July 31, 2006
Everybody has his secret vices. Chocolate, a secret stash of Dunkin’ Donuts in your desk at work.
Why should the rich and famous be any different? Just because Mel Gibson decided to take a midnight stroll down the middle of the Pacific Coast Highway after having 8 or 12 martinis and screaming “Fuck The Jews!” at the top of his lungs, should he be held to a higher standard than the rest of us, who are also unquestionably swine.
I mean, I mean why should political correctness stand in the way of a little self-expression? The guy’s a great artist. He made a very artistic little movie about the Jews spitting and throwing rocks at Jesus, one that he claims is historically correct, right down to the hook noses and crooked teeth of the Jews. In his latest movie he shows the Jews annihilating the Native People of Mexico. And he has been promoting a TV mini-series about the holocaust wherein a cabal of hook-nosed usurers trick Hitler into massacring their own people so the conspirators can get their grasping little hands on all the booty, sort of a Nazi Mel Brooks Hogan’s Heroes Springtime for Hitler comedy of errors, only minus the laffs.
Maybe the guy’s right! Maybe the Jews are responsible for every evil thing that ever happened in humanity, from the black plague, as medieval Christians maintained, to AIDS, which is the line being pushed by the Black Muslims. How are we ever going to get to the bottom of things if guys like Mel Gibson are denied their constitutional right to free expression by screaming their drunken asses off on the Pacific Coast Highway at 4:00 AM?
Actually, Gibson’s little cri de coeur was a breath of fresh air for the legions of anti-semitic pricks leading lives of quiet desperation in countless offices of New York City, hoping to someday string up the Jews, not to mention the countless communities of knuckle-dragging Neanderthals across flyover country hoping that Gibson gives some traction to their not too deeply repressed sentiments. The way they spit out the word “liberal” it’s obvious whom they’re talking about. After all, it’s been a long time since we had a lynching of Jews in this country, and the bigots are getting restless.
Although it may lack the artistic merit of Stanley Kowolski crying out for Stella on Desire Street, Gibson’s little performance had no small impact, coming on the same day that an anti-semitic gunman invaded a Jewish center in Seattle and opened fire on five Jewish women, killing one. To say that these incidents were isolated or exclusive of each other would be painting too happy a face on things. The fact is, every time Israel wins a fight, the anti-semites go berserk, seeing Jews winning a fight as an affront to the natural order (or should I say “ordure?” Look it up) of things.
Anti-semitism is a virus that causes full time obsession about the Jews, even among anti-semites who never met one, like in Japan. An anti-semite passes all his waking hours burning up about the Jews. Your bicycle gets a flat tire? It’s “Fuck the Jews.” The cops catch you piss drunk going double the speed limit on the Pacific Coast Highway? It’s the fucking Jews again that put them up to it. Gibson asked one of the cops, “Are you a Jew?” In the diseased cobweb mind of the anti-semite, the Jew is everywhere, knows everything and is like “The Wizard of Oz,” pulling all the strings. In fact, “The Wizard of Oz” was written by a bigot, whatever the guy’s name was, and the racist prick was probably a Jew-hater too. How many freakin’ anti-semitic allusions exist in “The Wizard of Oz?” How should I know? I wouldn’t waste my time on a freakin’ fairy tale. Let the experts figure it out!
If this loathsome behavior on the part of Gibson produces revulsion in the artistic community and results in Gibson not being able to find a distributor for his imbecilic swill, or if he ends up being shunned by producers and agents, he can always blame his ruined career on – the Jews!
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Posted on 7/31/2006
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July 30, 2006
All of New York is in mourning, with the passing of a beloved Lower East Side institution, The Second Avenue Deli, where Tevye proposed marriage to Yentl of Fiddler on the Roof, and Marc Chagall’s cow, bloated by intestinal gas, flew over the moon.
With its demise, New York has one less kosher meatball of a greasy spoon, where generations of young people got their first experience of ptomaine food poisoning and Mayor Koch lost his hair from eating a week-old portion of stuffed derma.
The funeral procession is scheduled to proceed down Second Avenue to St. Marks Place and then over to Tompkins Square Park, where the restaurant will be formally interred under the dog run, right by the band shell where singer Tuli Kupferberg of the legendary Fugs intoned the immortal tribute to its gastronomic excellence when he sang:
If it smells like grease I eat it
Kreplach don’t defeat it
Herring just can’t beat it
The color commentators for today’s parade are Smuckley Dickhead, food critic for The New York Post and Elmer Pato, founder and CEO of Barf and Puke Bagels, another icon of New York cultural distinction.
Let’s start with you, Elmer: what are your reminiscences of The Second Avenue Deli?
“When I first started out in the South Bronx, The Second Avenue Deli was like the Yankees. It was always my dream to get my bagels in there, but when Sam Plotz, the manager, first tried one of my bagels, he said that the bouquet wasn’t distinctive enough.
“I tried various formulas to try to recreate an old-world flavor until I finally succeeded by throwing my socks into the kettle where we boil the bagels. It gave off a smell like beef bouillon, and when Sam again tasted it he shouted out:
‘By George, I think he’s got it
The stomach pain
Is driving me insane’
“Second Avenue Deli went on to be my biggest customer.”
Well, that certainly was a heart-burning tribute! What about you, Smuckley?
“When I first arrived in New York I went through tough times like most young people. So, sometimes, when I was short of cash, I used to rummage through the dumpster at the back of the building, where the food was exactly the same as what they were serving in the front, including the flies.
“Even today, now that I’ve hit the big-time, eating for free at Cipriani and Le Cirque, I still sometimes direct my limo driver to come downtown so I can rummage through the dumpster. Second Avenue Deli, thanks for the memories!”
Sorry to interrupt you, Schmuckley, but the funeral procession is starting to wend its way down the Avenue as the massive crowd of wailing mourners throw themselves onto the coffin. They’re screaming, “Take me instead!” and “I’ll never eat another knish!”
Now the procession s passing in front of Christine’s, the world-famous Polish eatery, where mourners are throwing handfuls of sauerkraut. Quite a moving tribute!
Now the honor guard is passing. The Hebrew Hospital Home has sent its crack precision marching team of grandmothers, who push their walkers in synchronized coordination like an Esther Williams musical, stopping every few steps to kick like the Rockettes. Not as high as the Rockettes, mind you, but high enough to show off their bloomers and elastic knee-highs like the Moulin Rouge of Paris France.
Right behind them is a platoon of food inspectors writing violations and throwing out handfuls of roaches and mouse droppings while their harmonica band plays a mournful arrangement of “Amazing Grease,” accompanied by world-famous tenor Luciano Bologna:
Amazing Grease abide by me
I think that I shall never see
A steaming plate of pas-tra-mi!!!
And now, the last float in the procession, Mayor Bloomberg astride a flatbed truck, draped in the robes of the Statue of Liberty, holding a menu in his left hand and in his right, as a beckoning symbol of freedom to the entire world, a Hebrew National garlic salami.
Only in New York, kids!
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Posted on 7/30/2006
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July 29, 2006
Humberto Rodriguez of Washington Heights was taken into custody for biting the head off his rooster and leaving the headless body out on his fire escape.
When police arrived on the scene, they were confronted by a large crowd of people jumping upand down and pointing at the headless bird. “¡Mirá mirá! ¡Gallo! ¡Esta muerto! ¡Se la mordió la cabeza! ¡No tiene cabeza!”
A neighbor, Maria Cuellar, was crying as she spoke to this reporter. “He was such a good rooster! He never cause trouble. My kids played with him all the time. We never needed no alarm clock."
Referring to Mr. Rodriguez, she said, ”I can’t understand why he did this. They seemed like such a happy family.”
She said Señor Rodriguez had worked overtime at his job in a bagel bakery to get the money to bring the rooster to America from its home in the Dominican Republic. “The rooster, he didn’t have no papers. Señor Rodriguez had to pay extra money to the smugglers or they were going to sell the rooster to the Arab shish-kebob vendors on Sixth Avenue.
“When he finally got the rooster home, we had such a big party, with cake and everything.”
Señora Cuellar said the trouble started soon after, when the rooster, whose name was Pepito, told Señor Rodriguez that he wanted to move out. “He wanted to get his own place.”
Señor Rodriguez responded by keeping the rooster tied to a rope on the fire escape. The owner’s mental health deteriorated, and he stopped taking his anti-depressant medication. “He started drinking,” said Señora Cuellar. “He was talking about going back to the DR and taking Pepito with him.”
The breaking point came when Señor Rodriguez came home and found the rooster picking on Manuela, a pigeon that Señor Rodriguez also kept in the apartment. “We heard fighting all day in the apartment, and when Humberto came home, he found all the furniture destroyed. He just went crazy!
“He said, ‘No matter what I do, that rooster won’t obey!”
Finally, according to Señora Cuellar, Señor Rodriguez just snapped. “He must have been watching that Ozzy Osbourne video, the one where he bite the head off the rat.
“The next day, Pepito was laying dead on the fire escape with no head. The whole barrio went crazy!”
At a press conference, Mayor Bloomberg displayed an x-ray of the rooster Pepito showing that the rooster had been decapitated.
The mayor said, “When domestic violence rears its ugly head, innocent barnyard animals suffer the consequences.” He appealed to the city’s Dominican population to keep their livestock segregated in separate rooms of their apartments.
“We can take an example from Fidel Castro, when he visited New York to address the United Nations. He kept the goats in one room and the chickens in another. That way it was an orderly dispersal of poultry.”
Police Commissioner Ray Kelly told the press that Señor Rodriguez was being held for observation in the high security ward of Bellvue Hospital. He added that there was an ongoing investigation into whether the rooster’s head, which is still unaccounted for, had been used in a santeria black magic ceremony. “Sometimes, instead of buying a phone card, they use santeria to communicate with their relations back in the Dominican Republic.”
Rabbi Buttman of the Kosher Society said that even though the rooster was technically a kosher chicken, it could not receive a Jewish funeral because the head was missing. “Jewish law is very strict on this point.”
The whole sad story was summed up by Señora Cuellar. “What a waste of good meat!”
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Posted on 7/29/2006
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July 28, 2006
At an impromptu press conference held outside the Athens premiere of the gay cowboy movie “Brokebutt Mountain,” Greece’s Prime Minister Buttmanlis congratulated the film’s producers for “the courage to present a posterior interpretation of masculine friendship.
”This film is perfectly timed to fall in with our national billboard campaign, which warns ‘A butt is a terrible thing to waste.’”
The Prime Minister turned to address other matters of public morality: “Many times in Greek mythology, the gods have descended in the form of animals such as bulls and swans to consummate relations with human women. Less well known are their occasional forays to earth in the form of ducks, frogs and even the occasional orangutan. Heck, I knew this old girl who kept an anteater and an armadillo, which are known for their long tongues.
“As no less an authority than Greece’s greatest warrior, Alexander the Great, once observed, ‘If the sheep are other wise occupied, a man’s backside is almost as good.’
“Anywhere in the world you find Greeks. But we are a very family-oriented. A Greek hates to leave his brothers behind. That’s how we were reared. It’s almost as though you need a crowbar to separate us.
“And the women, as the great Greek poetess Sappho once wrote”
If it smells like fish I eat it
Roast beef don’t defeat it
A hot dog just don’t beat it
“Don’t get me wrong, we have great meat in Greece. You can’t beat our meat.
“But we are a nation of fish eaters.
“The reason Greeks sail the seven seas is for booty. Greeks love booty. Sometimes Greek sailors would board a ship in search of booty, and they would find a woman hiding a box, and they would go into her box to get the booty.
“The Greeks had an army of Trojans, which their women forced them to wear after they were up in the mountains for weeks with the sheep.
/>“Sometimes they had to butt heads with the rams to get to the sheep, which is how the word ‘butt’ came into existence. ‘I think I’ll go get some butt,’ the Greek men would say.
“One time this Greek man came back to his hut and told his friend, ‘I just had the greatest sex of my life.’
“The other guy asked, ‘Where did you find a woman around here?’
“The first guy said, ‘What’s a woman?’
“The Trojans beat the Athenians because they had longer lances. The Athenians fought back by using a catapult to shoot flaming balls, but eventually the Trojans designed larger catapults, and they conquered the Athenians because they had bigger balls and longer lances.”
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Posted on 7/28/2006
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July 21, 2006
The grand jury charged with hearing the perjury and tax evasion cases against Barry Bonds expired (and that’s a lovely term) without returning any indictments, just as this writer predicted and fervently hoped they would.
Bonds, whom most white baseball fans consider to be no more than O.J. Simpson with a baseball bat simply because he doesn’t kiss babies like a freakin’ politician, has been the victim of a journalistic lynching, and the sports writers are still screaming worse than Mike Piazza did when Roger Clemens tried to stick a broken bat up his butt.
You don’t see Bonds having babies in Namibia and campaigning against global warming. His job is to play baseball, not sneak up behind people and give them shabby shoulder massages. Shoulder massages and hugs do not cut it for Bonds, who is only interested in home runs and money, and I say “amen” to that.
Now the U.S. Attorney, whose stupidity is only exceeded by his greed for publicity, has convened a second grand jury to persecute Bonds. His case hinges on one witness, Greg Anderson, who is a close personal friend of Bonds since childhood, and is not talking. The DA is so desperate to flip Anderson that he is threatening him with unlimited jail time until he turns states evidence.
This is really starting to stink like the Whitewater case, where Clinton friends were locked up for years and even died in jail as a result of the cutthroat tactics of ambitious prosecutors.
One can only pray that Greg Anderson does not become the Susan Macdougal of our time, hounded into jail and tortured in solitary confinement to achieve the aims of a Star Chamber kangaroo court determined to advance their worthless careers over the dead body of Barry Bonds.
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Posted on 7/21/2006
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July 17, 2006
Robert Brooks, the Founding Father of Hooters and inventor of the barbecued edible panty sandwich, passed away at the tender age of 68 after a long bout of acute mammary poisoning. The poor guy never even made it to 69.
His last words were, "Anything over a mouthful is wasted."
The funeral procession will start at the Hustler Gentleman’s Club on Twelfth Avenue and proceed down Forty-Second Street to JFK Airport, where the casket will be loaded onto the Hooters jet after a 21-gun salute of popping Baby Duck bottles shot off by an honor guard of The Flashdancer Precision Pole Dancing Team for its flight to America’s beer capital, Milwaukee.
There it will be laid to rest at The Hooter Memorial Park of Eternal Piece, next to the Perpetual Beer Fountain of the Overflowing Titties.
In honor of Mr. Brooks, whom he termed a “national treasure,” President Bushman requested the women of America to leave their bras home and wear their titties at half-mast.
The eulogy will be delivered by Bill Clinton, who famously named one of the bedrooms in the White House The Hooters Chapel. President Clinton has promised to campaign for a bust of Mr. Brooks to be engraved on Mt. Rushmore between Anna Nicole Smith and Chesty Morgan.
Mr. Clinton will recite a poem in Mr. Brooks’ honor composed by America’s Poet Laureate, 200motels.
This writer, using the Freedom of Information Act, was able to obtain an advance copy of the poem:
Beer in the morning is a beautiful thing
Your head might be in winter but your mouth is in spring
There’s nothing like beer to chase away the blues
After a couple of six packs you’ve got no mind to lose
The beer I have drunk is my best friend
We’ll be together until it pops out the other end
The wise men tell us you can’t buy beer just rent it
I wish I could be the guy who invent it
After thousands of years of research and struggle
The guy screamed “Eureka! I think it’s starting to bubble
“This beer’s gonna’ make me famous and rich
“But before that I'm gonna’ get drunk as a bitch!”
O Great God Budweiser please hear my plea
Let a Corona of Heinekin wash over me
On an island of pizza and fried onion rings
Make me a life raft of Buffalo wings
Deliver it all by a girl with big titties
And the finest big butt in all New York City
Send me some hot dogs and jalapeño poppers
And don’t forget the Big Macs and Burger King Whoppers
Budweiser Heineken Michelob too
I pledge my drunken soul to you
I don’t want no stinkin’ Mountain Dew
Just wash over me your golden shower
Let a thousand beer cans flower
Then I can belch around in perpetual motion
And fart through the sky like jet propulsion
Amen
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Posted on 7/17/2006
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July 16, 2006
[Synopsis: SuperJew has enlisted the services of a santeria priest in his mission to retrieve the ten-foot solid gold Falasha Bagel for Mayor Bloomberg.]
“I dispose of an internet the same as you, but it’s an internet of the spirit world.” The man turned his attention to the note. He examined the handwriting, held the paper up to the light of a candle, and, rolling it up, passed it beneath his nose like a cigar afecionado. After spending a moment in contemplation, he said, “This is written by a disturbed person who is harboring very destructive intentions.”
“Do you think you can determine the identity of this individual, Señor?” asked SuperJew.
“Certainly,” said Señor Katz. “I knew who it was the moment I touched the note. I have only gotten this vibration once before in my life.
“One time, before I received the call to evangelize, I was in the DR, racing motorcycles. One night, while I was gambling in the casino in Sosúa, I observed this person, Smucklevitch by name. The vibration he transmitted was very distinct. It was a vibration of death and destruction, though on this occasion he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, sitting at a table with a group of young women and drinking $500 a bottle Cristal champagne.
“I’ll never forget the emotion of impending doom emanating from the man, which was even more distinct when he smiled or laughed. It was a premonition of cataclysm.
“He claimed to be a diamond trader from Israel, and when the time came to pay the bill, he tipped the waitress by giving her a diamond.
“Would you like to contact him?” asked Señor Katz.
“How would that be possible?” asked SuperJew.
“Through the assistance of my assistant, Maritza Santana, a tenth generation psychic on both sides of her family. She can contact any living person, and many who are no longer living.”
“Well, if it’s possible, certainly.”
Señor Katz called the young woman back into the room and instructed her in Spanish what was required of her. She immediately began to disrobe.
“Whoa, wait a moment!” cried Mitzvah Man. “What’s going on here?”
Señor Katz said, “The ceremony requires her to be nude.”
“Well, I can’t possibly be in the room with an unclothed woman who is not my wife. It’s against my religion.”
SuperJew, visibly annoyed, confronted his assistant. “Then I suggest you get out of New York and move to Rockland County, where you can save only fully clothed people. What are you going to say if you have to fly into a building and save people from a raging fire?” He mimicked the younger man, “I can’t save you because you don’t have any clothes on!” Turning to Señor Katz, SuperJew complained, “The younger generation, what a bunch of nerds!”
“I’ll just wait outside,” Mitzvah Man said meekly, and he left the room.
SuperJew said, “It’s getting harder and harder to find qualified help these days. Let’s proceed.”
The young lady climbed onto a table and Señor Katz surrounded her with burning candles. He put on a long robe and a crown of thorns, sprinkled rose petals on her body and, taking a swig of rum from a bottle, sprayed the rum all over the girl from his mouth. Handing the bottle to SuperJew, Señor Katz said, “Now you drink.”
SuperJew drank from the bottle. “What do I do now?” he asked.
“Nothing. That wasn’t part of the ceremony. I just thought you might like a drink.” Señor Katz lit a cigar and blew the smoke on the woman’s body. He put on a cassette of drum music and recited a long liturgy of incantation in Latin, Spanish and Yoruba.
The atmosphere in the room, permeated by rum and cigar smoke, became otherworldly. Abruptly, Señor Katz leaned over the young woman and screamed into her face, as you would talk into a speaker phone:
“Schmucklevitch, I summon you! Emerge from the shadows and confront your pursuers!”
The woman began to speak, but instead of her high-pitch, sing-song voice came the gruff, guttural intonations of a middle-eastern man. “Who dares to disturb the repose of Laughing Schmucko?”
Señor Katz turned and beckoned to SuperJew. “Here, speak to your man.”
SuperJew approached and spoke into the girl’s face. “¡Oye, Schmucko! This is SuperJew. Return the Falasha Bagel and turn yourself in to the authorities, and I’ll do everything in my power to assist in your rehabilitation.”
“How can you rehabilitate a man who has lost his soul?” screamed Laughing Schmucko. “My grandparents were scarred by the Holocaust. Their house in Israel was a mausoleum where no sunlight was permitted to enter. My mother, who was so disturbed from growing up in a tomb, hanged herself in her apartment, and when my father came home and found her hanging he jumped off the balcony and killed himself.
“I grew up in an institution where the other children hated me and mocked me unmercifully. I became a nuclear engineer, and while I worked at Israel’s nuclear program at Dimona I ate a matzoh that had become contaminated by radiation. Instead of killing me, it invested me with superhuman powers.
“I take this as a signal from God that my mission is to exact revenge on the gentile race, and now I possess the engine of my revenge, the Falasha Bagel.
“At the stroke of midnight tonight all the dead souls of the Holocaust will emerge through the hole of the Falasha Bagel and destroy all the gentiles of the world.!
“Only then will I be at peace.”
“Schmucko, you’re a sick person. Ninety-nine percent of the gentiles of the world never had anything to do with the Holocaust. I come from a world where all the Jews were destroyed in a flood of boiling borsht and I’m not bitter.”
“SuperJew, you’re a cool guy. Why don’t you join forces with me and together we can rule the world?”
“Get the hell out of here, you criminal. I intend to retrieve the Falasha Bagel for Mayor Bloomberg and consign your sorry Hebrew ass to prison or a psychiatric facility. I’m not here strictly to save Jews, but to go to the assistance of all deserving people. The only way to bring glory to the Jewish people is to serve all of universal humanity.”
“Well, if that’s the case, SuperJew, you have made your decision. After the demons of the Holocaust wipe out all the goyim, then I will personally decimate you, their turncoat defender. I just obliterate people and leave it up to God to calibrate the distinctions. Over and Out!”
“Fuck you, ya’ moron!” SuperJew turned to Señor Katz. “No point in negotiating any further with this imbecile. Bring the girl out of her trance.” He reached in his pocket. “Here’s a contribution for you to continue your good work.”
“Gracias. Siempre à la orden, SuperJew.”
SuperJew walked out into the bright sunlight of Dykeman Street, where he was met by Mitzvah Man on the sidewalk.
“So…..?” inquired the Dreadlocked Defender.
“So nothing. The guy’s a nut job who wants to waste all of humanity. He’s ready to level all the great marvels of civilization because he’s had personal tragedy. We have eight hours to retake possession of the Falasha Bagel or the world will be reduced to a Salvador Dali tableau of desolation.”
Before he was able to issue instructions to his acolyte, SuperJew’s attention was distracted by the waving pink handkerchief of his most ardent female admirer.
“Yoo-hoo, SuperJew, it’s me, Lois Latke!”
“How did she find you all the way up in Inwood?” asked Mitzvah Man.
“That woman has a divining rod that points toward money. A long time ago I dated her for a while, and now getting rid of her is like trying to pry off a glue trap that’s stuck to your shoe. If she thinks she going to trap me into becoming a money-grubbing prick to set up her and her family to the nth generation, she’s CRAZY!”
Mitzvah Man regarded SuperJew with the crooked, confused expression of a person who has been totally let down and disappointed. “You know, you’re not like your image at all.”
“Oh yeah, what’s my image, a freakin’ Boy Scout in tights? I’ve been rescuing New Yorkers for twenty-five years and I’ve learned some hard lessons along the way.
“Sometimes you go to a person’s rescue only to find that they’ve instigated a criminal situation that went wrong and now they’re in mortal danger.
“Or they figure I’m loaded and try to drag me into court on a nuisance lawsuit. ‘I got whiplash when SuperJew saved my bus from going over the bridge!’
“You know how many paternity suits I’ve had to respond to? ‘SuperJew es el papá de mi baby.’
Listen, kid, the reason that I’m a superhero and that you’re a superhero is not out of a benevolent love of humanity, but because there’s no other way for us to express our talents. What else would you do, play baseball? They’ll start screaming, ‘He’s on steroids!’ Be a movie star? They got computer animation and special effects that can beat anything you can think of.
“No, saving people in distress is the only job description that fits our qualifications, otherwise we’d have to hide our talents and ride the subway to some shit job every day of our lives. And then, when you get old and you haven’t fulfilled any of your youthful potentialities, you could sit in a wheelchair in the Hebrew Hospital Home and say, ‘What a fool I was not to give it my best shot!’
“So when you get down to it, being a superhero is a selfish act like every other human endeavor.”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
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Posted on 7/16/2006
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July 13, 2006
New York Post
July 13, 2006
A Russian farmer has e-mailed President
Vladimir Putin seeking permission to marry
a cow - the four-legged variety.
"All the girls have left our small
village and moved to the city, so I
cannot find a woman to be with. But I
see the solution to the problem," he wrote Putin.
"I love animals very much and want to
ask when we will be allowed in Russia to
marry domestic animals, such as cows."
This sounds like a promising concept, especially for countries like China and India, where female children are being phased out through the use of ultrasound. Instead of exchanging livestock for a wife, you just cut out the middleman and just marry the livestock.
Here in the west, where women are growing increasing problematic, marrying domestic animals would just institutionalize a mode of behavior that has been going on for a long time anyway. As a backwoods fellow from Appalachia once confided to me, "Doing it to a sheep is just like doing it to a woman. The only difference is that you have to run around to the other side to kiss her."
Marriages are often messy, and when marital infidelity raises its ugly head the resulting deception can be devastating, particularly when the rival for your bride's affection turns out to be a dog or a horse. Imagine returning home with an armful of roses for your beloved only to find her rutting in the barnyard with a pomeranian, and not even a purebred, but one of those trashy streetcorner dogs with no pedigree, who just hang around licking their scrotum all day (hell, if I could do that, then all of this would be academic) when they should be out working as a seeing-eye dog or a narc.
When it comes to the divorce, dividing community property could be a ferocious process if your spouse is an actual pig, who are known for their savage behavior. The way to get around that would be to get her to sign a prenuptial agreement. Since most pigs have a very tenuous grip on English, you could probably get her to sign a document that would be very advantageous to your interests, unless the animal rights lobby decides that she is being done out of her fair share. So be sure she is marrying you for love and not to get her hooves into the family farm.
All these unforseen consequences beg the question: why marry the cow when you can get the milk for free? Interspecies marriage isn't for everyone, and maybe a co-habitation arrangement is the most prudent solution for everyone concerned.
That way if your darling is not living up to your expectations, you can just cook her and eat her, with nobody the wiser.
"Hey Joe, what happened to your girlfriend Daisy?"
"I grilled her on the barbecue with Southern Comfort Sauce."
"WHAT??!!! You monster! How could you do such a thing?"
"I was hungry."
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Posted on 7/13/2006
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July 11, 2006
Trying to find another French supporter for yesterday’s World Cup Final was about as fruitful as searching for a plate of foie gras at a PETA conference. The huge majority of spectators in the Upper East Side bars where the game was being shown, having no dog of their own in that fight, were rooting for Italy because, as they unanimously confided to me, “I don’t like France.”
Years of being brainwashed by the Republican majority has had that effect, the same as any totalitarian brainwashing campaign, like the people in 1984 who sit in the movie theater screaming at some guy they don’t know without ever knowing why, just finding it easier to go along with the majority opinion, their eyes glazing over with confusion when you inquire (as I rarely do) the reason for their aversion to all things French. “They’re anti-semitic” averred one woman, dragging out that moth-eaten canard, one so hackneyed as to induce a retching reaction.
“Hey, lady,” I was tempted to scream, “The Dreyfus Affair was a hundred years ago, right around the time the U.S. Congress introduced immigration quotas to keep the Jews out of the U.S.”
Not that some Frenchmen don’t hate Jews, but you got plenty of pinhead anti-Semitic pricks right here too.
The Italians played a great game, and they unlocked the secret of getting Zidane to lose his cool. Years ago I saw a boxing match between a very tough Italian-American middleweight from Providence named Vinnie Pazienza and a Jewish fighter from Brockton, MA named Leslie something. The Jewish fighter, who had great conditioning and intelligence, was making a monkey out of Pazienza, going so far as to mimic and mock him during the fight. After receiving a good pounding in one of the middle rounds, Pazienza went down on one knee. The Jewish kid turned to go to a neutral corner, and the minute he did so, Pazienza jumped up, ran up behind the guy and gave him a goddamm jackhammer blast from behind!
The ref didn’t even call it a foul because one of the cardinal rules of boxing is that you never turn your back on an opponent. Not only did the Jewish guy never recover enough to win the fight, but he also retired from boxing. After the fight Pazienza crowed, “That college kid just graduated from Pazienza University!”
No less an authority that French striker Thierry Henry gave an interview before the match wherein he asserted, “The Italians are scorpions.” People have got a tendency to think in terms of simplistic stereotypes and they get a lot of their concepts from idiotic cartoons like “Lady and the Tramp,” with dumbass little cartoon doggies slurping spaghetti in old world Italian restaurants, or Giapetto the kindly old guy in Pinocchio. The true history of Italy is the Emperor Vespasian, who looted the Hebrews and brought 12,000 of them over to break their backs to build the Coliseum that he constructed using their stolen wealth, where thousands were slaughtered for centuries while the Italians in the cheap seats screamed for more blood.
Never underestimate the sneaky slyness of the Italians, the race that gave birth to Lucrezia Borgia and made a high art out of poison and mayhem. Compared to the Italians, the French are babes in the wood. The Italian sports papers the day before the match warned, “Zidane ci vediamo domani,” we’ll see you tomorrow, and I guarantee you they weren’t making a date to eat spumoni
The World Cup represents more than just a cheesy hood ornament. The rights to four years of being a World Cup champion run into the hundreds of millions and billions of euros. With so much at stake, any Italian concept of fair play or sportsmanship is as illusory as the puff of smoke escaping from the roof of the Vatican.
Zidane was playing a match of football, but he was not equal to a culture where larceny, deceit and crooked politics find their paradigm in the modern gladiatorial arena.
Remember, all of Italian football is under indictment, and the coach of Juventus took a flying leap out of a third floor window (at least they say he jumped). The Italian national team, in the spirit of their ancestors, devoted the same kind of precise application to composing an insult guaranteed to drive Zidane nuts that Rossini put into composing “La Gazza Ladra” and they appointed Materazzi deliver the line. Maybe it was about Zidane’s mother or sister, or about Arabs.
Zidane fell for it, and it achieved what the Italians wanted, to get him out of the game.
Anyway, it was a beautiful head butt, and that’s some consolation.
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Posted on 7/11/2006
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July 09, 2006
The French are not in style in Portugal this week, with the Portuguese press fuming over France’s 1-0 victory on a penalty kick in the 30th minute by Zinedine Zidane.
After achieving that edge, the French retreated into a hard shell around their own goal and did the soccer equivalent of rope-a-dope, preferring to break up the Portuguese combinations and leaving all the heavy lifting to goalkeeper Fabien Barthez, who knocked away successive volleys of Portuguese shots.
The Portuguese reaction was essentially, “We wuz robbed,” and “Why didn’t they come out and fight like a man?” The Portuguese sports daily A Bola sneered, “The French cock [the emblem is a rooster] was afraid to come out of the henhouse.”
This sly French strategy of letting their opponent wear himself out while expending a minimum of energy, like a fighter who lets his competitor punch uselessly at his arms, may have had some element of conserving their energy for the final against much younger Italy, who had qualified a day earlier against Germany. Or maybe the French were themselves too exhausted to carry the fight across the field, but it also demonstrated the evolution of the zone defense in soccer. The average number of goals per game in World Cup competition has steadily declined over the last half-century. In the 1954 World Cup an average of 5.5 goals were scored per game. The figure for this tournament is now 2.25 goals, less than half. French coach Raymond Domenech admitted, “When we see a scoring opportunity, we take it. But the emphasis is on controlling the rhythm of the game.”
This strategy may be due in part to the relatively advanced age of the French team, eight of whom are playing in their third World Cup. While they are unquestionably in fantastic physical condition, they have dominated a much younger field by virtue of their wisdom and experience.
Zidane, with his impassive face, is almost sphinx-like in the otherworldly calm he projects. Who can fathom the limitless complexity of combinations that must be endlessly formulating in the infinite labyrinthine recesses of his kasbah of a mind? Who can conceive of the treasure trove of passing combinations, shooting angles, tackles, deceptions and tactical strategies shooting through his synaptic impulses at light speed and the iron will it takes to conform his physical movements to those astro-infinital combinations. Let’s say that like a chess master he is thinking ten moves ahead, what really puts the guy in outer space is his ability to propel himself there and bring the whole team with him.
As though his efforts weren’t enough, he is aided by other tactical geniuses, his master generals who also possess the stamina of heroic footsoldiers, Patrick Vieira and Thierry Henry, dominating physical powerhouses with a supernatural instinct for setting up plays and managing defense.
A team with all these physical and mental superlatives breaks through the realm of reality into the dimension of science fiction as imagined in a Pink Floyd-inspired travelogue of the inner mind, except that the physical concreteness of it is all too readily apparent to those of us lucky enough to be alive, to witness a French space program that never has to leave the earth to take us where no man has gone before.
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Posted on 7/9/2006
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July 06, 2006
All Right, All You Big Anti-French Pricks! Bend Over and Spread Your Ass, because you are going to receive such a big baguette dans le cul that it is going to send your eyes in orbit around your head like a cyclotron on amphetamines!
This World Cup is ordained by the gods to correct the metaphysical imbalance set in motion by the 2002 World Cup and pounced on by the Anglo Saxon race to find a scapegoat for all their failures. Only when the French again rise to the world championship will the horrible feng shui that has plagued the world with killer tsunamis and hurricanes go away and will we return to a time of peace and harmony.
Rupert Murdoch and Donald Rumsfield should be strapped to chairs, their eyes taped open with clamps like Alex in “A Clockwork Orange,” and forced to watch Zidane and Barthez accept the Cup as a flotilla of jumbo 380 airliners blackens the stadium from above, and forced to listen to an endless loop of Starmania, and NTM singing “Il y a du Bon à Seine St. Denis.”
The greatest French scientists are developing a rocket that tracks down the odor of provolone cheese, the better to send the soccer ball right up the ass of Italy.
Italie, serre tes fesses, on arrive à toute vitesse!
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July 04, 2006
[Synopsis: SuperJew and Mitzvah Man hunt down clues as to the identity of the individual responsible for the disappearance of the sacred Falasha Bagel]
As they zoomed across the stratosphere, Mitzvah Man turned to SuperJew and asked, “What’s our next move, Chief?”
“We need to have this note analyzed. And don’t call me Chief.”
“OK, Chief. So we’re going to a forensic laboratory?”
“Not exactly. The way the Falasha Bagel was stolen, without any traces or damages the premises, leads me to conclude that there may be a supernatural aspect to this investigation. For that reason I think we should visit onE of various consultants I keep on retainer to aid in just such an investigation.”
“Where’s this guy located?”
“At 205th Street and Broadway in Upper Manhattan. Right in the heart of Little Santo Domingo.”
“So we fly up to the Bronx and turn left.”
color="#ffff00">“Exactly. Just follow me,” said SuperJew as he left Mitzvah Man behind him in a trail of vapor.
The two landed in front of a ramshackle storefront church on Dykeman Street. The crude handpainted sign read, “Iglesia Pentecostal Dominicana de los Santos Ecumenicos.”
“This is the place?” exclaimed Mitzvah Man, a little taken aback.
“Don’t be fooled by outward appearances. This guy has got a lot of talent,” said SuperJew.
A little bell attached to the door of the church announced their arrival as they stepped inside. The place was arranged like a little chapel with rows of folding chairs facing a humble stage with a lecturn. A sign over the stage said, “Jesús es Nuestro Salud.”
“I’m not sure I belong in here,” said Mitzvah Man apprehensively.
“They don’t bite,” admonished SuperJew.
In response to the tinkling of the little bell, a dark-skinned young woman stepped out from between the velvet curtains behind the stage.
“¡Holá, SuperJew!”
“¡Holá, amiga!” SuperJew than held a brief conversation with the girl in rapid-fire Spanish, and she retreated behind the curtain.
“Wow!” exclaimed Mitzvah Man, “You speak great Spanish!”
“Spanish is one of the great classical languages of the Jewish people. The great physician and philosopher Maimonedes was Spanish. All Spanish people have some Jewish blood in them.”
The girl once again appeared and beckoned, “Venga, SuperJew.”
The two men stepped behind the curtains and were greeted by a distinguished Latin gentleman in a white suit. SuperJew embraced the man in the Latin style. They exchanged a few words in Spanish, then SuperJew said in English, “I have the pleasure to present you my associate, Mitzvah Man.”
The man graciously exclaimed, “And so the next generation emerges to take up the cause of the Jewish people.”
SuperJew turned to Mitzvah Man. “This is my dear friend, Juan Garcia Calderón Katz de la Vega, of the Dominican Republic.
“How did Katz get in there?” asked Mitzvah Man.
The Spanish man answered, “My maternal grandfather escaped the Holocaust by emigrating to the Dominican Republic, where he became a dairy farmer. Later he started the largest food processing company in the country and branched out into resort hotels. He married a Dominican woman, as did my father.”
“So that makes you one-quarter Jewish.”
“I don’t deal in percentages,” said the man. “Even if you have one drop of Jewish blood in your veins, the spirits of your Jewish ancestors will stay with you and guide you. I am an ordained rabbi as well as being a Pentecostal minister, because there are more things in the material and spiritual worlds than can be explained by one religion alone.”
“That’s why we came to seek your help,” said SuperJew, producing the note Mayor Bloomberg had given him. “What can you tell me about the person who wrote this?”
“Does this have any connection with the theft of the Falasha Bagel?” asked Señor Katz de la Vega.
Shocked, Mitzvah Man exclaimed, “How did you find out about that so fast?”
“I dispose of an internet the same as you, but it’s an internet of the spirit world.” The man turned his attention to the note. He examined the handwriting, held the paper up to the light of a candle, and, rolling it up, passed it beneath his nose like a cigar afecionado. After spending a moment in contemplation, he said, “This is written by a disturbed person who is harboring very destructive intentions.”
“Do you think you can determine the identity of this individual, Señor?” asked SuperJew.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
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July 03, 2006
When SuperJew and Mitzvah Man arrived at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, they found Fifth Avenue blocked off with police cruisers, their lights flashing, and the museum ringed by a cordon of police in riot gear.
A burly sargeant blocked their entry at the door. “You can go in, SuperJew, but not this guy,” he said, gesturing at SuperJew’s unfamiliar new partner.
Mayor Bloomberg emerged from the entrance at that moment. “It’s all right,” he said to the cop, who stepped aside and saluted smartly.
SuperJew said, “Mayor Bloomberg, I’d like to present my new associate, Mitzvah Man.”
Mayor Bloomberg said, “Any friend of SuperJew is a friend of the Jewish people. However, we’ll have to postpone the introductions. We’ve got a major crisis on our hands!” The mayor led the two superheros to the Ethiopian exhibit. “Sometime during the night a thief broke into the museum while the guard was on his break and stole the Falasha Bagel.”
“How is that possible?” exclaimed SuperJew. “The Falasha Bagel weighs ten tons of solid gold. A thief would need to use a wrecking ball to punch a hole in the wall and a construction crane to steal such a massive sculpture.”
“Maybe it was an inside job,” suggested Mitzvah Man.
“Mayor Bloomberg continued, “And just to add insult to injury, “Look at this piece of junk the thief left in its place!”
On the Doric marble column where the Falasha Bagel once took the place of honor now rested a crudely constructed papier-mache parody of the famous objet d’art.
The mayor reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “This note was pinned to it. It’s addressed to you, SuperJew. He handed him the note.
SuperJew read the note out loud:
SuperJew, the joke’s on you But in the end the world will see The joke’s on all humanity
SuperJew put the note in his pocked, saying, “I’ll have this note analyzed and it’ll provide me with the clues I need. This crime, rather than being a simple crime of greed, seems to be the work of a deranged individual.”
Mayor Bloomberg said, “Whatever the case, you must retrieve the Falasha bagel in time for The World Bagel Festival, which starts next week. All of the world’s great bagel tasters will be here for The Bagel Olympics, and we need the Falasha Bagel for the opening ceremony.”
“We’ll certainly do our best, Mayor Bloomberg.”
“That’s not good enough, SuperJew. In a time of trouble and turmoil, when country is pitted against country and race is pitted against race, humanity needs a unifying symbol more than ever. Thy the ancient Ethopian Jews, who are the inheritors of King Solomon’s wisdom, chose the circular shape of the bagel to bake their bread, to represent the universality and interconnectedness of the human race.”
The two superheros watched, transfixed, as the mayor, normally a serene man, spread his arms and spoke passionately, like an evangelist exhorting his flock. “Why do you think the bagel, unlike any other form of bread, is first boiled before it is baked? To unify the four classical elements of the natural world – water, fire, air and earth.
“But there is a fifth element that is represented by the hole in the middle, and that fifth element is love, and the universal brotherhood of all mankind!
“So go forth, SuperJew and Mitzvah Man, and retrieve me the magical Golden Bagel of Ethiopia.
“And don’t forget the cream cheese.”
And inspired by the mayor’s words of wisdom, the two Jewish superheros lifted up out of the gallery and into the sky!
SuperJew and Mitzvah Man on the attack!
[TO BE CONTINUED]
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Posted on 7/3/2006
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