Are You Kosher? (11 page)

The rabid fans of international soccer are no different from the toothless rednecks who follow NASCAR. That’s a real sport. Forty grown men driving around in a circle while thousands fornicate, defecate, and do G-d knows what else in the parking lots.

Really? Has mortal man fallen so far? You once built the Pyramids. The Coliseum. The twenty-four-hour convenience store. You have the minds to send men to space, to fly across the heavens, to bring the world closer through the use of computers, and the best that you can think of is this dreck?

This actually brings me to my last gripe for the time being. The media. Especially in the days we live in now. How can something so gloriously conceived be such a tool for shmendriks and publicity hounds?

I know that you think I am going to blame a lot of this on the liberals, and to an extent, you would be correct, but the fact is everyone is guilty. I can’t even watch a morning talk show without becoming enraged by the way that news is broadcasted. Everyone has an agenda. Every television network, radio outlet, and online provider.

Back in the far distant past, we got our news from the local Yenta. She had no axe to grind or partisan affiliation. She just told it as she saw it, or how it was told to her from a third party. It was still more accurate. There was no sensationalism of current events or reporters going on the scene to beat a story into the ground. No interviewers interrupting guests to make themselves sound more intelligent. You should see how disgusted Bubbe gets when she watches the news. Poor Yankel leaves the room. What kind of a world is this?

I like to think of myself as a young man, in relative terms, but I have to say this to all of my mortal friends who are reading this. For the love of G-d, listen to your elders. Please get your heads out of your tuchases before it is too late. These are just a few of my gripes. I have not decided whether I should throw more at you, or if I only even mentioned these because I am hungry and cranky. These are just some gripes that are on my mind right now. I’m sure that you know as well as I do that more will follow.

Chapter 21

The New World

Now to jump to an entirely different topic, the wonderful tale of how the Glassman clan made their way across the Atlantic. In the late 1400s, the world was once again changing. The Inquisition had just about run its course, and mortal man was now setting his sights to the field of exploration, probably in order to find some other poor group of innocent people to persecute and subjugate. Queen Isabella of Spain was holding open tryouts for ship captains to head this noble venture in a sort of early day version of
American Idol,
without the bad singing or Simon Cowell, of course.

Eventually, after many days of failed auditions, she met Christopher Columbus, and what a piece of work he was. He was a very capable ship captain and had experience beyond the other applicants, but he had this horrible speech impediment that made him pronounce “R” as “W.” Another very peculiar tick of his was that he actually preferred to be called the Marquis von Cristo rather than Captain Columbus. To each his own, I guess.

“I sweaw youw woyal Highness that I will bwing gweat glowy and honow to youw lofty thwone,” he pwonounced, I mean pronounced, in the queen’s court. “All I ask is that I be allowed to bwing along some Jews fow entewtainment.” He was a well-powdered man and had a certain charm that drew you in, so obviously, the queen was quite taken by him. She ordered that all of his needs be met and that they would set sail as soon as possible.

“This will show those limey fruits up north,” I believe she was quoted as saying.

Three ships, the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, were constructed with lightning efficiency. The crews were selected and the day of departure was fast approaching. Bubbe, my mother, and I were on the Pinta. Columbus stayed aboard the Nina, which was all right with all of us, because we could barely understand a word coming out of his mouth.

The ships left with much fanfare: cannons blasting, horns blowing, and a couple of hundred Jews mooning their former Catholic persecutors. Off we went into the great unknown, hopefully to find a New World of opportunity to make profitable investments and to finally get away from those crazy villagers who would stand outside our homes at night with torches blazing. It was living in a Roger Corman film.

The voyage started off well; everyone was in high spirits. Say what you will about my fellow Jews, we know how to party. Eventually, the trip began to wear on all of us. My family had a tougher time because of the fact that we once again had to be discreet about the true nature of our existence. That meant no feasting unless absolutely necessary. I’ve mentioned before that at the worst, we can go about two weeks before it takes a toll on us. On the voyage, we had to stretch that to almost four weeks. Then we would just gang feast and leave the subject for dead, hoping that the crew and passengers would write it off as a bad case of scurvy. Times got tougher and we were almost resigned to the fact that we all would die from this half-cocked notion of exploration when we heard the alarm that land was on the horizon. We did it; we made it to the New World. It was not America, in spite of what the Italians like to tell you every October. We never set foot on this continent; in fact, we actually landed in the West Indies—Curaçao, in point of fact. Take that, historians. The explorers who actually landed first on this continent were those square-heads from up north. Sort of deflates the great marvel of Italian exploration, doesn’t it? And they did that about four hundred years before this faygelah was born. But I digress. We were happy to be on solid ground again, and when I say “we,” I mean “I.” Bubbe was her usual jolly self, already complaining about the hot climate and lack of a serviceable temple. The other thing that was getting to her undercarriage was the fact that, unbeknownst to her, Columbus had brought Catholic missionaries with him. This was not in the travel manifests and it was very irritating to Bubbe.

We were welcomed warmly by the locals, that is, the ones who were not being whipped and forced into religious conversion. Columbus seemed to be quite proud of himself. He repeatedly called the landing a “Gweat accomplishment for her Woyal Highness.”

Almost immediately after witnessing this travesty, Bubbe announced that we would not being staying long here. She very cunningly made friends with some of the local heads of state, of course before they actually lost their heads. She arranged for them to transport us north, to what is now the southern United States—Miami, to be exact. You had to know that Jews have always been in Miami.

Bubbe spent some time doing her own conversions of the Indians. She used less harsh tactics than the Catholics though; she made latkes. In the cover of darkness, about two months after arriving in the West Indies, we were shuttled to our new home, the New World.

We reached the shore and were wished
l’chaim
by our new friends and went about starting from scratch again. Fortunately, Bubbe had made some very savvy business deals before we left Spain, so money was not a problem. More on that later.

Unlike our
goyem
friends, we like to use a gentler touch when settling into a new home. The first thing Bubbe did was start a fire and start to cook. “If they have noses, they will come,” she liked to say. It did not take long before we got our first visit from real Native Americans. It was kind of thrilling, actually. My mother almost pished herself; she did not even know men came in that color.

The dinner went well; the natives were so impressed with us that they invited us for Sabbath dinner the next evening. What? Did you really think that with all of the Indians that migrated to this continent, none of them would be Jewish? And as any good Jew knows, the place to be is Miami. Bubbe was thrilled. “This could be the real land of milk and honey,” she proclaimed. “I mean, what bee would want to live near an Arab?” She never disappoints.

What we learned in the days and months that followed was that this particular tribe had been outcasts because of their religious beliefs. Doo-dah, doo-dah, I’ve heard that story before. They did not even have a tribal name; they were just wandering. Bubbe, who is never at a loss for an opinion on any subject, helped organize them and set up a temple with the chief of the tribe appointed as the rabbi. She even gave him a nice Jewish name, Sheldon. She even came up with their very own tribal name. The Shmeggegycocks. I know it doesn’t really roll off the tongue, but it sounds better than, “The weirdos over there.” In turn, our Indian friends gave each of us native names. Bubbe was called “Wielder of the spoon,” my mother was “Drinks like a sponge,” and I was called “Whines like a girl.” I still don’t understand how I got that name.

This was the first full, functioning Jewish community in North America and I take some degree of pride in being a part of it. But it was ended by the inevitable: the arrival of the European goyem. You may be more comfortable calling them WASPs. Whatever the name, wherever they go, things get ruined. We had established a Jewish utopia. We were free to worship as we pleased and eat what we wanted, and I personally shtuped some very fine young Jewish Indian girls. But that was rapidly coming to an end.

Bubbe was not about to be dictated to again, and so it was time for us to move on. I am very proud of what we accomplished with this band of natives. We taught them the proper way to worship G-d, how to make a proper brisket and stuffed cabbage, and the art of guilt. They, in turn taught us how to wear too much eye makeup, interesting weaving skills that came in handy during the era of designing wigs, and it brought our guilt-giving prowess to a whole new level. Live with a native American and you will know what I mean.

I loved every one of them very much and cannot think about the years I spent with the Shmeggegycocks without smiling. My only regret is that, hindsight being twenty-twenty, I would have warned them to not let those European faygelahs off the boats.

Chapter 22

For the Cause

One of the things that has annoyed me more than anything else about human society over the years is the inexplicable need to cause pain and harm to those who are either less fortunate, or weaker. This was no more evident than the time of World War II.

The bullies of the Third Reich were rampaging their way through Europe, causing destruction and mass hysteria wherever they went. The führer, the little Nazi faygelah, had his mind set on eradicating the entire Jewish race and the free world. Fortunately, the brave allied soldiers were doing what needed to be done in order to put a stop to this meshugenah’s misguided plans. My mother and Bubbe were on constant vigil by the radio listening to wire reports as they came in, their hearts sinking a little with each new report of the atrocities. We may be immortal, but we are still Jewish and this was beyond painful to listen to.

One day, I had an epiphany and decided that it was time for me to use my unique skills and capabilities to do my part for the cause. I sat Bubbe and my mother down one night and informed them that I would be leaving immediately for Europe with the sole purpose of killing as many of those cowardly Nazi fucks and their führer.

Neither was happy with my decision, but in a rare show of acquiescence, Bubbe did not argue my decision. Don’t get me wrong, she said that we should stay discreet and it was not our job to fix the problems that mortals made for themselves, but I think that ultimately she realized that I was determined. I told them that the way I saw it, it was no use being immortal if you can’t occasionally help the mortals out of the dreck that they always make for themselves.

“They’ll find you and then they will kill you, Izzy,” Mom said. Bubbe was less vocal. She resigned herself to the fact that I was going and it was her responsibility to make sure that I was comfortable in the conditions that lay ahead. I know she was worried; she did nothing for the following week except prepare my favorite dishes as if I were an inmate on death row receiving his last meal.

The night before I left, I went out for a quick feasting and came home to find the two of them in my room packing a duffle bag of clean clothes, toiletries, and of course, some of Bubbe’s famous hummantaschen. A dozen apricot and a dozen prune, my two favorites. I went to bed and can swear that I saw their shadows outside my bedroom door; neither could sleep. It’s good to be loved, even if that love sometimes disguises itself as emotional pain. You have to be as old as I am to fully appreciate it.

The day came for my departure, and my mother was an absolute wreck. She was not even capable of words. The alcohol was obviously not working. She grabbed me and held me close to her, kissing me on my cheeks for what seemed like an eternity. She stepped back, straightened my coat that she had wrinkled, and headed upstairs. Bubbe and I watched her go and the old woman slowly turned her gaze to me. “I want you to listen to me very carefully,” she said in an uncharacteristically low voice. “Watch out for yourself. Do not trust anyone. And stay away from those sneaky krauts whenever you can.” She, too, grabbed me and hugged me so hard that I thought I would lose all of my breath. She pushed me back and I saw something in her eyes that I had never seen before—pain. “You come back home to us, Isidore Jerome Glassman.” That’s my full name. ”If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”

I promised her that I would be home as soon as possible and tried to lean in for one more hug, but she had already turned her back and was heading to the kitchen. I may be wrong, but I could swear that I actually saw tears in her eyes. It was the only time I had ever seen Bubbe truly fight with herself to control her emotions.

My mode of transportation was once again to become a stowaway, this time on an English cargo vessel. Luckily, this captain was not an abusive drunk like that shmuck Noah, or a closet faygelah like Columbus. Food was a problem because of the fact that at the time I was still a practicing kosher vampire, but sometimes the need outweighs the circumstances, so I stuck to feasting on the crewmen. This was the first time that I had ever broken Jewish law as far as my dietary needs were concerned, but as I said, this whole journey was for a greater cause.

About two weeks later, through rough seas and worse singing, the ship arrived in Liverpool. I was just happy to be on dry ground again. Sailing and sea travel is really not my thing. I stayed in England for a few days and eventually was able to make my way to France.

The French. You would think that they could at least put up a little bit of a fight, but these fucking tutu-wearing snail-eaters basically put out the welcome mat to the conquering krauts. I would not be the least bit surprised if diplomatic negotiations went along the lines of, “Welcome to France. Please, by all means, fuck our woman. Kill our Jews, and help yourselves to all the wine you can drink.”

In the time that I spent aboard the English vessel, I was able to devise a game plan so that I would be successful in my mission. I was not about to go in like some crazed Rambo or Clint Eastwood. My plan had to be carefully thought out. For two months, I lived in “Gay Paris,” emphasis on the gay part. I learned local customs, did some reconnaissance of the Nazis, and waited for the opportunity to make my way into Germany. All along, I was making the most of my time by routinely attacking Nazi soldiers at night and leaving their mangled, shredded bodies on the street to be discovered by their brethren. I am not a violent man and have never taken any pleasure in killing anyone, but this time I did. A lot of pleasure—it was almost orgasmic.

One night, I finally came across a troop of SS officers and realized that this would be my ticket into Germany. Berlin, to be exact. I pounced on them, moving as quickly as I could. I beheaded one with a quick swipe across the back of his head. Two others were killed when I jumped between them and slammed their heads together with such fury that I could hear their skulls shatter. Three others ran off with their little yellow Nazi tails between their legs, blowing on their whistles while screaming in that guttural German talk. They left their captain behind. He was mine, and I can tell you that I used all of my built-up anger to terrorize him in the final moments of his life. I am not truly proud of this, but I challenge any of you who lived at this time not to do the same if you’d had my abilities. The fact of the matter is, I took quite a few bullet hits, but fortunately for me, I’d calculated and attacked at night.

I dragged this squealing pathetic little man into an alley and shattered what I am sure was every bone in his body. I leaned in close once his crying had stopped and drained him of every ounce of blood that pumped through his black veins. Now I was fluent in German. I stripped him and donned his uniform and assumed the position of an SS officer. This was my ticket to Germany. This was how I would hunt down that miserable little coward, the Führer. I will say this, though, and please promise me that you will never mention this to Bubbe. I looked really good in that uniform, what is it about patent leather? What? I’m not gay!

Now armed with my shiny new SS uniform and the ability to speak German, I was in prime position to gather even more information regarding the whereabouts of the führer. I also discovered just how bad things really were in these purported slave camps and that only caused me to become even more filled with rage. These bastards needed to suffer and I would do my part to speed along that suffering. Fortunately I would not have to do it alone; the allies were advancing and the Nazis were running to hide under the rocks that spawned them. The Russians were coming, the Russians were coming! I would be damned if they were going to get to Hitler before I did. It was time to hunt this coward down; into the heart of the dragon I was going, to cut off its head.

I made my way into Germany and slowly worked my way across the countryside, feasting when I had to whenever my language skills began to diminish. Along the way I routinely dismembered and mutilated Nazi officers and infantry that I came across, always attacking at night, of course.

Now I am sure that you have all heard of Auschwitz, Dachau, and other emporiums of pure evil that these barbarians constructed. The one that I infiltrated was a little-known camp just outside of Berlin called Helgas. It was not a very well-run camp; it was not nearly as efficient as its larger brothers, but it served my needs. What I saw there made me sick. Jews of every age were being starved and worked to death and that was just the beginning of the fun for the Nazis. Eventually they would be executed in an extremely inhumane manner—buried alive, lined up for target practice, or gassed.

I was able to get myself assigned to the commandant’s staff as an advisor since I was the only one who was not mysteriously suffering some terrible demise in the middle of the night. I listened carefully to everything that was said in front of me and I even ventured into the camp at night to lightly feast on the German-Jew prisoners to keep my vocal skills sharp. I remember how guilty I felt with each one; it was not like they had much to spare. The fact was that I needed only a little blood to accomplish my goal.

The days passed slowly until I got the information I was seeking and decided that it was time to leave the Jewish prisoners a going-away present. Imagine the look of surprise on the faces of these poor people when they awoke to discover every remaining Nazi officer and guard had been bound and gagged in the middle of the camp one morning. I stood in front of them proudly in front of a wagon filled to the brim with hatchets and shovels and told them to have fun. “Make like undertakers,” I told them. I went to one of the men and shoved a wad of money into his hand and gave him directions to a cave not too far away. I explained to him that there was enough food and clothing for all of them; I just wanted them to promise to keep their heads down and out of sight. The Russians were close and the allies would not be far behind. I was hugged by what seemed like everyone and asked to stay and continue to help them. One little girl came to me and grabbed my leg and explained that both of her parents were dead and she wanted desperately to come with me, but I had to explain to her that I could not bring her where I was going and that she would be safe from these monsters. I knelt down to look into those deep brown eyes and promised that we would one day meet again. Wiping away a small tear from her face and giving her a very gentle kiss on the
keppie
, I stood and began to walk away. I had found out the location of Hitler’s secret bunker and was not going to waste another moment. He and I had a dance scheduled and there was not a thing the entire Reich could do about it. As I walked by the frightened Nazis lying on the ground, I told them that they should be grateful that I was leaving them to my Jewish brethren, because what I could do to them was far worse. I turned and waved good-bye and think I even saw some smiles on the faces of these people who’d suffered unspeakable crimes. This was a good day.

It took me about three days on foot to reach the site of Hitler’s secret bunker, and even I was shocked to realize that it sat under a Nazi nightclub. “Brats and Schnitzels” was the name. The establishment sat against the side of a mountain, so I assumed that the bunker was somewhere underground. I staked the place out for a couple of days, taking more retribution on every Nazi unfortunate enough to travel into the woods to take a pish. The time of payback was fast approaching and I was going to enjoy every minute of this. Now I have said before that I am not a violent man and I truly want you to believe that, but in this place, at this time, you have to admit that they got what they deserved.

The night came for my trip into the bunker to find this little coward, but nothing could prepare me for what I would find once I entered the club. I entered the smoke-filled room and saw about one hundred German soldiers parading around in “cheekless chaps” and Kaiser helmets. To the rear of the room was a small stage that had five men dancing and singing, wearing nothing but appropriately placed socks and pasties. This was a gay bar! At least that explains the patent leather.

I made my way over to the bar and ordered a beer. While I was trying to figure out where the entrance to the subterranean bunker was, I was pinched on my tuchas. I turned to see a tall Arian smiling at me. “Vhat is your name?” he asked. I turned slightly to him and gave a toothy grin and at that moment, allowed my fangs to reveal themselves and said, “The last person you will ever see if you don’t take your hand off my ass.” His jaw dropped and I realized that this was potentially a major problem. I quickly hit him across the jaw before anyone had a chance to notice, and informed the bartender, who was dressed like Rita Hayworth, that he had fainted.

Suddenly, a red light started flashing and whistles began to blow. Was I discovered? Did I have to abort? Much worse, it was line-up time. The Nazi faygelahs were rushing to get into position for inspection for the colonel of the facility. They turned and bent over to have their tuchases inspected for approval. I joined in, hoping that I might get easier access. I didn’t enjoy it and I don’t appreciate your thinking that I did. As luck would have it, I was selected and led behind the stage, where a door opened and I was led down into the labyrinths. This was it, I knew it. Hitler himself was down here somewhere and there was no way that he was leaving alive.

We passed door after door and I could hear moaning, music, and every form of tawdry behavior echoing into the hallway. The colonel turned to me as we passed a red painted door and said, “Try not to make too much noise my little prize; the führer is in there and hates to be disturbed.” All that I could think of was how lucky I was that he just gave me the location.