, he was of a patrician family. He was born about the year 372, and when only sixteen years of age, was carried off by pirates, who sold him into slavery in Ireland; where his master employed him as a swineherd on the well-known mountain of Sleamish, in the county of Antrim. Here he passed seven years, during which time he acquired a knowledge of the Irish language, and made himself acquainted with the manners, habits, and customs of the people. Escaping from captivity, and, after many adventures, reaching the Continent, he was successively ordained deacon, priest, and bishop: and then once more, with the authority of Pope Celestine, he returned to Ireland to preach the Gospel to its then heathen inhabitants.

The principal enemies that St. Patrick found to the introduction of Christianity into Ireland, were the Druidical priests of the more ancient faith, who, as might naturally be supposed, were exceedingly adverse to any innovation. These Druids, being great magicians, would have been formidable antagonists to any one of less miraculous and saintly powers than Patrick. Their obstinate antagonism was so great, that, in spite of his benevolent disposition, he was compelled to curse their fertile lands, so that they became dreary bogs: to curse their rivers, so that they produced no fish: to curse their very kettles, so that with no amount of fire and patience could they ever be made to boil; and, as a last resort, to curse the Druids themselves, so that the earth opened and swallowed them up. … Read the rest of this entry »

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— Rapid Response 47 (@RapidResponse47) March 16, 2025

In my high school, the better students, in the two Academic class sections, received instruction in Latin in 9th and 10th grade. Our Latin teacher had a curious personal custom. He sacrificed annually in honor of Great Caesar, on the Ides of March, the male student in each class who had offended him by doing the least work and/or being the most disruptive. He sacrificed additionally one female student from each class whose selection, I fear, was based only upon his own capricious whim and covert sexual attraction.

The sacrifice consisted of the victim being bent over a desk and receiving three strokes of a paddle, delivered by a six foot+, 250 lb.+ Latin teacher laying on the strokes with a will and putting his weight behind them. (I won’t name him.) Mr. X’s paddle was a four foot long piece of 1 1/2″ thick pine, produced in our high school’s wood shop by General Curriculum students, who did not take Latin, but admired Mr. X. The paddle was roughly in the form of a Roman gladius, and its surface was scored by a series of regular lines, because it was generally believed that a blow from an uneven surface was more painful.

Mr. X had a fixed policy of assigning the duty of construing the day’s Latin assignment on the blackboard in strict and completely predictable order, going up and down the aisles of desks. Two or three of the smart kids would always actually do the Latin, (I was one of them) and it was our recognized duty to supply the translations in advance to the person who would be going to the blackboard.

Readiness to translate correctly was really vital, because Mr. X would apply his dreaded paddle to anyone who failed to write out the day’s assignment correctly on the blackboard. It was rare, but every once in a while some truly feckless idiot would neglect to seek out Kenny Hollenbach, Jack Rigrotsky, or yours truly, and would arrive at the blackboard, chalk in hand, unprepared.

Mr. X typically broke the current paddle over the defaulter’s posterior, and the mental defectives in shop class would gleefully commence the fabrication of a new, yet more elaborate, edition of the famous paddle.

Every March 15th, two 9th and 10th grade Academic Curriculum sections would look on with the same sadistic interest of Roman spectators at the gladitorial games, as Mr. X conducted his sacrifices. I can recall that he struck the pretty strawberry blonde with the well-developed embonpoint so hard that he raised dust from her skirt. We were a bit puzzled that girls actually submitted to being beaten with a paddle for no reason, but all this went on undoubtedly because the legend of Mr. X the fierce disciplinarian had enormous appeal in our local community. The whole thing was fascinating, and it all made such a good story that everyone, student and adult, in his heart of hearts, enthusiastically approved.

Mr. X would never be allowed to get away with that kind of thing today. Alas! In Hades, poor Caesar must do without his sacrifice. And it is my impression that Latin instruction has rather overwhelmingly also become a thing of the past. Kids today learn Spanish. Modern languages are easier and are thought more relevant.

My high school Latin teacher is the large chap wearing glasses. He also coached one of our sports teams.

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An annual post in memory of my Latin teacher.

#Ukraine #Russia ⁦@PaulBrislen⁩ pic.twitter.com/NGB5xsllUq

— Senior Chief (@SeniorChiefEXW) October 23, 2024