Social Tip #239 - Ride With the Heaven's Devils

Normally when I see people riding bicycles, I'm like, "What are you, from the past? Or Chinese?"

That is, unless, Hasidic Jews are riding them. They're so far back in the past they make bikes look futuristic. Are they allowed to use something that advanced?

Social Tip #218 - Cut Deeply

I discovered that even though my family is Jewish, we also have a coat of arms.

It features the double-edged sword.

Social Tip #213 - Find Shlomo

It depresses me to see twins and triplets dressed up the same, and today I saw over one hundred Hasidic Jews in the park. It's wrong to say that any one race looks alike, but they are doing it on purpose.

It's like a practical joke by the Jews on everyone else, originally, and now on themselves.

"Hey uh, lets all freak everyone out and wear the same thing tomorrow. And everyday. Forever. It'll be a hoot."

Their world is a Hasidic Where's Waldo.

Social Tip #210 - Slip Through the Cracks

I love crackheads. Unlike the other street snobs (belligerent homeless, Hasidic Jews, etc.), crackheads are so oblivious to reality that they can be stared at freely.

Beware, though, the crackhead curse! Never look one in the eyes.

If you look a crackhead in the eyes, you're next.

Social Tip #177 - Eating Fake Meat is in Pork Taste

Scientists are growing pork out of stem-cells now. Finally, the no-pig-eating rule is all making sense; God didn't want us to quit eating bacon, he just wanted us to stay away from the pink hunk in the petri dish. The race is on as scholars search ancient texts for answers to our newest religious dilemma: are stem-cells kosher?

Some people say they would never eat something that was grown with the same science that grew an ear on a rat's back. I say good. More stem-cell sausage for me. That sounds like the fountain of youth.

Social Tip #146 - Don't Skimp On The Soul Soap

I used to date a guy who broke up with me to move to Israel and convert to orthodox Judaism. I got dumped for God.

I tried to stay friends with him, but anytime we would begin to have some fun he would complain about all of the extra hours of soul cleansing he was going to have to do before going to heaven. Easy there on the soul cleansing, buddy, all we did was say the word "retard" and do impressions of a camera salesman with an accent.

I for one, don't mind the soul cleaning process, I find it enjoyable. Some people like a good bath. And others, choose not to get dirty in the first place.

Social Tip #143 - Hide Your Shame

Whenever I see someone praying in public, I'm always embarrassed for them, like they've wet their pants. I always look to see if someone else saw it and then make faces as if to say, "I can't believe they just did that! Why haven't they learned to make it to the bathroom, don't they know they're way behind?"

Really, I don't care if you have never been potty-trained or if you follow rules written by men thousands of years ago who claimed they spoke to a god - I'm sure you have good reasons to be a misfit - but, please, have the decency to hide your shame. Keep your freaky shit in the closet, weirdos.

Social Tip #106 - YOU CAN'T HAVE "JEW" WITHOUT "EW"

A few years ago I was approached by a homeless-scented man with long, curly sideburns and a pilgrim's hat as I was walking down St. Marks. A Hasidic Jew.

"Kosher food?" he asked me.

"What?" Gross.

"You are a Jew?"

"No. I'm not," I said. I am, but only culturally. I had a bat-mitzvah but only because my parents made me. I never believed.

"Yes, Jew," the Hasid said, convinced. "Please," he begged, and wiggled his index finger towards himself and leaning in, indicating that he needed to tell me a secret. I leaned in to hear it. He opened his mouth to say "Kosher food," and then grabbed me by the back of the head and forced my mouth onto his. His starchy beard hairs mashed against my face and filled my nose with sebum and tooth rot, the scent of asceticism smelling unsurprisingly like a retirement home.

"Jesus, what are you doing?" I screamed.

"Where is kosher food?" he asked, as though he hadn't just violated my body and his religion. Hasidic men aren't even allowed to shake hands with a woman, but this one was attacking me in full view on the street. The only secret he had to tell me was that he was a pervert; the horrifying result of internal religious oppression. He came toward me again.

"Get away from me," I screamed as I ran into the street, "I am not a Jew!"

That's what happens when you turn your back on god, he sends his most devout to molest you.

Social Tip #92 - FOLLOW YOUR SUSPICION

Once, I dated a guy who I thought was cheating on me. He grew this hideous beard, and I was convinced he was trying to hide hickeys.

It turned out he was converting to Orthodox Judaism, so I had to dump him anyway.

Social Tip #33 - Living with Jews

I wrote a few posts back about living with an orthodox Jew. Here is an old diary entry I found that can illuminate his character in more detail:

(Originally written 4/22/06)

Oh. My. God. My creepy roommate. His name is Jerry. He is a balding, pudgy, sworn to dorkdom, totally in love with me, super Jew. He stares at my breasts unapologetically when he talks to me.

Jerry teaches physics at NYU, those poor students. I had a biology teacher in high school, Mr. Spaulding, who Sequester girls in his back office for constructive criticism while massaging their hand and staring at their tits. I actually had a couple teachers like that, but Mr. Spaulding was the only one that got caught. One day he didn't show up to school and never came back. I came to learn that he tried to molest his adopted daughter and she bit his thumb off in self defense. Could Jerry become this guy?

Jerry told me he was going out of town for the night, a big bachelor party in Atlantic City. He poeticised about eating steaks, which lead to bragging about how he was a professional chef in the spare time he found when he was not professing or researching. Stop trying to impress me with your hobbies, it won't make me sleep with you.

He offered me a massage (for my back, not my hand like Mr. Spaulding did, but still), and, right or wrong, I never turn down a massage. Wrong. He wasn't missing any thumbs, but it still violated my soul all the way down to its dark dead core. I will turn the massage down next time.

Later that night I invited friends over so that we could rummage through his room to see what incriminating shit we could find. I hadn't been in there, just smelled it from the outside.

I expected it to take a while searching in his room to find something disgusting, but I found something in the first five seconds. Right in front of his couch, next to the lotion and tissues (ew), was a 2 liter bottle of Coke. Only. The Coke didn't look like coke. It looked like piss. I looked closely but could not be certain. Maybe a bit too orangey. And was there some foam on top? Is piss foamy?

I had to be sure. My best friend (thanks to that moment), Jaquelyn, volunteered to open the bottle and smell. Me and my uber-gay Broadway boyfriend, Bradly, shrieked and gagged wihle she put her nose right in there and took a whiff. And then another whiff. She held her nose in it for a while.

Well? She said she couldn't tell. We needed a second opinion. I ran out to the kitchen to barf, but, of course, I couldn't. Bradly leaned down to smell the fluid, and the second he got his nose near the opening of the bottle he jumped away and screamed "It is! It is!"

Jerry keeps a 2-liter bottle of piss in his room. Wow. I want to think it is because it is such a pain in the ass to go to the bathroom in the hallway, but man. Piss in the shower like a decent person. Don't live a life where you return after a long weekend to a bottle of your own waste.

Also in Jerry's room were about thirty ballroom dancing trophies.

Social Tip #20 - The Holocaust

I'm not saying the holocaust didn't suck ass...

but I don't think it should have been used to terrify me on a daily basis at nine years old. In my house the holocaust was discussed as though it could happen again at any second.

My Mom: Clean your room!

Me: I will later, leave me alone.

My Mom: Clean your room this instant! In the holocaust Jewish children would have loved to clean their rooms instead of having to pick up their brother's and sister's bone shards.

This was not the only time in my youth that I was held hostage by the holocaust. Growing up I was forced to go to Hebrew School three days a week so that I could be unpopular with an entirely different group of children. The school was held in the West Bank region of Phoenix, and all the the upper middle class Juden of Scottsdale were herded on to a giant blue bus with an Isreali flag bullseye painted on it.

Being a group of Jews, our nerves were allready wracked as we were herded onto the bus. It was like, "Uh-oh. Where are you taking us? We've all read the diary!" Worse was that the bus was driven by an actual holocaust survivor. It was like a theme park ride, "Holocaust Sam's Wild Ride." Which would be fine, except that Holocaust Sam had never gotten his driver's liscence. It was like the Rabbi decided that if you could survive that holocaust then you could probably do anything. Naturally all of us kids were terrified because he would run over curbs and drive down wrong lanes, so we screamed bloody murder. Holocaust Sam wasn't having it. He would scream back at us in his heavy German accent, "Quiet! Quiet on zee back of zee bus! I cannot concentrate! Quiet! Augghhhh!" When that wouldn't work he would resort to terror.

"You see ziss?" He would yell as he turned around, back to the road, and shook his fist at us,

"You see ziss?"

He was pointing to his concentration camp numbers. We screamed louder as we hurtled at fifty miles-an-hour down the shoulder of the freeway,

"See ziss?! I can never get rid of ziss! Never!"

It was horrifying. I don't want to say that what happened to him wasn't an abomination, but we were little kids. And besides.... he could get rid of "ziss." It's called tattoo lazer removal. Or at least have it turned into a daisy. C'mon, Holocaust Sam, turn that frown upside-down.

Social Tip #15 - Charity

A couple summers ago, after a day of Coney Island beer-conning and freak staring, I realized I had lost my keys somewhere on the beach. I couldn't call my roommate because it was Friday night and he had recently become a super-orthodox Jew. As such, god would not allow him to answer his cell. I decided to sit at the 24 hour Dunkin' Donuts around the corner and wait for a yarmulke and curly hair to walk by.*

I found myself a table outside, all of the regular players were there.

The Vampire- This guy with white skin and long dark hair who argued with people. He was ALWAYS there, especially at night, and would be considered homeless except that he always had enough money to buy a coffee and setup shop.

Sad Girl - She technically worked there except she never once served me. She usually just stood outside and smoked and wore dark eyeliner and never smiled. She had a nicer phone than I did. I used to be jealous of her until I caught her out of her uniform one day and she was wearing a one-piece denim jumpsuit. Caught me totally by surprise.

Fatty Watch Checker - This guy sat at a table inside and stared at his watch like he was waiting for someone to come or something to do. Of course, this was just for show. He was just a fat guy in a donut shop.

Biker Chick - She looked like Emily from the original 90210. She wore a purple eyeshadow, I owned the same color but was too embarrassed to wear it.

A man came up to me.

Man: Will you keep an eye on my baby carriage?

I looked. He was indeed pushing a baby carriage.

Me: I think you should probably take your baby with you inside to buy donuts.
Man: Nah, I don't have a baby in there, just my stuff. It will only be a second.
Me: Okay

The man pushed his carriage next to me and walked away. He did not go into the Dunkin Donuts but instead walked completely out of my sight. He left to die, and I was now responsible for a stroller.

He came back ten minutes later.

Man: Thanks for taking care of this for me
Me: Sure. Why do you have a baby carriage?
Man: It's where I keep my stuff. Cops are less likely to harass me when I'm pushing it around.
Me: Good idea.

Oh. He was homeless. And kind of cute. That summer was marked by desperation for men. I always made excuses for them like, he's homeless, isn't that exciting? I love to travel. He's a magician? Hot. I bet when he ejaculates he just keeps coming and coming in different colors, like they do with scarves.

Man: I have something for you, for doing me a favor.
Me: Oh, no. That's unnecessary.
Man: Just wait a second.

The man started fishing around in his baby carriage. He pulled out what looked like a baby wrapped in paper.

Man: Here. Try this. It's a sandwich, it's delicious.
Me: No, thanks.
Man: No, its really good. Au Bon Pain gives them to me when they can't sell them at the end of they day. I love these things.
Me: No, thanks I'm fine. You keep it.
Man: I have a million of them. I want you to have it for doing me a favor. Besides, you're stuck out here at night, too.

It was true. I was locked out of my house, so for the time being a was technically homeless. I didn't want to hurt his feelings so I took his charity. Plus, it looked kind of good. I wanted to eat the sandwich.

I didn't want the homeless man or any of the other freaks to see me eat it, though. I had my dignity to preserve. I excused myself from the Dunkin Donuts and went to wait for my Jew-mate on our stoop. I sat in the darkness and unwrapped the sandwich. The bread was soggy from the wilted lettuce, vegetable condensation, and vinegar dressing. The cheese was age-melted. I huddled over myself as I ate so that no one would be able to see my homeless sandwich. When people passed by me on the street I jolted up and gave them a guilty look as though I was filming child pornography. The sandwich wasn't good, but it got better, and then worse again by the time I finished it and hid the wrapper in my purse.

My roommate came home, let me in, and asked me to turn the lights on and off for him because god wouldn't let him do it himself. Gross.

* Some people have said that I am a self-hating Jew. That is not entirely true. I just hate myself. And I am Jewish. And though I don't like the Jewish people, they shouldn't take it personally, I should. I am not a self-hating Jew, I am a god-hating Jew.