Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The Douchebergs

To the uninitiated, it may seem as if all Jews are the same - big nosed and curly-haired, loud and cheap, short in stature and round in shape, horned and dangerous.

In reality though, there are all sorts of Jews. You got your Sephardics and your Ashkenazis. You got your Hasids and your Yahwehs. You got Jews for Jesus (but strangely no Christians for the Jew God). You got the East Coast Jews, you got the West coast Jews. You got the Israelis, you got the Jewbans. got the Douchebergs.

What, you may ask, is a Doucheberg? Well, it's a particular type of Jew, usually found in large American cities, that outwardly embodies the commonly known negative Jewish stereotypes. They are to Hebrews what the Jersey Shore Guidos are to Italians. Quite simply, they're Jewish douchebags.

Before you say I'm the pot calling the kettle kosher, I should acknowledge that I definitely have Doucheberg tendencies. Most of us do. Still, a full-on Doucheberg goes far beyond just complaining all the time and fearing all which is goyish.

Douchebergs are both male and female. Oftentimes, they come from privileged homes, but haven't done anything to earn their privileged status since being born. Other times though, they're middle class, but they do everything they can to act like they're not.

Douchebergs went to Doucheberg colleges (Brandeis, BU, Wisconsin, Michigan, Emory, Miami, etc.), where they were in Doucheberg frats and sororities like Sammy and AEPhi and ZBT and STD [sic]. They proudly play Jewish geography with anyone who will play, like a dog with his new toy.

Douchebergs claim to be very religious. However, they only really practice for business or social purposes. They're like Catholics that go to church just for the wafers and repression. Douchebergs brag about taking off work for the Jewish holidays. They claim to love the Jewish holidays, then kvetch while they're celebrating them (it's too cold in the sukkah, this matzah's stale). Douchebergs shush people at temple. Actually, Douchebergs shush people everywhere.

Doucheberg girls usually have fat asses and no style, but they think they're better looking than skinny, stylish shiksas. They hate shiksas and do everything in their power to orchestrate their demise. Patti Stanger is a Doucheberg. So are the majority of The Real Housewives of New York.

Doucheberg girls are often boring, but think they're interesting or funny. There's a common myth that Jewish women are good in bed. Believe me, I'm the Wilt Chamberlain of Jew-bangers, Doucheberg girls are as boring in bed as they are at the dinner table. And no matter how successful a guy is, they'll shun him if he isn't a lawyer or a doctor.

Doucheberg guys are short, but they think they're tough because they've seen one too many mobster movies. They think that because they look Italian, they are Italian. They're not. Morrie the Wig Salesman from Good Fellas is a Doucheberg. So is Hyman Roth from The Godfather.

Doucheberg guys obsess over stupid shit - filmmaking, comic books, Phish, DMB, reggae, hip-hop (the curls do not make you black), etc. Brett Ratner is a Doucheberg. So is Matisyahu. So is Rick Rubin. Doucheberg guys love pot, which would explain the sudden influx of Doucheberg entrepreneurs in Denver since the sale of medical marijuana has been legalized.

True to form, Douchebergs are cheap. They like to look like big machers, but will take any opportunity to have someone else pay the bill at the ultra-expensive restaurant they suggested. They're also greedy, following every possible get-rich-quick scheme and crying when they don't become incredibly rich. Bernie Madoff is a doucheberg. So were Goldman and Sachs.

Douchebergs make fun of everything. They like to gossip and they like to make others feel bad about themselves. Schadenfreude is the only German word they love. Howard Stern is a doucheberg. So is Chelsea Handler. So is your humble narrator Iron Mike.

Douchebergs are extremely racist, but can get away with it because their ancestors were oppressed. Douchebergs are extra-sensitive about Holocaust jokes. Douchebergs play the race card wherever they can (she won't go out with me because I'm Jewish, they indicted me because I'm Jewish).

Douchebergs usually consider themselves liberal. They love the environment and Africa and the gays. However, if there's a sale at Loehman's, they'll gladly ditch any fundraiser or protest.

Douchebergs claim to be Zionists even though we all know everyone, especially Jews, hates Israelis. They'll instantly forsake you if you don't give money to Israel or vote for a politician that "isn't good to Israel".

Douchebergs follow every trend. It's no coincidence that the hipster epicenter of the US, Williamsburg, is located in Brooklyn, the Jew epicenter of the US. Douchebergs are always telling you what to do - you should listen to this band, you should go to my doctor, you should wear a sweater.

Douchebergs make a big deal when someone famous mentioned is Jewish. They also think David Letterman and Bruce Springsteen are Jewish. Douchebergs quote Seinfeld too much.

Douchebergs use Yiddish even in the company of people that don't know Yiddish. Douchebergs think Christians look up to them. Douchebergs seriously believe that they are "the chosen people".

Yes, the Doucheberg is a unique species of the Semitic genus. According to census figures, they're very rare. Somehow though, they're everywhere. Wherever there's a joke to be made at somebody's expense, wherever there's a lawsuit to be filed on frivolous grounds, wherever there's a buck to be earned, and wherever there's a good time to be ruined, a Doucheberg will be there. They've been around for 5771 years and it doesn't look like they're going anywhere soon. So shush!

Friday, November 12, 2010

Chili Willy

What you're about to read is a cautionary tale. In no way, whatsoever, is this just an excuse for me to write about my man parts. Thanks!

It was a Saturday morning. Like most Saturday mornings these days, I woke up with a hangover. While powering through delirium tremens, I like to eat ethnic food.

To join me, I called up my buddy Dr. Joel. He's not a real doctor, he's a chiropractor. We call him Dr. Joel as a constant reminder of how stupid it is that chiropractors call themselves doctors. Anyway, he adjusted my back, then we went for Pho.

If you're unfamiliar with Pho, it's a Vietnamese soup bowl/hangover remedy. It has noodles, meats, vegetables, and, unfortunately, raw chili peppers. When eating Pho, one takes all these ingredients and manually adds them to the soup according to desired taste. Because I don't know how to use chop sticks, I used my hands.

Jews generally don't do well with spicy foods. Still, I like a very specific amount of heat in my Pho. Therefore, I paid extra attention to my distribution of the chilis. First, I removed all the seeds, with my hands. Next, I tore the chilis apart one by one (with my hands). And finally, with my hands, I threw the chilis into the soup. The Pho was delicious.

Once done, we headed to Cigars on Sixth for a quick smoke. Then, I bid adieu to my fake doctor Pho eating friend. Back at The Iron Mike Compound, I reclined on the couch and picked up my newly purchased copy of They Call Me Baba Booey.

Now, most people don't realize how much men touch their junk when they're alone. It's not a sexual thing, well sometimes it's a sexual thing, but most of the time it's not. It's just something to do with our hands, something to hold on to while we're thinking, something to keep our nubs warm. We're men - we touch ourselves. It helps us concentrate, it calms our souls, it gives us the assurance that our masculine organs still exist.

With that said, while reading Gary Dell' Abate's tales of life as Howard Stern's producer, my hands, tragically still unwashed, made their way down south. Moments later, my netherrod started tingling. It felt like I had accidentally rubbed Ben Gay on my jock strap. Soon, the tingle became a sting. It felt like I had tripped and landed dick-first onto a cactus. Then, the sting became an all-out burn. It felt like I had humped a bowl of battery acid.

Life for my penis was not good.

I let out a yelp and then a whimper. Sweat beads poured from my brow, my belly, and my balls. I couldn't sit still. Shit, I couldn't sit. I bounced around the room, hoping to shake off the pain. I couldn't. This was prick purgatory. I wouldn't know (and I have the documentation to prove it, ladies!), but I assume this is what syphilis or gonorrhea would be like. What the hell was going on?

Then, I remembered the chilis...

Phalluses have an overabundance of nerve endings. Chili peppers irritate nerve endings. My innocent sword stroking must've led to genital pepper contamination. I had inadvertently acquired Chili Willy aka Hot Cock aka The Fire Down Below.

Frantic, I went online to find out what to do. I looked up "chili+penis" on Google. Of course, I got all kinds of poorly spelled porn related to the Chilean miners. Not cool, especially when it feels like you're getting a blowjob from a rabid cat. Without direction from the Internet, I hopped into a cold tub. It only made it worse. Now I was in pain AND cold.

After slipping naked on top of my dog (she likes to watch me bathe - don't judge!), I jumped into a hot shower and scrubbed my crotch with the vigor of a paint stripper. It didn't work either. Now, I was in pain and cold AND raw.

In my frenzied logic, I thought this was similar to a jellyfish sting. So, I ran next door and asked my neighbor Jim to pee on my peen. He wouldn't. He did say something about milk being used to dull the effects of hot foods. It was worth a shot.

With my baby-maker briskly blistering, I ran to Walgreens. I stopped to say hello to my friend who was on Intervention, then grabbed a gallon of milk. On my way home, the burning sensation intensified. I couldn't handle it anymore, so I ducked into an alley, pulled down my pants, and poured milk all over my schmeckel. It was like a dairy baptism for my circumcised skin flute. It eased the pain, but not for long I feared.

To be safe, I sought professional help. I called Dr. Joel. No, he's not a real doctor, but I figured he might know a real doctor. He did. As a favor, Dr. Lichtenberg (real doctors use their last names) made a house call. When he saw my melancholy meat stick, he laughed. Yes, it had been laughed at before, but not by a 65 year-old man.

The jolly MD gave me some sort of salve to rub on my pink sword. He then, believe it or not, told me to get drunk, saying that capsaicin, the active component of chili peppers, was soluble in alcohol. I took his advice.

The ordeal was soon over and my schlong was left unscathed, although it smelled like spoiled milk (probably an upgrade from how it usually smells). It was a harrowing experience, but it was an educational one as well. I now know what it would feel like to use my wang to remove cheese and tomato sauce from a steaming hot pizza. I now know I can't count on my neighbor Jim to urinate on me under any circumstance. And, of course, I now know to wear gloves before touching myself after handling chili peppers.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

All Hallows' Sleeve

Ladies and gentlemen of the Halloween costume-wearing class of 2010...

Do not dress as Snooki or The Situation.

If I could offer you only one tip for this upcoming holiday, avoiding Jersey Shore garb would be it.

Like St. Patrick's Day, Cinco de Mayo, Flag Day, and Yom Kippur, Halloween is one of those occasions that brings together humanity for the sole purpose of getting wasted and acting stupid. It's the perfect American tradition (with Celtic origins), which is beloved by all. The only thing that can ruin Halloween is wearing a lame costume.

Now, the lamest costume of all is not wearing a costume. If you don't wear a costume, you'll severely limit your chances of getting laid on a night where your chances of getting laid are pretty damn high. To avoid that fate however, you DO NOT have to dress like Ms. Polizzi or Mr. Sorrentino. You do not have to dress like Lady Gaga either.

Instead, you could wear something that won't render you completely unoriginal. You could wear something awesome, but not overdone. You could wear something clever, but not erudite. You could wear something that won't tell the world that you're a boring lemming incapable of putting together a worthwhile disguise for the purpose of impressing drunken members of the opposite sex. You could wear something not lame.

I know girls like to go slutty on Halloween. Hey, I like when girls go slutty on Halloween. Just don't be cliche (Slutty Nurse, Slutty Cop, Kim Kardashian, etc.). Do something more cerebral - Slutty Pelosi, Slutty Muslim, Slutty Susan Boyle. You'll be a thinking man's ho!

Guys seem to enjoy dressing like characters from "funny" movies and TV shows. Anything from any Will Ferrel movie sucks. Same goes for any character played by Ben Stiller, especially Zoolander or Chas Tenenbaum. And sadly, The Big Lebowski is no longer cool.

We're gonna see lots of Kenny Powerses this year. All that says is that you're a douchebag, and you have HBO. If I see anybody dressed as the Dick in a Box guys, I'm gonna put my dick in their box (not even sure what that means).

Also, don't dress as Borat or anything Sacha Baron-Cohen-related (with the exception of an estimation of what he'll look like in the upcoming Freddie Mercury biopic). You might as well dress as Napoleon Dynamite.

If you're older than 15, don't be a character from Twilight. At least try True Blood. Really though, this Vampire thing is getting pretty stale. Can't we move on to other monsters, like mummies or evil leprechauns?

Dressing as the main characters on Mad Men is also played out. However, Mad Men's black characters are hip as hell. Be Carla, the recently ousted maid or Hollis, the building's black elevator operator.

A big copout is to throw on some sort of jersey and be a sports figure. Don't wear a sports-themed costume - unless however, you want to do Tim Tebow, with a bench permanently attached to his ass. Or, unless you want to do Lebron James, with Dwyane Wade's mouth attached to his ass. Speaking of things attached to asses, The Human Centipede is a great costume.

Your costume should be shocking, but not too shocking. Instead of dressing as Hitler, dress as Prince Harry as Hitler. Or, try Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, without the beard!

You can also be Rick Sanchez, wearing a KKK hood adorned with the colors of the Cuban flag. Or, you can do Brett Favre, stubble dyed white and dick pics on your phone. Or, go as Miley Cyrus, slipping a nip.

If you're a gay man, don't do Cher or Liza Minelli. Do that Steve Slater guy from Jet Blue. Another option - Chilean Miner (it's timely and it's chock full o' homoerotic possibilities). If you're a lesbian, don't go as anything other than Justin Bieber.

If you're bald, be Larry David. If you're black, be Urkel. If you're Asian, be Kim Jong-Il, not Mr. Chow from The Hangover. A Hangover character is almost as bad as a character from a Will Ferrell movie.

If you're old, don't be Betty White. Be the rotting corpse of that old lady from Titanic that just died at 100.

Do not even think of going as Christine O'Donnell. That's this year's Sarah Palin, which wasn't funny two years ago and really wasn't funny last year. You'd be better off going as Rosie O'Donnell. And on another note, anything tea bag-related is only cool if there are references to its eponymous sex act.

If you can't find a good costume, wear something really generic, but make sure it's unexpected and inexplicable. Me, I'm going to be a taco. Why, you may ask? Exactly!

Whatever you do, just don't dress as Snooki or The Situation. If you do, rest assured that you'll have a short Jew dressed as a taco attached to your ass making fun of you all night. Happy All Hallows' Eve!

Monday, October 4, 2010

I Saw You On Intervention

I love Intervention! Yes, the A&E program that takes pathetic people at the lowest points in their lives and blatantly exploits them in order to achieve basic cable ratings glory is one of my true joys.

Why do I adore this show so much? In a nutshell, no matter how much I abuse liquor or Valium or Ambien or Nitrous Oxide or Pruno (prison wine), Intervention makes me feel like I'm just not that bad. And no matter how much I fuck up in my work life or my personal life or my ability to function as a human being, Intervention makes me feel pretty damn normal.

Plus, there's that whole schadenfreude thing. Quite simply, I gain pleasure from seeing the misfortune of others. Yes, it's wrong and sadistic. But hey, I'll take pleasure wherever I can get it.

I've been entertained for years by such wonderful characters as Cristy, the alcoholic/meth head/stripper/conspiracy theorist; Chad, the cyclist that turned to crack after getting kicked off the Olympic cycling team for calling Lance Armstong "a doughboy"; and, perhaps my favorite, Allison, the computer duster huffer who's also apparently a big fan of Katrina and The Waves.

To me, they're celebrities. They're like Bukowski without the pen. They're like Amy Winehouse without the voice. They're like Robert Downey Jr. without the Iron Man suit. So, you can imagine how excited I was when I turned on Intervention and saw someone I actually know.

This episode was about Jason, who grew up in a seemingly perfect upper-middle class family in Littleton, Colorado. The Columbine High School shooters named him as one of the bullies they retaliated against. Overcome with guilt and grief for his dead classmates, he got hooked on heroin. Now, Jason lives on the streets of Denver and his family is in pieces.

How, you may ask, do I know this junkie with a heart of gold? Well, my friends, Jason was a panhandler at my local Walgreens. Since I was banned from both Safeway and King Soopers for my instructional piece entitled Stealing from Grocery Stores, I'd go to Walgreens nearly everyday to purchase Gatorade and Easy Mac and Magnums and Snuggies for Dogs.

Every time I'd leave my beloved drugstore, Jason would walk up with some tall tale cleverly designed to get me to give him money so he could buy drugs. He ran out of gas or his wallet got stolen or he's collecting for Greenpeace or he's hungry. Now I don't give money to bums, especially ones I see everyday. I believe they should go to a shelter or their parents' house or anywhere that doesn't involve me. Or, they should get a job or at least give handjobs in the park.

So, Jason and I came to an understanding. He would ask me for money with a lie and I would decline with a lie. I left my wallet at home or I just spent my last dollar on Nicorette Mini Lozenges or I invested with Bernie Madoff or I'm addicted to heroin. Then, both of us would go on our way.

I really knew nothing about Jason other than the fact that he was a pretty hard-working beggar. So, when I saw him on Intervention, it was great. I learned that he shot up at least six times a day, that he passed up a scholarship to CSU, and most importantly, that he was gonna get some help. I like seeing people fucked up, but I also like knowing they'll get better. There's nothing like a hobo story with a happy ending.

About a year after the Intervention episode aired, I went to Walgreens to purchase some Sanka and Axe Bodyspray. When I walked out, guess whose "car broke down on the way to Fort Collins"? Yes, it was my old friend Jason who "just needed a couple of bucks to get home". So much for the happy ending.

Outside of our little "I want money/I don't want to give you money" dance, Jason and I had never really spoken. This time however, I broke the wall and said, "I saw you on Intervention!"

At first he tried to deny it, but when I pulled up his picture from Intervention's website (which I had conveniently bookmarked on my iPhone), he knew he was caught. He was kind of pissed.

Obviously, when you're jonesing for opiates, the last thing you want to do is make small talk, but it seemed like this had happened before. It was as if being on Intervention had ruined his life (not the drugs). His ability to panhandle and pass himself off as a non-junkie was blown by his appearance on reality television. I actually felt bad for him.

Jason sacrificed himself for my entertainment. Without men and women like him, there would be no Intervention. He exposed his life so I would have something to watch on Mondays at 8/7C. He opened his heart to me and he shared his love through the wonders of television. That deserved at least some sort of reward, right? I could have given him all the cash in my wallet. I could have given him my jacket to keep him warm. I could have given him my car.

Nah, I just decided to tell him the truth - I don't give money to bums, famous or not. Then we both went on our way. I'm sure I'll see him the next time I need Immodium.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Who Gives A Fuck Where You Are

A while back, I launched The Who Gives A Fuck What You're Doing Campaign. It was intended to keep Facebook users from posting stupid shit about their kids and pets; tales of marathon running, road biking, and yoga; pictures of their meals and hobbies; or anything related to the weather, hating work, or Monday.

TWGAFWYDC worked as such: If somebody posted something on Facebook that annoyed you out of its complete impertinence to your life or your rational sense of what is truly worth sharing, you would comment, "Who gives a fuck!". It was an ambitious movement with the ultimate goal of training the social networking community to police itself, resulting in more interesting and more relevant content.

Initially, TWGAFWYDC had legs. Comment disses were flying all over Facebook with the fierceness of Sully Sullenberger flying into the Hudson River. Soon, however, it faded like The Great Doppelganger Craze of early 2010 or The 2 Girls 1 Cup Mania of mid-2008. I think people felt it was too personal, that if somebody's gonna take the time to post, not matter how inane their posting, they deserve to be heard. I disagree, but the people spoke.

Well now, I'm launching a new campaign that actually may stick. It's called The Who Gives A Fuck Where You Are Campaign and it assails only a portion of overzealous social networking behaviors - the use of location-based social networking apps like FourSquare, GoWalla, and most recently, Facebook Places.

Right when Twitter was hitting the tipping point, I evaluated it. I said it was a a useless piece of shit, a flash in the pan, and a viable candidate to become a really hard Double Jeopardy answer in 2012. Turns out I was wrong.

Well now, it looks like location-based social networking apps are set to have their Twitter moment. In my humble opinion though, I highly doubt they're going to have the same longevity and significance. Why? Because they're stupid.

Basically, they're simple applications that usually reside on a smartphone. When you go somewhere, you hit a button, the app finds out where you are, then broadcasts it to all the idiots that are stupid enough to follow a dumbass like you on your social networks.

These apps annoy me because, as of late, I can't log on to Facebook without finding out that one of my "friends" is at Carl's Jr. or Dress Barn. I can't log on to Twitter without finding out that someone I "follow" is at Supercuts or H&R Block.

I gotta tell ya - I don't give a fuck! And neither should you.

Are we really so desperate for a human connection that we need to know where our acquaintances are at all times? Maybe if we're stalkers. Do we really need to be subjected to the boastings of people that actually think we're impressed that they're at a certain restaurant or club? Hell no! Location-based social networking apps are completely useless.

Has anybody ever discovered that their buddy from accounting is at The Container Store in Cherry Creek, then got in the car to join him for a nice day of browsing for innovative storage and organization products? Has anybody ever noticed that their junior high crush is at Jenny Craig on Colorado Boulevard, then biked over to join her for a group weigh-in? I doubt it.

So why do location-based social media users bother "checking in" at every stop they make in their pathetic lives?

Are they bragging? I'm not impressed that you eat at Chipotle. Sure, their burritos are delicious, but a lot of others have eaten them too. Are they hoping for validation of their life choices? If you're male and you're spending a sunny Sunday at Hobby Lobby, you're beyond the need for validation, you need a lobotomy. Do they want to organize a get-together? OK, that's acceptable. However, do they really want all of their 9 million friends involved in this get-together? If not, then why don't they just do it the old fashioned way - by text message or BBM or FaceTime?

On Foursquare, they give you badges and titles for being a superuser. You're The Mayor of The Gap at The Aurora Southlands Mall? That means you've gone to The Gap at The Aurora Southlands Mall more than anyone else in the world. You get recognized for that? Really?? You did not map the human genome and you did not solve the global clean water crisis. You bought a few moderately priced plaid shirts. Get a life, or at least go to Banana Republic once in a while.

On a side note, how come nobody ever shares that they're doing anything worthwhile? People are always at the dry cleaner or the tanning salon or the tattoo parlor. How come nobody's ever at The Opera or Habitat for Humanity? My guess - because they're wasting so much time checking in at useless places.

And how come nobody ever checks in when they're visiting embarrassing locations - your proctologist's office or Curves or The Church of Scientology or a teabagger rally? Don't be selective about where you check in. If you're gonna overshare, then go all out and over-fucking-share!

Regardless, with all this location-based social networking, are you really enjoying where you are? Checking in is another chore while you're doing your chores. And, isn't the goal of being out of the office to check out? Is life a job? Do we really need to punch a time clock for our leisure time? Fuck! I said before, I'm officially launching The Who Gives A Fuck Where You Are Campaign. If you're on Twitter and you see that your wife's friend's husband used complex GPS technology to alert the world that he went to Honey Baked Ham, reply with, "Who gives a fuck!". If you're on Facebook and you read that your mortgage broker's sister used her gorgeous new iPhone 4 to let everyone she knows know that she's at The Playful Pooch Kennel, post a comment saying, "Who gives a fuck!". Repeat and repeat and repeat.

If we all take part in TWGAFWYAC, Gowalla and Foursquare and all of their copycats will begin to perish. Facebook Places and Google Latitude and all the other corporate attempts to cash in on this ridiculous fad will also perish. And we, the people of the social networking universe can safely return to reading status updates about Farmville, Bravo reality show spoilers, biased and uninformed opinions about sports, repetitive birthday wishes, and everything else that makes social networking so great. I still won't give a fuck.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

How I Was Almost Killed By A 70-Year-Old Man

Up in Aspen for Labor Day, I realized that it had been nearly a year since I was almost killed by a 70-year-old man.

It was the wedding of one of my best friends. He's asked that I don't use his real name or the real name of his now wife out of fear that when she reads this, it will be the final nail in the coffin of our friendship because, like she almost did nearly a year ago, she'll forbid him from ever speaking to me again. So, I'll refer to them as Neff Lass and Molie Borsen Lass (not their real names).

On with the story...Neff is a journalist. He used to pal around with Hunter S. Thompson and his crew. We got along due to our shared appreciation for irreverent writing. He's also a short Jew like me. We would drink a lot together. Molie is wonderful woman, befitting of a man like Neff. Unfortunately, she comes from a family of fundamental Christians.

Neff and Molie had a small ceremony in Woody Creek, right outside of Aspen. I was honored just to be invited. Then, Neff asked me to prepare a speech. Now, as a seasoned raconteur and a lover of hearing my own voice, I'm always up for giving a speech. However, I don't prepare anything. So, I decided I'd wing it.

The ceremony was performed by a whiskey distiller. As you can imagine, the liquor flowed bountifully. By the time it was my turn to speak, I was two sheets to the wind (not quite three sheets, but getting there). Given Neff's pedigree, I knew my speech had to be insightful and sentimental, while also witty and a bit profane. I'm not quite sure all the guests had the same interpretation of those characteristics as I did, especially not Molie's 70-year-old father.

Holding my glass, I stumbled toward the podium. My bow tie hung from around my neck like Jerry Lewis's during the last few hours of the MDA Telethon. Channeling Lenny Bruce, I began by polarizing the crowd. I welcomed the token Asian, Black, and Mexican, who I conjectured were only invited to display Neff and Molie's liberal and accepting ways. I proceeded to point out the obvious differences between Jews and fundamental Christians and the difficulties that a mixed marriage poses.

Then, I commemorated Neff's former life by referring to him as a recovering cocksman (a little known term meaning one who's skilled at giving women pleasure with his penis) and regaling the crowd with a tale involving Neff, 4 hits of mescaline, a trout, and a developmentally disabled young lady. I was just getting started!

I discussed how much taller Molie is than Neff and referred to Neff as lilliputian and microscopic. I said he's like a normal person, only smaller. I asked if Molie was worried that, if they had a child, it would be mistaken for a monkey. I questioned Molie's fertility. I asked how they would raise a family on a writer's salary. I pointed out the large gap between their ages and estimated the length of time Molie would be widowed after Neff died.

I returned to the Jew thing again, this time with holocaust references. I praised Obama. I cursed Jesus Christ. And I drove it all home with a joke about a certain sex act that's illegal in some states. Then, I said, "Mazel Tov!" A few of the drunken guests applauded. Most everybody else just sat there uncomfortably stirring.

The speeches were over and I went to pay my respects to the family. Neff's mother and father, fellow Jews, gave me a hug and said they had expected a speech like this from one of Neff's friends and, actually, they found it pretty funny. I soon learned that Molie's parents didn't share the same sentiments.

Molie's father was nearby. I assumed he'd want to compliment me on my eloquence and mastery of the English language. So, I walked over with a big smile. He wasn't smiling. His wife was beside him sobbing. I offered the old man my hand to shake. He wasn't having it. In fact, I soon realized that two of the guests were holding him back from attacking me.

Now, this was a big man. He was wearing a bolo tie. Everyone knows you don't fuck with a guy wearing a bolo tie. Yes, he was 70-years-old, but he was tough as hell. And, I've had my ass kicked by women much older and much frailer than him. So, I was scared.

Soon, the old guy broke free. He had a look of murder in his eyes. As he leapt at me, all hell broke lose. The groomsmen stepped in, then the maid of honor and the ring bearer and Molie's 100-year-old grandmother. It was pandemonium. The madness in the room just egged on the patron of the family, my new nemesis. He took a champagne bottle and slammed it on the table, gangsta-style. Now, he had a lethal weapon. Would this be the end for our silver-tongued anti-hero?

Somehow, I knocked the bottle out the old man's hand, tossed wedding rice in his eyes, and pushed my way through the crowd with the rolling cake table. Then, I slyly escaped through the service entrance and ended up unscathed at a nearby bar. I was bummed because I wanted to catch the bouquet. No such luck, not even a shot. At the bar, I wondered whether or not I gave the right speech. I concluded that I did. Weddings are usually uneventful and forgettable. I singlehandedly made this one more than memorable.

Yes, Neff's new father-in-law later told him that he wasn't fit to be married to his daughter because he has a friend like me. But, discord with in-laws is inevitable. And in the end, the old man was wrong. Despite me, Neff and Molie stayed married. And, Neff and I remain friends. Molie's even pregnant. That Neff - he's still a cocksman after all!

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

20 Years Later

Over the weekend, I attended my 20 year high school reunion. I'm not gonna once again ramble on about how fucking old I am. Instead, maybe I'll ramble on about how fucking old my peers looked.

Nah, I don't want to be mean.

Although, at the reunion, some of my former classmates looked like they'd eaten their former selves. And, some of the girls looked like they'd become Magda in Something About Mary (we did grow up in Miami, after all). And, some of the guys looked like they'd become their mothers (moobs and gunts and all). And, there were more hairless heads than at the NBA draft. And, there were more wrinkled eyes than in the gallery of before pictures at the top AARP-recommended botox clinic.

But as I said before, I don't want to be mean. So...

Even though we went to North Miami Beach High School, our reunion was held in Fort Lauderdale, a good half hour hour from our alma mater. NMB's neighborhood is now surrounded by rough Hatians and even rougher Hasidic Jews. Therefore, it was probably a good idea to move the locale. Unlike in the movies where reunions are held in the school's gym or cafeteria, ours was held at a hotel. It would have been a nicer hotel, but many of my classmates are cheap Jews (not rough Hasidic Jews, who probably would have sprung for a 5-star joint).

Most high school graduates have a twentieth reunion. Whether you attend or not is the question. Most of those that do attend seemingly don't have much to hide. They're the ones who have, or at least can pretend to have, good jobs, stable home lives, and no overtly apparent major flaws. The cross-dressers, the amputees, the psychopaths, and the criminals stay at home.

We've actually been out of high school longer than we were alive when we were in high school. Nostalgia abounded. All of sudden, it was the late eighties all over again.

It was a time before grunge, before Snoop Dogg, before Tarantino and The Big Lebowski, before Saved By The Bell and reality television. Before Milli Vanilli was disgraced. Before Frances Bean Cobain (now 18) and JonBenet Ramsey (dead, but would be 20) were born.

This was a time when NKOTB and Wilson Phillips ruled the charts. Paula Abdul wasn't crazy and Bret Michaels wasn't hemorrhaging in his brain. Mel Gibson wasn't racist. Doogie Howser wasn't gay. Arnold Schwarzenegger wasn't anything more than a muscle-headed immigrant. It was a time when sexting and spam didn't exist. It was a time when it wasn't a pain in the ass to get on an airplane.

Ah, the memories!

Believe it or not, I was kind of an asshole in high school. Not the jock/bully/douche kind of asshole. More the short, big-mouthed, wise-ass kind of asshole. Everyone expected I would revert back to my old ways. I did.

I purposely mispronounced the names of people I've known my whole life. I stole drink tickets from the tables of people who were dancing. I taunted the class retard. I gave people nicknames based on their newfound foibles (Horseshoe Head for one of my follically-challenged buddies, Limpy McLimperson for another kid who developed Human Hip Dysplasia).

I referred to several duos of nerdy girls that stuck together tightly as "our Romy and Michelle". I walked up to other girls who were obviously not pregnant, patted their bellies, and said, "Congratulations!". I made lots of senior citizen jokes. And I occasionally threw in a racist joke or two. I was sort of like Tracy Jordan would be at his reunion, especially when I took off my shirt and sang Funky Cold Medina on the stage.

At our tenth reunion, one of my friends pissed me off. To get back at him, I told everyone he's a transitioning pre-op transexual (he's not). He punched me. This time, he didn't go (probably because of me). Subsequently, I told everyone he was in prison after being busted on To Catch a Predator (he wasn't). Best part - he couldn't punch me.

All the married girls were so proud of their hyphenated names and their kids. When I told them I was divorced, I got that look, like I had cancer. So, I texted the random girl that I picked up at a random bar the night before and had her come meet me. When she arrived, I gave her a name tag emblazoned with "CoCo Gellman" and introduced her as my wife. Believe me, she was so much more well-behaved than my ex-wife would have been.

Later, I motorboated a female classmate who somehow still had some wonderfully luscious breasts. She let me motborboat her because we had a bond, like siblings (not that I would motorboat my sister). That bond was noticeable throughout the reunion with all my former classmates.

The thing is, at our tenth, we were still young, we hadn't lived, we hadn't yet been broken. This time, we had the break-ups and the illnesses and the addictions and the tragedies under our belts. We earned our wrinkles and our gray hairs and that brought us together. Overall, everyone was a helluva lot nicer and less annoying than I'd remembered them being. It was so unlike high school.

Plus, I live in this crunchy cow town at the foot of the Rockies. Culturally, it's as far from the East Coast (yes, Miami is East Coast) as you can get. As much as I like my fellow Denverites, they're not my people, my tribe. While I would never move back to South Florida, specifically because of the people, I enjoy being around those people once or twice in 7300 days. We relate in an unspoken manner that I don't have in Colorado.

Also, I've been spending so much time with young girls lately that it was nice to be around people that actually understand the cultural significance of Small Wonder and Private Resort. It was comforting to be around people that actually understand the difficulties of chronic back pain, deteriorating muscle mass, and increasing cholesterol levels.

In other words, it was a pleasurable experience.

The 20 year high school reunion is one of the few remaining touchstones in our short lives. Nobody goes to the 30th or 40th. And at the 50th, we'll really be old and look really shitty or, like me, we'll be dead. So, if you have the opportunity to go to your 20th, I'd highly recommend it, especially if you don't have any flaws that would make you the butt of the jokes of that short, big-mouthed, wise-ass asshole that went to your school.

Monday, August 23, 2010


As a Jew, I grew up fearing Germans, Germany, German Chocolate Cake, and Germs. Yes, the Germans were responsible for nearly destroying my race. That was a long time ago, though. One would assume that nearly 70 years later, these racist killers had changed their ways. Not me. I've always had the notion that Germany is still filled with Nazis that hate me because it says in some antiquated book that my people were chosen.

It's like the inverse of that scene in the beginning of Inglourious Basterds, where Colonel Hans Landa explains his disdain for Jews by comparing them to rats. I never saw a German kill a Jew, but still, I feared them. To overcome this festering fear, I decided to visit Germany.

Boarding my flight to Frankfurt, I hoped that when I landed, I wouldn't end up in a gas chamber. Nothing could be further from the truth. Once in Frankfurt, my first stop, of course, was at a hot dog stand, where I ordered a frankfurter. The vendor, who strangely didn't have a toothbrush mustache, explained that in modern-day Germany, it is a crime to deny the Holocaust or speak negatively about Jews. Also, contemporary Germans see the Holocaust as an embarrassing blight on their collective history, much like white Americans see slavery. Subsequently, my meat dispensing friend continued, Germans go out of their way to be extra nice to Jews. Wow - talk about shattering preconceived notions!

Reluctantly relieved, I removed from around my neck the crucifix I had put on before leaving the U.S. so I could deny my Hebraic background if things got extra heated. Then, I headed to my hotel. I expected it to look like Auschwitz or Dachau. Actually, it looked like a Ramada. And there were no genetic experiments going on there. They even had food. I was pleased.

The next couple of days were spent roaming the streets of Frankfurt meeting the locals. It seemed that the hot dog vendor was right. I was treated like gold. The only words I knew in German were "mein" and "kampf". That was OK, my hosts spoke English. When they asked why I was in Frankfurt, I answered, "I wanted to see where my ancestors were brutally murdered." They responded matter-of-factly without an iota of sarcasm, "Yes, many Jews come for the very same reason. I hope you find what you're looking for." It was almost as if they thought I was going to rat them out for their deep seated anti-semitism. I liked that!

The bars of Frankfurt were fantastic. They had Manischevitz on tap and Gefilte Fish Martinis. For Jews, the first shot was free. The German ladies loved me. I was like an African-American football star in a Southern redneck town. I had my pick of "white" girls. On the off chance that I was rejected, all I had to do was loudly scream, "Genocide!" and she would quickly succumb to my advances.

I was digging this new Germany, where SS now stands for Surprisingly Sweet.

Next stop was Hamburg, a delightful sea-side town that once played host to the Beatles and was also home to numerous ravenous Jew haters. Not anymore - The Fab Four and the Nazi sympathizers were nowhere to be found. Y'now what was to be found? Hamburgers! I must say, they were every bit as delicious as I had hoped.

My home base was in The Reeperbahn, Hamburg's red light district. It was clear that they too had made some changes to accommodate the recent influx of Hebes. The strip bars and fetish clubs had special Jewish sections, with hairy, big-nosed, chubby women that whine instead of moan. Ecstasy! They even had a discount whore house, called Geizhals which, translated to English, literally means The Miser.

Elsewhere in Hamburg, I visited Miniatur Wunderland, the finest miniature museum in all of Hamburg. If you can believe it, they had miniature temples and miniature bagel shops in the miniature towns, and not a swastika in sight. On the U-Bahn, I got off at an area called Schlump, which is the plum capital of Hamburg. Serendipitously, they happened to be holding the Annual Schlump Parade of Plums AND I was made grand marshal!!

Before leaving Hamburg, I had a few drinks at Meyer Lansky's Bar, named after the second most famous Jewish-American mobster, who also happened to be the prototype for Hyman Roth in The Godfather. They don't even have a bar named after Meyer in New York or Miami, where the guy actually lived.

Germany just kept getting better.

Next stop was Berlin. Sadly, I couldn't find a food named after the city. The official foods of Berlin are Currywurst and Doner. I didn't care for either, but I did like saying doner because it rhymed with boner. Luckily, the markets were filled with Jew-friendly foods like whitefish and lox. They even had pork-free schnitzel and challah pretzels.

Berlin was welcoming. I could wear what I wanted. No need for a yellow Star of David on my shirt. At The Berlin Wall, I davened in plain sight and nobody shot at me. There was a tattoo parlor in Alexanderplatz, where they etched pictures instead of numbers. There was a tallis store in Potsdamer Platz. At night, I partied in a bombed out building called Kunsthaus Tacheles, which was now an art complex/nightclub. By instinct, I felt the need to hide in the attic. Instead, I danced like a Sprocket. Later, I got up on the stage and sang the Hora. Who was gonna tell me not to?

The more I became acclimated, the more I realized that the pro-semitism in Germany was for real. The only time I heard a negative comment about a Jew was when I, myself, made fun of a nebby Hasid for wearing a yarmulke at a bar. I actually got yelled a German!

The only Germans that didn't kiss my ass were the German Jews. My grandmother had always told me that German Jews looked down upon Russian Jews because they thought they were trashy. I am kind of trashy. And, I did make fun of them for wearing yarmulkes at bars.

Sadly, my trip came to an end. I didn't want to go home. Why would I? In America, I get no special treatment whatsoever for being a Yid. Overall, I more than accomplished my goal of overcoming my fear of Germans.

I assume some people will be offended by my liberal use of Holocaust references in this piece. That's not my intention. What the Germans did during World War II was horrible. If 10 million of my people hadn't been killed back then, our world would be a much better place. We'd have more lawyers and doctors and entertainers. Plus, I'd have an easier time finding a Jewess to bear my children in Denver.

I'm definitely not trying to make light of what was truly a tragedy. All that Nazi bullshit did happen a long time ago though. Germans are really nice now. Who cares if they're forced to be? Forced niceness is a real luxury. The Jews never really got reparations for The Holocaust. Our reparations can be the wonderful times we'll have visiting the country that almost caused our demise. Guten tag!

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Behold the Old

My peers, the men that were born in the early part of the 1970's - what the fuck happened to us? How did we get so goddamn old? Wasn't it just yesterday when we were snot-nosed pre-teens shooting the bird at the establishment? Now, we're hairy-nosed pre-geriatrics kissing ass to the establishment.

Wasn't it just yesterday when a bright future awaited us and optimism boiled in our blood? Now, we're regretting the choices we've made and hoping nothing negative (or positive) shows up in our blood.

As of today, I've been alive for 3.852 decades (yes, I've done the math, and I do it everyday). If I'm lucky (or unlucky, depending upon how you look at it), my life is half over. The saddest part about that is that for the rest my life, I'm gonna be old.

Our idols when we were kids, guys like Jimmy Page and Reggie Jackson and Jack Nicholson and O.J. Simpson, were the age we are now back then. Now, they're really fucking old. Roger Daltrey, the man who sang (and still sings), "I hope I die before I get old" is 67 and looks like Diane Keaton. He's so old, he's in nobody's generation.

We're at the age where we're beginning to be considered by Chelsea Handler-loving, Eat Pray Love-seeing ladies as "manthers or "men of a certain age". I don't deny that. Shit, I have grey pubic hair. I actually have pubic hair which, from what I understand, is a faux-pas in these manscaping times.

The women (and I use that term loosely) that I see at the bars these days were born three years after I became sexually active, which means that I technically could be their father. Most of them are creeped out by my antediluvian presence. The ones that somehow aren't pursue me either as a way of dealing with unresolved daddy issues or as an experiment, like college lesbianism. They don't have pubic hair. No women have pubic hair anymore, which is sad because, like Hank Moody, I think "an abundance of pubic hair" is nice.

I'm too old to join the armed forces (Bill Murray was supposed to be 27 in Stripes). I'm older than Shaq and almost as old as Brett Favre, two of the oldest players in sports (not including golf, which isn't really a sport). I'm not gonna harp on either of these issues though because as a diminutive Jew, there was no way I was gonna join the Marines or play for the Yankees anyway.

My joints hurt. My hangovers are brutal. I have wrinkles on top of wrinkles on top of veins. I'm tired. My libido is waning. I no longer have stamina. I get out of breath in the missionary position. I'm at the beginning of the male decline.

As much as I complain about being old, at least I'm not old AND female. While men of a certain age are described as "distinguished" or "worldly" or "Clooney-esque", women of a certain age are branded with descriptors such as "pre-menopausal" or "rode hard and put away wet" or "Aniston-esque".

If they're single, they're stuck going the cougar route, pursuing young men who are only banging them so they'll have a story to tell their fellow valet parkers. Otherwise, they're going after men that are way older than them (Daltrey-aged) because, like myself, any self-respecting man who hasn't yet hit his forties would never date a woman his age. Why? Because after their early-thirties, they're done. Just look at Kim Deal or Kim Gordon (or anyone named Kim for that matter).

If they're not single, they're maternal and frumpy and are suffering through shitty marriages with shitty kids. For them, it's probably better than being single for though.

I'm sorry to point out the sad but obvious truths of aging. However, we must get used to it because we're gonna be old for a long, long time (unless we're spared by an act of divine intervention). Let's make the best of it. No, let's not botox or dye or manscape. Let's not wear "hip" clothing that makes us look like we're desperate to fit in with kids who wouldn't have liked us even when we were their age. Let's not DJ or listen to techno or become a Juggalo. Let's evolve.

Let's become The Most Interesting Man in The World (or at least Anthony Bourdain). Let's become Alec Baldwin (not Stephen Baldwin). Let's put the past behind us and come to terms with the fact that our best days are long gone. Let's try to use what little youth we have left to better the Autumn of our years. Or, we could just be bitter. Isn't that what old men do?