Congratulations Folk Singing Rabbi!

When you set the guitar down, your congregation will simply be staring at you.  When you shrug at them and say "I guess it's not for everyone," though, something will change in their faces.  They'll light up and cheer.  Some of them will mob you.  Some will call you by your last name (Zimmerman) while others will merely murmur their shabbas prayers.

Your new career will have begun.

Congratulations Folk Singing Rabbi!

Congratulations on Perfectly Coiffing Your Jew Fro!

Being a Jewish kid with a giant red fro is tough.  You get the Jewfro jokes, the stepchild jokes and, let’s face it: you’re small and skinny, which makes you a particularly enticing target in high school.  You could deal with all this, of course, with your stalwart Jewish durability, if not for one key factor in your life: you hate that you can’t make your hair do what you want.

Whatever you try, however hard you try, it just never holds. You simply cannot make your hair obey you.

Well, today the second least cool kid in the school, Sam, will walk up to you and hand you an afro pick.  Sam is black and, like you, he’s ostracized for being different.  Like you, he also has trouble getting his hair to fall in line.  He’ll hand you his pick and say “It gets better,” to you before he retreats to the library, where he’ll eat his lunch hidden deep in the stacks, surrounded by the books he tries to escape into each day.

You’ll secret the pick away, worried that the other kids at school will beat you up and take it away just to make a point about how terrible your life should be, but it won’t be necessary.  The rest of the day will go by uncharacteristically quietly, and when you arrive home you’ll be free to stand in front of the mirror with a clear head and begin picking at your fro to coif it into something wondrous.

Minutes will turn to an hour and before long your mother will burst into the bathroom uncomfortably, as if she expects you to be dead in the tub, or worse, masturbating.  When she sees you, and moreover your hair, she’ll laugh with relief.

“Oh, hey,” she’ll mumble as she walks up to you.  “You look so wonderful.”

You’ll catch sight of yourself in the mirror as she hugs you from behind and smile.  She’ll be right.  You will look pretty wonderful.

Congratulations on Perfectly Coiffing Your Jew Fro!

Congratulations Jewish Werewolf!

You’ve been at this a long time, struggling to pay bills and get skills, but today, most joyous of days, is going to be the day when you finally complete rabbinical school.

We’d like to claim that we know just went on during your “rabbi final” as we’ve been informed it’s called, but really we don’t have a fucking clue.  We assume it was pretty great, since Jews are renowned partiers.  We can’t see anything inside of any rabbinical schools thanks to a special “Jewish time field” that rabbis, at some point in their training, learn to project in order to prevent any kind of prognostication invading their private sacred spaces.

We do know that, later that night, after leaving the rabbinical ceremony, you’ll crane your neck and howl at the light of the full moon before briefly breakdancing.  Since you’re a werewolf, that’s kind of your thing, but most jobs frown upon that kind of behavior.

But the Jewish faith, concerned with losing young Jews to the “hip” religion of Scientology, are trying to change their image.  And as an extreme, breakdancing werewolf, you’re the perfect message delivery system for a new kind of Jew: a Jew who isn’t afraid to dance in public.

Also, you look fucking adorable with those little curly things coming down from behind your ears.

We’re still not sure what those are called.

Congratulations Jewish Werewolf!

Congratulations on Learning the True Meaning of Hanukkah!

The two of you will steal into the control center, a hail of bullets finding nothing but the steel of the blast door closing behind you. Johnson will hold the door shut while you up-end a filing cabinet to block it off just in time, a thunderous pounding erupting just as you slam the cabinet down. You’ll both stare at the door for a few minutes while the pounding intensifies, guns at the ready. After a few minutes you’ll hear a Yiddish curse and the pounding of feet running away, seeking another entrance.

Johnson won’t lose a single moment. He’ll run over to the Supercomputer and start hacking away, dropping all kinds of firewalls and viruses and emails and shit, slicing through ICE and some other weird clichés until his jaw drops, sending his lit cigarette tumbling to the ground.

Ever the safety nut, you’ll stomp it out before you grab his shoulder and ask.

“What?”

He’ll point at the screen, which will be displaying a three paragraph Microsoft Word file. The file will be titled “the REAL meaning of hanukkah” (capitalization theirs) and will detail the various ways in which hanukkah is actually a giant Jewish conspiracy intended to give Jews control over Hollywood and a few extra days off during the winter so they can play in the snow and occasionally nap to get the sad out.

“Those bastards,” you’ll say. Then you’ll remove a 3.5 inch floppy from your combat webbing and hand it to Johnson, who will give you a steely nod in response. He’ll slip the floppy into the computer and start typing away, spellchecking the files while he has the chance before saving them to the disk.

Then, his work completed, he’ll hand the disk back to you. You’ll slip it back into your webbing and the two of you will start looking for a way out of the Jewish command center, your mission half complete, the secret so many men have died for in your hands and ready to be shared with the world.

Congratulations on Learning the True Meaning of Hanukkah!

Congratulations on Rebuilding the Aggro Crag in Your Home!

Some dreams can never come true. For example, Pam from accounting will never find true love. James from AR will never have a chance to experience puberty as a young woman. And you’ll never be able to appear on the television show Nickoldeon GUTS as a child and climb the Aggro Crag in the final round in the Extreme Arena.

This is a lot more frustrating for you than the rest of us, because while we might never accomplish our dreams it is, in most of our cases, largely because of fate’s horrible, cold hands and our own abject poverty. In your case you possess the means to purchase the Aggro Crag and the drive to do so. You’ve even entered into negotiation with some higher ups at Viacom in an attempt to purchase the defunct structure, but those media fat-cats wouldn’t hear any of it, insisting that their precious heap of polystyrene and steel stay mothballed in their studio vault, along with the heads of the Jewish Media Elders and the souls of all the previous U.S. presidents who haven’t been inserted into robots yet.

So with all that money burning a hole in your pocket and no Aggro Crag to buy with it you did what any rational person would do: you started building a massive stadium in your home which effectively re-created the set of GUTS. Using extensive video reference and some of the original architects of the Extreme Arena you’ll build the entire thing from the ground up. But none of these people were involved at all with the construction of the Aggro Crag, and none of them will be able to help you in the least when it comes to fabricating a superstructure for the massive complex.

In the end you’ll be left with no choice except to hire a group of private investigators to track down the wily and reclusive architect of the Crag. He’ll be living in seclusion in North Dakota, far from where anyone would ever willingly go. But the detectives, at your behest, will track him through the massive, deadly obstacle course he calls his home and bring him back to you in irons. Five men will have set out: two will return.

Once you have him in your home he’ll be very amenable to building a new Aggro Crag for you in your home. Turns out he really likes doing that sort of thing, he just doesn’t like being bothered in his home. He’ll give you his email address in case you need to get in touch with him again and then give you some plans for the construction of a brand new Aggro Crag, complete with all the classic obstacles and suggestions for maintenance.

After that it’ll be just a matter of six months and twenty million dollars before you have your personal Crag up and running. The first thing you’ll do is stand atop it and survey the massive empty stadium you’ve created and wonder aloud at your snickering underlying as to why you’re still single when you can make things this amazing.

Congratulations on Rebuilding the Aggro Crag in Your Home!

Congratulations on Not Figuring Out the Riddle!

After the man finishes you’ll bite your lip for a few minutes. You’ll chew it, gnaw it, and use another verb and indicates mastication on it. Then you’ll give your best answer.

“Pants?”

The scythe will remove your head in seconds and your last moments will consist of you staring at your parents as your mother hides her face. You’ll wonder if it’s in horror or in shame or if it’s just out of a wish that she’d chosen a somewhat less orthodox Bar Mitzvah venue.

Congratulations on Not Figuring Out the Riddle!

Congratulations on Your First Foursome!

Dave will pitch you the idea at work. You’ll tell him that you’re interested but that you have to run it by your wife. Your wife will be incredibly excited by it.

“Rain Man doesn’t accurately portray people with autism,” she’ll say while dicing carrots. “I’d love to be finger cuffed by you and another man.”

You’ll nod. “And I’ve always had a fantasy about receiving oral from two women at once,” you’ll say as you caramelize some onions. “Iran’s statements about the holocaust were so inappropriate.”

She’ll smile and kiss you on the mouth. “Can you even imagine what it would be like to be hung by a crane?” she’ll whisper into your ear while she gropes your crotch.

Then two of you will have some great “it’s okay” sex and you’ll tell Dave the next day that you’d love to stop by their house and have some really freaky sex.

The two of you will show up around seven on Thursday, dressed in casual clothes. Your wife will be wearing a spring dress, your favorite one, the one she had when you proposed to her. You’ll come inside and find Dave and his wife, already fairly drunk, waiting for you.

“Let’s do this,” Dave’s wife will say, kissing your wife on the mouth.

“I love your blouse,” your wife will say, returning Dave’s wife’s kisses. You’ll stand next to Dave and watch the two of them caress one another, becoming uncomfortably aroused.

“Are we supposed to do that too?” you’ll ask, pointing between the two of them. Dave will shrug.

“It’s your call. I’m fine just enjoying this,” he’ll say, handing you a beer.

You’ll nod and gulp some of it. “I think I need new pants,” you’ll say, prompting a snicker from Dave.

Things will escalate rapidly from there, with your wife performing oral on Dave’s wife and poles flying in and out of holes and someone getting burned on a radiator. About halfway through you and your wife will be eye to eye, you wedged inside of Dave’s wife, thrusting erratically into her, your wife with a strap-on, pinning Dave to his wife’s shoulder with a pained expression on his face.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” you’ll whisper into her ear, kissing the side of her neck as you lean in over Dave and his wife’s huddled bodies.

“I’m so glad we elected a black president,” your wife will say, returning your kiss. The two of you will break apart, locking eyes as you do so. In that instant you’ll know that marrying this woman was the right choice. You won’t think it then but when you look back, long after your son has blossomed into a hilariously awkward young man you’ll remember this moment, pinning a moaning married couple together as they writhe and arch their backs for you, as the point where your life truly changed.

Congratulations on Your First Foursome!

Congratulations on Eating All the Potato Pancakes!

You and your wife are miserable at dinner conversation. Just appallingly bad at it. So when you’re invited out it’s kind of a big deal, and it usually means the person likes you and doesn’t mind how socially inept the two of you are. And sometimes it’s just because they know you’re a bumbling asshat who’s going to misstep in some hilarious ways.

That’s why your friend Dave invited you to be here tonight at his “way past Passover” dinner, which combines drinking of weeknights with delicious Jewish food, two of your favorite things. See, Dave genuinely likes you and he loves it when you start talking about the laws government rape and their variance from state to state and the way it makes his guests uncomfortable. He especially likes it when you discuss the disciplinary hearings at the University of Arizona from years ago like they’re news and people get appalled like you’re the one that beat and raped a young woman and then counted on the administration to cover it up so you wouldn’t lose your scholarship. It’s almost as good as when your wife starts in with the holocaust jokes to “lighten things up.”

So while Dave and his wife counted on your almost Dadaist conversation to make their evening entertaining for them rather than just their mooching, assaholic guests, they didn’t count on the various other things you’d do as a result of being in front of a large crowd. Things like eating all their fucking potato pancakes.

You’ll hand Dave’s wife your coat and follow Dave into the kitchen, where he’ll hand you a beer and tell you to have some food. You’ll nod sullenly, looking about as if you expect to be set upon by unseen combatants at any moment, before settling down and eating a bite of potato pancake. The food will instantly relax you, its delicious savory flavor and crisp, delicate texture making you think of a better version of hashbrowns.

“Is there anything Jews aren’t good at?” you’ll mumble to yourself as you pick up an entire pancake and start munching on it. When you finish that one you’ll start another, then another, then another until you look around and there aren’t any latkes left. You’ll panic. While you know Dave loves your inability to be normal for five god damn minutes you’ll worry that he’ll be upset over you eating all of his food. But since you have no idea how to make more potato pancakes you’ll be at an impasse.

You’ll rip through his kitchen, leaving a trail of destruction in your wake as you desperately search for some appropriate substitute. You’ll consider throwing some potato chips into a pan but then you’ll remember that those probably don’t have real potatoes. Your perceived salvation will come in the form of a ten pound sack of russets, already open, underneath Dave’s sink.

You’ll pull the russets out one by one and place them inside of Dave’s oven, heating it to 450 degrees. Then you’ll pound your beer, along with two others, just for good measure, and go out and mingle. As you depart Dave will come into the kitchen to check on you, having grown tired of your wife’s tirade about Mumia Abu Jamal.

“How’s it going, bud?” he’ll ask, surveying the kitchen.

“Good,” you’ll say, your breath reeking of latke. He’ll wave his hand in front of his face.

“Jesus. You enjoyed the pancakes, eh?” he’ll say, wandering over to survey the kitchen. You’ll look around for something heavy to hit him with but there won’t be anything hand. You’ll consider stabbing him, but stabbing normally causes death, not short term memory loss, so you’ll decide against it.

After a moment he’ll turn to you. “Did you eat all of the latkes?” he’ll ask, incredulously.

“I can explain,” you’ll shout. Dave will look at you, perplexed. You’ll quickly slap together a tale of a gun wielding madman who forced you, upon pain of death, to devour every single delicious potato pancake in the kitchen. You’ll then show him your ingenious solution: non-pancaked potatoes, enough for all the party guests. About halfway through Dave will just burst out laughing uncontrollably. He’ll call his wife in and have you tell her the story too, removing the potatoes from the oven and shredding them into a bowl to prepare more pancakes. His wife, drunk beyond belief, won’t be able to stand up when you get to the part where the gunman told you about his childhood. She’ll fall to the floor, laughing, occasionally sipping her wine as she looks between you and her husband and shakes her head.

It will be at this moment that she decides she wants to have a foursome with you and your wife.

Congratulations on Eating All the Potato Pancakes!

Congratulations on Talking About Bands!

You and Kerri watch CSI: Jerusalem every Monday night together. It, along with awkward, brief sex and a dislike of people different than you, form the cornerstones of your relationship. Without it the two of you would never last.

Or so you thought.

This evening, after a long day working at your mid-level accounting job with moderate hope for advancement to an identical, higher paying position with a less transparent name, you’ll get home hoping for nothing more than forty minutes of rapidly interrupted entertainment filled with inaccurate information about science, technology and society and lots and lots of jump cuts. You’ll also hold out aspirations for getting to cup Kerri’s left boob during one of the many tense scenes which will receive unsatisfying resolution at episode’s end.

Which is why it’s going to royally fuck with your head when you open the door to your apartment, step inside, close it and the lights promptly go off. You’ll flick the switch up and down several times, hoping that this is some sort of hilarious misunderstanding between you and your home’s wiring, but without luck.

You’ll stand there, dumbstruck in the dark, until your girlfriend enters the house and almost runs in to you. She’ll be sweating from taking the stairs and holding a flashlight.

“You okay?” she’ll say.

You’ll nod. Speech will not have returned to you.

“I think the power’s out on our block.”

You’ll nod again, jaw hanging a little. She’ll look a little worried and frustrated. Mostly frustrated, actually.

She’ll pause for a few seconds to see if you’re going to say anything, but you won’t so she’ll shrug, step awkwardly around you and head over to the kitchenette to get the candles out. She’ll cluck her tongue as she uses her Bic to start each wick and sets each of the bases on saucers reserved for coffee with company you never have.

Your speech will return as she pokes through the fridge, looking for something that doesn’t need to be heated up. She really won’t want to get take out that night.

“What will we do?”

She’ll assume you’re talking about dinner, rather than your ritualistic Monday night activities.

“Maybe we should just get a pizza?” she’ll say her brow furrowed as she runs her flashlight’s beam over the interior of the fridge. “I really don’t feel like heating hummus again today.

You’ll nod. “But what about after? What about Monday?”

She’ll laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about it, honey,” she’ll lilt as she juggles phone, flashlight and flyer to dial out. After a brief exchange she agrees to meet the pizza man downstairs, where the two of you wait.

While you’re down there you’ll tell her, in a strange burst of honesty, that you’re really freaked out about not watching CSI: Jerusalem tonight for reasons you’re not entirely sure of or comfortable with.

She’ll pat your hand and nod.

“It’s okay. We can find something just as devoid of emotional and mental content to occupy our Monday night while we eat takeout.”

You’ll nod in response and the two of you will head upstairs to eat your sausage, onions and peppers pizza by candlelight. Then you’ll break out the old acoustic guitar and discuss bands like you’re college freshman, using a lot of terms you half-understand and generally trying to reach a consensus rather than engaging in an actual conversation.

It’ll go on for a while until you start rambling about Kenny Rogers and Kenny Loggins and which one is the better artist and she’ll just stand up and hurl her wine glass across the room.

“Jesus Christ!” she’ll shout, trudging over to your front door to put on her shoes. “You are fucking unbearable.”

You’ll be a little bit confused, and ask her if it has something to do with the fact that you think Kenny Loggins is slightly better and she’ll throw one of your shoes at your face.

“I’m cheating on you!” she’ll shout as she stomps out the door, even though she isn’t. She’ll just want to make you feel small, and she’ll succeed.

She’ll trudge outside the door thinking about your relationship, why she’s with you, and how much she’s willing to trade her own happiness for comfort. She’ll start smoking again while she’s out there and consider getting a tattoo, also.

You, you’ll just sit there as your pizza cools staring at the door as the candles shrink under their own flames. You’ll sit there staring until the power flickers back on around you and you see the clock.

It will read 10:21. Your relationship will have lasted a whole three hours without television. So the two of you technically did, briefly, sustain your “love” without the intellectual war crime that is CSI.

Congratulations on Talking About Bands!