Sixish days a week, Jews dismiss me as the ultimate in bipedal treyf.
However, for a chunk of about twenty-five hours, they compete for seconds, thirds, and fourths of me.
I can tongue, slap, slob, massage, stimulate, tickle, mount, unmount, fondle, arouse, and vivify the light switch.
I can turn the thingy on.
I, alone, have the power to make it move.
The person with the power to make it move has historically been known as Shabbos goy.
I oyften serve in such capacity.
Because I am a heathen, I also serve as shablog goy, attending religious Jewish events and documenting them. You could say I am similar to Leni Reifenstahl.
I shablog goyed for Rabbi Sketchy’s three-day tikkun olam extravaganzeleh. While tikkun olam has long, curly, and early rabbinical roots, Kat Dennings brought its sexy back in 2008 by lacing seduction with Judaic mysticism in Nick an Norah’s Infinite Playlist.
They tikkun olamed on the couch. They showed one another their O-lam faces.
I hate Michael Cera.
My shablogic duties commenced during a traditional Israeli lunch in sunny Tel Aviv.
R’ Sketchy pointed crooked index finger at a bowl of hummus the color of Western nudity.
“That is the world,” he explained. “Broken.”
We dipped pita spears into the hummus and ate the world. Our digestive tracts worked hard to return it to at least log form.
For baklava, we hitched a tank to Yerushalayim, the Old City. They dig reruns.
To make it back to Cali in time to catch Rav PoM PoMs discussion of Jewish ethics, we commandeered a Syrian mig and followed the equator home.
As we taxied onto the Jewish Community Center’s tarmac, an aircraft marshall/Samoan security guard waved neon Torah scrolls to direct our landing. He greeted us with celebratory blue and white leis and led our cadre to the air-conditioned room where Rab P awaited.
A mensch’s mensch, Rab P is boss at the tradition of hillarzballz Jewish storytelling.
We gathered ’round his non-existent ankles to listen to his sermon/schtick. He stroked his mothball beard, it occasionally twitched on its own, whispered ho, ho, ho, and R to the P urged the Jews, “Do not to forget the tikkun olamification of your own shizz! Fo’ shizzle, my jizzle!” he exclaimed, pounding a fist into the desert known as Palm of Dry Hand.
In Jewish pig Latin, R’P explained that all too often, Jews get caught up in the sexiness of saving the entire mother-humping earf. She becomes a bodacious maidel in distress, and the more obscure the pocket of her that’s in trouble, the more exciting. Because of this allure, some Jews ignore their own and wind up with a generation of kinder who can’t harvest a proper kosher meal, let alone a nose.
“This is the problem I call the Save-a-Gay-Whale-for-Jesus syndrome,” he said. I schvitzed.
Rabz split quickly after his homosexually Christian joke and we loaded back into our Syrian mig, heading to the aircraft carrier stationed at the center of our local lagoon. We landed, unloaded, put on some gloves, and readied to perform habitat repair (weed).
On the lagoon’s brushy shores, we met with an eco-activist, Xena. Xena told everyone to start yanking but not to grab any moving ropes. She also advised against drinking the lagoon water unless you really like the movie Gremlins.
“Xena,” I said, “I’ve driven past this lagoon before and seen mass baptisms happening in it. What happens to those people?”
A Jewbro drawled, “They get infected with Jesus!”
Nearby, a pride of Jewesses clustered around something they had discovered in the ragweed.
I demanded, “Lemme see it.”
“Racially ambiguous,” I told the girls, “jackpot.”
I migrated to the shade of a palm tree, taking notes. A voluminous Hebrew, the Shah of Ool, came to chat with me.
My impressions of the guy who works at City Wok charmed him.
The Shah grew smitten as I Tourettically screamed “Mongorians!”
He grew so smitten that he wouldn’t stop photobombing my pictures.
The photobombing really picked up back at Sketchy’s house, where we reconvened post-infection site. We met there for baked goods (coincidence?) and a genocide chat.
Everybody nibbled the baked goods fresh out of the ovens and debated Biblical versus modern genocide. One conclusion? Genocide is aight, as long as its you-know-who’s will. In that case, its just a super special mercy killing.
The debate shifted from old timey genocide to Darfur to celebrities adopting countries to what to do when you see Mexicans jumping someone you don’t care about. Do you help the jumpee or yourself?
A young, volumptuous Pew (Persian Jew) schooled us all: “Tell ’em fightin’ ain’t classy.”
After we’d eaten all the baked goods, attendees assembled for a picture by the fireplace.
I said, “Say…!” and snapped.
Judging from the looks on their faces, I’ve got to say, genocide works better than cheese.