GPOY - Easter edition.
I imagine Jesus’ hair looked perfect after he rose. Just another way I’ll never measure up.
It was a cold Winter’s night but the tree glowed with the light of at least 87 bulbs. He carried the children upstairs and tucked them into their beds, always an endeavor on Christmas eve. Yes, they were restless with excitement, but also because his children were already grown adults and borderline obese—if that pesky Department of Health body fat index chart was to be believed.
He kissed them goodnight and sat there smiling as the Rohypnol he slipped into their glasses of Dr. Pepper took effect. As they adorably snored like two Toro™ riding mowers, he tiptoed back downstairs to wrap their ridiculously overpriced gifts and place them under the tree that had been in the family since the mid-1970s.
Yes, its white aluminum foliage had yellowed a bit (not unlike the phlegm that one expectorates on a chilly eve such as this), but the children howled in protest when he even suggested that they search for a replacement. Unless that was just the coyotes. It was so hard to tell them apart ever since the children gave up shaving. Right after they gave up looking for jobs.
As he slipped and tumbled to the bottom step, he saw him standing there by the tree. Saint Nicholas himself! Unless that was just the concussion talking.
“Ho Ho Ho!” the jolly man in red bellowed, “You know you’re on my bad list this year.”
“You have no power over me,” he replied “For I am Jewish!”
“Shhhh. So am I,” whispered Santa. “I’ve been doing this since the garment industry went belly-up. Can’t beat the hours.”
He thought about it for a moment. “That explains the absence of pigs in ‘The 12 Days of Christmas’! And lobsters! And talk of meat and dairy in the same meal. Now it all makes sense!”
“My boy, I do believe the Christmas spirit is burning brightly in you now,” Santa chuckled. Either that or the chili he ate earlier, he thought. But before he could utter another word to the old elf, Santa was gone. As was his 47-inch LCD flatscreen TV. “You should have bought plasma, you cheap bastard!” he heard Santa shout from his sleigh.
And so he trudged through the snow to get a ladder, some extra large garbage bags and shovel. Those reindeer were up on the roof for a while. Well, he called it a “roof”. Santa merely referred to it as the Christmas litter box.
Many people, even Jewish people, have misunderstood and/or misrepresented the holiday of Hanukkah. They treat it like the Jewish Christmas, focused almost solely upon giving and receiving presents.
But that has nothing to do with the essence of Hanukkah at all.
Hannukah commemorates the miracle when Santa Claus thought he only had enough food for one reindeer but it turned out that he had enough for all nine.
It’s not such a bad tree, Charlie Brown.
With all my back-end business going on, I almost forgot that it is the Jewish New Year. This is most unfortunate due to the fact that now begins the most holy part of the year for us Chosen People.
Not only do we have to order ourselves another set of inserts for our Jewish Day-Minders, we also begin the self-introspection and soul-cleansing necessary for us to ensure a positive and prosperous upcoming year for ourselves and our families. Except for Uncle Hesh, who really deserves another crappy 12 months, that cheap SOB.
To this end, we spend a large amount of time in synagogue, where we read portions of ancient Scriptures chiding us for not going to synagogue the rest of the year. Sometimes I believe that God gets angry at us for this transgression but then I remember all the OTHER REALLY STUPID stuff we all do throughout the year. Therefore, I imagine that this sin probably falls behind the holy file cabinet somewhere in his office.
The Jewish New Year is full of wonderful and colorful traditions, too. Probably the greatest is the blowing of the ram’s horn or SHOFAR. This is not an easy thing to do, mind you, due to the fact that the beast runs real fast. I almost had my lips ripped off trying to do it last year.
After the New Year services, we spend the ensuing 10 days apologizing to everyone for all the sins we committed against them. For some of us, this can be very time-consuming. One year, it took me so long to track down that guy in the Hummer to whom I gave the finger (I know it’s a sin BUT COME ON), that I ended up missing the Day of Atonement by a good 3 months. While I felt better knowing I had made amends, there’s something inherently unwise about reminding a very large and powerfully-built man that *I* was the skinny guy who made obscene gestures to both him and his wife. And 6-year-old child.
Too bad HE wasn’t Jewish. Then he would have apologized to me the following year for running me over so hard with said Hummer. But seriously, what’s a few broken bones (did I say a FEW?) when I have amends?
Today is April Fool’s Day.
A lot of people seem to celebrate this holiday. Apparently, there exists a religion that has identified a clown as its messiah. I am not sure why this fact does not get more press from our liberal media or why our fundamentalist, conservative friends have not yet declared holy war.
Keeping an open mind, I find that a clown would probably make just as good a messiah as anything or anybody else: holy man, wise man, saint, etc. A good clown makes people happy, which I imagine would be a central skill of any messiah. And on the same token, a clown could easily terrify someone with impure thoughts or designs—again, a central skill of any messiah.
But what about wisdom? We seem to require that our messiahs say smart things that are applicable to our wretched lives. Well, Bozo (a clown among clowns, in my opinion) was fond of saying, “Always…keep…laughing!”, which seems to make some sense. Crusty (a curmudgeon among clowns, in my opinion—and a Jew to boot!) was fond of saying, “Yuk, yuk, yuk!”, which easily makes about as much sense as anything said by the Republican presidential frontrunners.
So, I really have no qualms about canonizing a clown. I am a little concerned about the holy artifacts, however. Should we place the plastic poop, rubber barf and balloons that emit farty sounds on the same plane as sacramental wine, wafers and scrolls? I dare say not. And what of the celebrated April Fools Day traditions? How does one compare the piousness of calling someone and immediately hanging up the phone to holding that person’s head underwater or cutting away some extra skin from his winkie?
Editor’s Note: Hmmm. You might want to rethink that last argument, Dave.
I believe this is what they call an “epiphany”.
Are you a Roman Catholic?
My wife is. Today she told me that it was Saint Joseph’s Day. Joseph was the guy who raised Jesus from a pup (remember folks, JC was the product of immaculate conception and never had a biological dad, so the story goes). I am not sure who Joseph is the patron saint of. Perhaps it is carpenters, or carpenter ants or aspirin for children.
In any event, my wife came home today from work and informed me that she has sfingi. Of course, my first thought was that it was some a kind of terrible, yeast-like affliction, likely being transmitted sexually. “Do we need a prescription cream?”, I asked.
No, my wife assured her idiot husband. Sfingi are Italian donuts or zeppoles, customarily eaten on Saint Joseph’s Aspirin for Children Day. And although I am Jewish, I could not bring myself to denigrate my wife’s religious beliefs and/or her demigods.
So, I ate all the sfingi. Out of respect, of course.
Sfingi. Which I believe is the plural of sfingus. Sfingus is a funny word.
(picture via; click to enlargify)