Chap. 25 Persian Puss Fever (New End)

 

Chapter 25

Persian Puss Fever

Joshua had a very successful friend from Edgemont High School, who now lived in SOHO on West Broadway, clearing almost 400K from doing ad sales for companies at the ideal time in their maturation such as FX, when they became the new air apparent to HBO with smash, genre bending hits such as the Shield and It’s Always Sunny, which he revered as the most dynamic comedy to advance the art form post Curb without having to be overtly Jewy one iota in the process. His friend, also a groomsmen at his wedding, was the superior basketball player in high school, who he’d battle hard in games of one on one basketball and in legendary games of HORSE made a splashy move to the city of angels and worked for Hulu, selling advertising to all the dream factories in Century City and Burbank, before Harvey Weinstein’s wife finally divorced him to focus on her lifetime battle with amnesia. 3 kids later, Joshua
didn’t get out much to see his old school high school bud, but if they did connect over the phone, making his wife jealous at how much rollicking, laugh producing fun he was having without her, he’d always end the conversation the same way every time with his old school basketball bud in arms, “Bang a Persian girl for me already, because I can’t.”

The 1st time Joshua got sexually charged around a mountainous chesty, pursed lipped, dark tan, olive smooth skinned, slightly broad shouldered, bootylicious Persian minx was during interoffice meetings with one his IT recruiter agency colleagues who worked in Westwood, California on Wilshire down a couple of blocks for the nearby Boylston Group. She had graduated Georgetown University and was the brightest, bustiest yet classiest, highest biller in her team who placed mostly Oracle DBA’s among various Internet startups through Southern California by far. Joshua learned not to place too much value on someone’s undergrad college education but he was a tad more east coast elitist back then, and knew Georgetown wasn’t accepting any dummies, so him being a tad of a college snob, touting the Bachelor pedigree degree of his past summer wind love Katy who graduated Duke in 3 years as a double major, so this Persian beauty in his eyes, who wasn’t petite by any stretch of the imagination, who was a brainy busty sweetheart rainmaker on top, turned him on longtime. If Joshua had any major balls back in the day, he would’ve made a move on her, but upper management told their naive, cultish minions getting jiggy with it with their fellow coworkers was a fireable offense, and Joshua was finally enjoying being off his parents nip of dependence, so he never did. It was only after he got fired, did Joshua learn the rule was fake news bullshit, and managers were banging co-workers at will left and right, but at least he developed a modicum of character building self-discipline in the process. The Bhagavad Gita lists the 3 portals to hell being lust, greed and anger and at the time Joshua wasn’t even aware of being fooled into passing on such a prime opportunity to pounce on his 1st Persian bombshell beauty, so he didn’t have too much to be enraged about in the process either. Still, Joshua had one month on the job at nearby Remington International, where he did deals with Coke O Cola, Zenith National Insurance and some obscure Internet startup Creative Planet, placing a gazillion Unix Administrators, earning his firm almost 100K in placement fees and a seat at the all-stars dinner at the Sunset Room. Which made Joshua feel like a hot shit for the 2nd time in his life after his 1st sales raise dinner at Morton’s on Beverly Hills, inhaling a porter house for 2 and shrimp wrapped in Bacon, thinking, life doesn’t get better than this on top of what the fuck what was my dad thinking, denying me exposure to what scrumptious heavenly sales promotion dinners awaited as a result of sheer hard work and self-possessed determination, despite at the time being the only schmuck in a headset to graduate from a top communication school in the country with a career crippling stutter. Which Joshua eventually overcame, through relentless, repetitious, around the clock cold calling heavy, exposure therapy.

Joshua’s escalating, all consuming, fixated desire to mount the scrumptious, highly inhalable, star Persian IT agency recruiter reached peak interest on their drive to work together the morning after their All Star Sales award dinner at the Sunset Room, that she attended of course. Because today, he wasn’t driving to work in his used yet cherished hunter green Honda Accord but in her BMW,l but she was still only 22 max, so this means she came from money also, schwing. Never before had any sexy gal Joshua fantasized about titty blasting had offered a leather interior BMV to drive, so he knew the sexually charged interest was mutual. But as Robert Dinero says in the movie Copland, starring the holy trinity of actors Harvey Keitel, Ray Liotta and Sly Stallone, “I gave you a chance and you blew it.”

It was impossible not think of hot to trot love, at the Polo Lounge Restaurant on 5th Ave, as Joshua was surrounded by a myriad of oil paintings of mo-money making star race horses like Man O War and other Arabian race horse beauties, as Joshua also took in the tall, slender, sculpted, high cheek bone pronounced, Persian beauty, Ester has he continued to scroll, through the menu, trying to decide what limited Kosher items to choose from on the menu during their 1st power lunch together. Joshua get’s his Kosher inspired rant underway, “Ralph Lauren, baby, I love your overpriced Polo shirts because they’re sturdy, classier alternatives to schmatta Tommy Hilfiger wigger polos, weird sized numbered, instantly shrinkable, Lacoste shirts and Vineyard Vine shirts because I’d rather dress for old school, scrappier, Bronx bred, pre-smart phone success. Still, what the fuck were you thinking, making your marquee sandwich, a corned beef sandwich with swiss on marbled rye, knowing pastrami rubbed brisket is ten times more soul tantalizing scrumptious 8 days a week? Also, marble rye, are you freaking kidding me? Was pure rye too overtly Jewy for your country club, Gentile loving tastes?” Esther, the star executive search owner of Silicon Alley replies, “You’re too funny Joshua. How are you not working?” Joshua replies, “Because God has a wicked, sense of humor. But I appreciate the invite here, to be surrounded in such a posh, clubby, wannabe be a rich gentile setting.” Esther says, “I feel like an unwanted outsider in here also, for what it’s worth. I don’t care that Giselle is sitting next to Tom Brady one table over.” Joshua says, “Eli Manning is a bigger pimp daddy than Tom Brady for ruining his shot at perfection. So, Tom Brady is married to Giselle, big deal, she’s 80 in model years. Also, why isn’t Terry Bradshaw even mentioned among the best quarterbacks ever? He won 4 rings and never lost in the Super Bowl once. Plus, he was also known for airing it out. Fine, that much he shares in common with Brady. I read some article recently about how Tom Brady did some comedy sketch on Netflix about Patriots owner Bob Kraft’s fondness for happy endings, denying the jokes were about him. Because his ex-owner could never be guilty of exploiting underage sex trafficking, because he only insists on using older happy enders who weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday.” Esther finishes spitting out more mouthfuls of laughter and says, “I’m an LA girl, born and raised, so I’m a Raiders fan myself, but I don’t care for Tom Brady’s personality all too much either. He also dumped his pregnant ex actress wife, the moment he fell in love with Giselle’s uppity, lispy snatch, just saying.” Joshua says, “I’m glad you found my contact info on LinkedIn like any Executive Recruiter with a brain would. I love the fact how you became a consummate rainmaker in the startup tech recruitment agency game, I was much more of a trickeler.” Esther says, “I envision mucho dinero money shots in your future Joshua.” Joshua says, “Well, I do have this idea for a food truck. Would you know of any super angel investors you can get me a meeting with? My vision is to create a food truck, which sells the Do It All Dad Hero, which is a Kosher rib eye, cheese steak, with a mock cheese wiz substitute. And I’d launch a viral bash campaign against the Hallall guys, about who would you rather submit your cheese steak urges to, all mighty God or all the blood thirsty, rape happy, throw gays off roof tops preaching Allah? I read on Chowhound.com, Hallall guys have to pray to Allah, before their ritual slaughtering, versus Kosher slaughtered cows, who don’t use the stun gun, who unlike the Hallall guys, aren’t required by law to give any praise worthy shout outs to a God who instructs his true believers to treat woman like disposable bee keeper punching bags.” Esther says, “I agree with everything you’re saying and would recommend softening your viral attack campaign against the Hallall guys just a bit. Still, I love your fierce, fiery, fighting style. You’re more Bronx bred scrappy than you think big boy.”

Joshua spots Spike Lee waiving his hand up in the air causing a scene in front of his white privilege waiter, clearing 400 a day before 2 easy and excuses himself from the table. “I’ll be right back Ester. I want to pay homage to the Knicks jilted mascot Spike Lee.”  Joshua hovers tall over Spike Lee’s table, only learn he’s dining with Chris Rock. “Hey, Spike, sorry to hear about the Garden not letting you into employee entrance way. I’m positive it had nothing to do with your Resist This shirt, or your portrayal of all Jews in your films not being such fine people in the face of your insistence of sucking off Jew demonizing Farrakhan for all his signed bow tie collection is worth.  How does it feel knowing, still your President, Donald Trump directed the construction of Wollman Rink under budget and ahead of schedule, knowing you couldn’t do the same for Malcolm X? Malcolm X was bisexual but why didn’t you portray that in your film Spike? I thought you were all about celebrating the beautiful, strong, totality of the black man inside and out? And thanks for giving your impressionable brothers the encouraged permission to riot and burn a second generation pizza joint to the ground because they didn’t care for fake news, underprivileged Chuck D from yenta breath country in Long Island, rapping about how Elvis was no role model of yours, but Chuck Berry installing a secret female bathroom cam in his Missouri restaurant was Kosher in your book because they were just stupid white bitches, who you should’ve know better, right Spike?” Chris Rock says, “You’re move Spike. I don’t know who this crazy ass cracker is but is shit talking game is tight.” Joshua adds, “Huge fan Chris, I stopped watching the Knicks after they traded KP for a box of Cotton Candy.” But the garden faithful like yourself know deep down Uni will fly high again. And tell your boy Stephen A his take on his why they traded KP was lame. KP’s brother agent made Dolan uncomfortable because he reminded him too much of the Russian gangsters in 25th hour? Now, that was a great film you directed Spike. Positive it had nothing to do with you not writing the screenplay, the book was based on. Last, Chris, you don’t believe KP raped a neighbor in his Manhattan apartment building, the day he tore his ACL, do you? Do you see Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein trying to rape Wonder Woman played by Gal Gadot only one good leg?” Chris Rock replies, “Who are you again? And why have I never seen you the Cellar before ever?” Spike interjects, “Rock, I love your like a brother from another mother, but if you suck off his big headed Jew’s ego for one more second, our friendship is over, you dig?”  Joshua throws down his Do It All Dad Year Podcast business card for Rock on the table and says “Call me some time Chris. I’d love to write a movie or create a new TV show with you some time. Oh, and congrats on your 40 million stand up deal with Netflix because the white man, can no longer get away with paying the great Chris Rock with only one rib.” Joshua heads back to his table with Esther triumphant, after showcasing his Bronx bred scrappy, fighter instincts, back, back in a New York groove once more.

Chapter 12 The Herring Cart Provider

 

                                                                   Chapter 12

The Herring Cart Provider

Joshua’s family wasn’t flush with entrepreneurs but his Great Grandfather Fishil was one, who could afford to take his 4 daughters to the Yiddish theater every Sunday during the Great Depression because of his successful Herring push curt business, the food truck precursor of his day.  His 4 daughters would heckle the actors boring them to death at the Yiddish theatre, for doing another annoying reenactment of Anton Chekhov’s Three Sisters because the writing in it was more dronish dreary than crowd pleasing funny. “Jewish doctors aren’t funny.” “You call this high art.” “Russian dramatists are overrated.” “Where is Milton Berle when you need him?”  “This play stinks more than an egg salad sandwich on the subway.”  At the time, Joshua’s other great Grandfather’s was out of work during the depression because there wasn’t much work for Horse Collar makers in the Lower East Side in the 1920’s either, knowing the Budweiser Horses weren’t even conceived yet. As a result, all his Great Grandfather Murray could afford to feed his family during the Great Depression was potatoes 3 times a day. Once the depression was over Murray, couldn’t stomach the idea of eating another Knish at Yona Schimmel’s ever again, let alone swing by McSorley’s for a beer and complimentary cup of potato leek soup, for Saint Patrick’s Day.

Joshua definitely got his height and abnormally large hands from his Great Grandfather, Fishil. Some would say, Fishil was larger than life, who enjoyed a hearty laugh and a crisp, German pilsner more than most of fellow Jewish brethren after schlepping his herring push car from Houston to Essex and back, especially knowing he didn’t have the luxury of sporting orange crocks like a wannabe Mario Batali in the making. Out his 4 daughters, Joshua’s grandmother, Ethel looked most like Fishil, inheriting his huge, beamish smile, firm, pronounced cheery cheek bones and special glint filled light.  Ethel tried to follow in his father’s Entrepreneurial footsteps when she was retired from working as high-ranking assistant for Pfizer and went on an art buying spree, during her manic yet happy and productive bi-polar high, years. In particular, she was found of southwestern Indian American art with her only son Steven, who was celebrated for his cannon of an arm on the stick ball streets of Pond Place in the Bronx but uncoordinated in other ways, earning the boyhood nickname, Trips on Curbs, before his best friend Sil who became the head DA leading the Office of Special Narcotics, reporting directly to head DA, Robert Morgenthau himself, renaming my father, the Colonel, after he fell in love with Joshua’s mother at Lake Forrest College on full paid scholarship who hailed from Louisville, Kentucky.  Growing up, Joshua’s mom told her son, “Kentucky is known for 2 things, horses and pretty woman.” Joshua replies, “Keep your sundress on mom, before you tell me Dad is hung like Seabiscuit.”

Joshua was staring at picture of Fishill standing tall and proud over his herring pushcart one day in his home office and an idea emerged. Why not create a food truck business for his kids to get involved with, but what could they sell, now that Joshua was following God’s commandments, sticking to a Kosher diet only? Last time, Joshua checked only 1.7 million Jews lived in New York City and in the year 2020 they were about 34 practicing Jews left, after all the older altacockers eventually died out. All of Joshua’s old school buds from High School, talked a big game about identifying with being Jewish because of their heightened appreciation of Marc Marcon’s Jewy, neurotic neurosis on display podcasts or with Albert Brook’s push over laced self-hate, in Defending Your Life.  But they didn’t perform Shabbat, keep Kosher or even fast on Yom Kippur for that matter. All they did was act smug superior in all spheres of life, claiming a connection to the use of humor for a persecuted group of people, despite never having to make a cold call in their life or exhibit even a smidgen of balls, by trying out their so called exalted funny man, chosen status at an open mike sometime in their ho hum, I do ad sales to encapsulate my whoopty freaking do existence. Some sold life insurance, others were financial advisors, or non-trial paper pushing lawyer peons, in the grand, whatever, who cares,  sweep of their lives, who had less interest in eating Kosher than a radical Jihadist has for Madonna’s stretched out beyond repair, camel toe dipping snatch, looking like it dipped onto a landmine in the occupied territory while fantasizing of being stuffed by former Miami Heat’s center Ronnie Seikaly for old times’ sake. But those old school high school buds still appreciated barbeque brisket from Virgil’s in Times Square or their grandmothers for that matter, assuming, she wasn’t a full blown Jappy Grandma from the five town in Long Island who never met a takeout menu she didn’t like. Joshua missed cheese steaks the most since he started his Kosher diet. But what if Joshua could find a hipster science wiz from Bronx Science or a Yeshiva school in Crown Heights, to create a killer mock cheese wiz substitute for brisket smoked cheesesteak and only accept exact cash, ten dollars a pop for the Do It All Dad Hero. Joshua’s son genius artist son Jerimiah could design the truck, his bashert agent Daughter Matilda, could be his PR agent, running his social media feeds, booking him appearances on the Today Show to promote and sell the shit of out it. And his youngest, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, could co-star in the commercials, Joshua would craft, funny, scripture inspired, commercial for, who would help minimize Joshua’s New York bred assholeishness, ensuring he’d come as more commercial friendly and less Crazy Eddy than before. Plus, Joshua could put his handsome mug to good use and be the face of the franchise, becoming a new age, food personality like the late great Anthony Bourdain in the process, without going out of his way, to display his erudite, hyper articulate, punk rock culture rich leanings in your face nearly as much. Plus, Bourdain adopting New York City as his adopted hometown, originally hailed from New Jersey, whereas Joshua was born in NYU Hospital on the day of Easter no less. Carrying on the spirit of Fishill as a Do It All Hero Pusher personality, could be his way of making his indelible, big deal mark, getting him invite to tables at Rao’s in East Harlem one day after all.

 

 

Chapter 11 The Spoiled Sheltered Bum

                                                                     Chapter 11

The Spoiled, Sheltered Bum

Growing up Joshua’s father was very fond of the expression, “You’re very generous with my money.” A very funny line indeed. Still, Joshua never asked his Dad for a fancy Bar Mitzvah party with strobe lights, a smoke machine, accompanied with a twice as smoking, inhalable, Italian looking, big haired MC with the boobs to match. Nor did Joshua ever grow up demanding his working parents, to pay his tuition at a private, posh,  liberal arts college off the sandy, pristine, deep blue, dreamy shores of Lake Michigan because he felt entitled to exploit his parents combined 400K annual income for all it was worth. That’s what younger brothers are for, who ask Mom and Dad for wedding money without getting married yet to finance his restaurant in Colorado to support his big shot, lifestyle, in order to keep his self-serving ego afloat.

Reality is though, growing up in the well off suburb of Edgemont, NY only 30 minutes north of Manhattan, while being shipped off to sleepaway camp in Kent, CT to bunk with even more well off, spoiled rich kids, from yenta breath country in Long Island, who owned multiple tennis rackets and had California Rolls and fancy tins of flavored popcorn, caramel always being the best, brought up by their parents during Visiting Day, didn’t help counteract the perception of Joshua’s blessed, young man existence so far in life, being pampered, spoiled from the start.  Alright, so Joshua was never shipped off to Military School like a young Donald J. Trump or ever confused with the spoiled rotten, kid Eric from the Toy who during his time back from military school, asks Ned Beatty to wrap the black man nighttime janitor played by Richard Pryor, insisting, “Daddy, told you to get me anything I wanted in your store.”  But it was impossible for Joshua to not feel lazy compared to his fellow bunkmates at Sleep Away Camp, who were all amazing 4 sports star athletes, that excelled in baseball, soccer, tennis and basketball without ever coming off across overtly putzy nor appearing to break much of a sweat in the process, always remaining, cool under pressure.  Chad, who could smack a tennis ball with his eyes closed, with extreme top spin to the point, where you’d throw out your vertebrae trying to land a racket on it as it roared over your head like a fucking Blue Angel during an Air Show in Stewart Airport for Christ sake.  Mitch, could dribble the soccer the ball with both feet just as good, Harlan could go yard from a first pitch fastball from both sides of the plate and Matt Plotkin who do the same while also putting on a pump fake clinic in the post, if he wasn’t burying more high arching jumpers from all corners of the court from way downtown during Color War or winning intercamp Championships like a future Danny Schayes in the making, with the sporty Jew fro top to match.  Still, Joshua was capable of showing heart, despite faking an ankle sprain injury one summer because his fat ass reared on bacon and egg cheeses, jars of  Oreo cookies, in addition to chicken cutlets sandwiches with Russian Dressing, and non-stop servings of frozen pizza bagels and slices with double cheese from Genaro’s couldn’t handle the grind of endless suicide drills without coughing up a lung.  One year during Color War, they reenacted the World Cup, Joshua playing for Team Cameroon, proving even back sometime in the late eighties, white privileged Jew boy camps were more inclusive than you think.  One the camp counselors Lloyd from Australia, whose body was no temple either, looking like a slightly taller, balding Elton John on holiday only his early twenties I’m assuming, even commended his scrappy, slide tackle heavy hustle. “Joshua, normally, I see watch you spend more time trying to swat away gnats in left field than trying to run line drives hit in your direction. Plus, I don’t know you who taught you table manners, but you eat cereal like a total, slurpy slob. Still, today, you’ve shown some actual hustle and no longer such as spoiled slob in my eyes.” Joshua replies. “Thanks Lloyd. I always wanted to impress Elton’s John’s zero talent body double, who can’t afford hair plugs just yet.”

Joshua had rekindled a friendship with his bud Perry, who he met while working as a Production Assistant on World’s Wildest Police Videos, back in Manhattan, after bumping into him a bookshop on Crosby Street in SOHO, after he got let get go as well paid editor for the LA Times, during the recession post 911. Perry being more than familiar with Joshua’s severe lack of job stability, was still impressed by his more impassioned worth ethic involving his own writing passion projects he wasn’t getting paid for yet like his American Dad spec script, Death of An Astronaut, about the only astronaut who never made to the moon after Obama pulled the plug on NASA, inspiring Perry to proclaim. “I’ve never met anybody more self-motivated than you are.”  If I wasn’t getting paid to work, I would smoke weed all day really.” Perry was being modest but complimentary and good friend all the same time.  Joshua had no choice but to be self-motivated. Lenny Bruce had a showbiz Jewish mom who booked him club gigs. Don Rickles had a doting mother who supported his showbiz ambitions every step of the way. Joshua had banker mother, who didn’t think enough of his creative abilities to make it as writer or comedian despite his ability to make her laugh constantly without even trying. Perhaps, his mom assigned too much value to her son’s learning-disabled status in elementary school, which prematurely branded him as a knock kneed, mental slow poke, with penmanship on par with a heroin addict dozing in and out.  Joshua was always very sensitive about his less than stellar handwriting, at times wishing he attended a Catholic private school growing up, so the Nuns could’ve have smacked his handwriting into tip top shape. Just to avoid the brutal exchanges on the subway, heading back to Brooklyn once, where some little Hassid kid next to him, glances at his chicken scratch scrawl in Joshua’s notebook as he tries to develop more jokes about how if he took PHD’s at camp, he would’ve have struck at a more accelerated speed, before he hears. “What language is that Hebrew.” Joshua fires back with. “Yeah, it’s Hebrew Schmendel, I write deli reviews for the Kosher Planet.”  At the same time, when his mom told her son a restaurant in Park Slope one day, she couldn’t respect his decision to purse a career in comedy, she thought, “He can’t write his name legibility, after having 30 years of fucking practice but he thinks he’s talented and funny enough to be a big deal comedy writer, now that’s hilarious.”

Now, Joshua was a stay at home dad and father of 3 for almost a whole decade, still working on his writing craft, writing pilots, spec scripts, books, blogs, endless jokes, recording hundreds of podcasts, commercial video scripts, and thousands upon thousands of jokes with still no financial relief in sight. But Joshua’s father was more old school. He didn’t care for the term stay at home dad. He preferred the expression sheltered bum. But until Joshua became a financial provider for his family, bringing home more than Morning Star veggie bacon to make bomb BLT’s on good old fashioned country white, with a dollop of homemade sage infused mayo on top of diced olive oil bathed cherry tomatoes with ample salt and pepper spreadage on top, he couldn’t entirely disagree with the prognosis.

 

 

 

Chapt. 8 The Jewish Godmother Recruiter

 

                                                               Chapter 8

                                                  The Jewish Godmother Recruiter 

 

Joshua’s, Beshert, daughter agent wasn’t done selling The Jewy Manhattan Book Club on why her do it all dad would prove to be an MVP addition to their book club in no time. “Look, I understand, all you are you high powered, big city woman, who formed a book club, you don’t have to hear the opinions of know it all blah breaths who still read op-eds in the NY Times, expecting any type of deepness enlargement in the process. Does my Dad suffer from loud man’s disease? Yes, what interesting New Yorker worth spending any quality of time with, isn’t? Does my dad have a temper? I wouldn’t compare to Tony Soprano, considering the fact he grew up the rough section of Scarsdale, NY, Edgemont to be exact. Actually, his parents raised him in Forrest Queens before buying a colonial in the Edgemont, NY school district because now, he’d have a room to cry himself to sleep upstairs, which always makes the moans of despair easier to bear. My dad looks like Hugh Grant on stilts, minus the horse teeth, have I mentioned that yet? He actually gets confused for being English plenty because he dresses, dapper, business casual British, rocking Ted Baker button downs, both short and long sleeves better than duh face Orlando Bloom ever could. Plus, my dad thinks Yiddish but delivers, not just hilarious, but hysterical trains of thought in nothing in perfect annunciated English, minus the nasal, dronage prominent in Paul Reiser and yenta breaths like Jerry Seinfeld or even weird, weak Howard these days for that matter. The summer before I started Kindergarten in North Salem, NY, where we live now, daddy enrolled me in comedy camp at home because summer camp wasn’t an option because Daddy was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under Judicial Review. We made a bunch of commercials together for his creative tech staffing firm, Standup Staffer, Been Talent Hooking Since Y2K and all them are hilarious from start to finish. He made a great director and my all-star performance in F The PC Police, Say Goodbye To Palo Alto and Blond Power were all big hits. I only required 2 takes max, for each, one in case you’re wondering. You’ll love this bit. What’s a mentor Daddy? Someone who points out your flaws to work on to help you become the best version of you.  Does that mean mommy is your mentor? Because she’s always pointing out your flaws? Like, how you’re so selfish, loud and annoying. I got it kid. I don’t need a mini clone of mommy in my life right, thanks.  The Rev Bob Levy, even completed the comedy work we did together, who used to be a head writer for the Howard Stern show, before Howard fired him because he didn’t like the Rev plugging his stand up comedy shows on the air despite him paying him a paltry salary to make Howard come off as punchier, edgier and less blah brained, fake news deep in real life. You throw Hillary softball questions on your show because his ghoulish, tranny conjuring wife, would dump him to the curb, if he stopped getting invited to Jimmy Kimmel’s house for more 2 bite Chicken Parm dinners. The exact compliment from the Rev Bob Levy, always the funniest and most vicious roaster on the Howard Stern Show, outside of Nick Dipaolo, who also sucked my Dad’s Louie spec script, was, “You got it kid. Funny, relaxed.” And Nick Dipaolo, you know smarter, smoother, just as hilarious Dice, who only drops f bombs for occasional emphasis like my Do It All Dad, doesn’t go out his way to stroke funny man Hebrew descendants of Abraham either.”

Ester, the gorgeous, exotic, long black haired, black leather panted fitted, bootylicious recruitment owner of Silicon Alley Staffers, dares to break up Matilda’s killer flow. “So, Matilda, do you need a job? You’d be animal on the phone and even more impressive in face to face meetings with CTO’s in Manhattan, who couldn’t resist your irresistible mix of punchy, Punk Brewster panache and zero bullshit directness, via Tatum O’Neal in the Bad News Bears. Granted, we’d have to work on the taking breaths between your long-winded pitches, to assess whether the other side is still listening or hasn’t been overwhelmed by sheer force of personality overload yet. Matilda replies. “I appreciate the offer Ester but the only talent I represent is my daddy. I have zero interest in selling the billable brain of power of coders for a living, even though I like to code, during computer lab at school because I’m also wired like that. Once, my grandfather on my mom’s side, big referral for my dad when worked for Robert Half in Manhattan, was an ABAP developer who needed subtitles in order be understood. My father would’ve had an easier time penning a Bollywood Musical than making a placement fee on this guy.”  Also, Big Tech firms like Google make it impossible to be a patriotic, loving American these days who support Israel’s right to defend itself against radical Islam’s non stop kidnapping of Jewish Children in UN funded tunnels and nonstop rocket attacks in their backyard, whenever the whim washes over their demented, twisted souls again.  Also, enough with Israeli aggression, if you shoot 700 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi.  Alte, the comedy club owner interjects.  “Have you considered doing stand up comedy for a living kid? Your timing is impeccable, and your material is A grade all the way.” Matilda replies. Thanks for the offer, but my killer comedic timing is direct result of spending so much time with stay at home dad for the past 9 years and counting. Plus, he’s always sampling material on strangers at the post office, deli, bookshop, anywhere outside of the house away from Mama really. Dada always says the world is your stage like Shakespeare says, so there’s no reason to limit your gem joke dissemination to Park Slope lesbo coffee shops or at some townie Irish bar among a bunch of burn out, hicks in Northern Westchester either. Did you know the mayor of New York City is married to a woman who used to be hard core Park Slope lesbo? Yet we’re supposed to believe garlic breath converted her? Golda, the woke, libertarian radio host interjects. “Matilda, your voice projects so well. Would you be interested in being my intern this summer? I hate the mayor of NY more than Jim Acosta wannabes at CNN. Does CNN just shove a mike in front of anyone with good hair? Who doesn’t look too Tommy Lee alt-rightish?  Matilda replies. “I plan on getting a sports scholarship and dunking out in school by the 6th grade, so I’ll have to pass because all that time on my bum will take away from basketball camp and my rigorous box jump schedule my dad plans on doing me with this summer, to help conquer his white man’s disease once and for all.”  Freida, the star Soul Cycle Instructor of SOHO Equinox, interjects. “Matilda, you’re core physique is fantastic and I don’t think you’re capable of running out of breath. Would you consider teaching a Soul Cycle Class for our older baby boomer clientele, so they’re not easily intimated by much younger instructors, with already filled out hard bodies? But before you answer I wanted to thank for emailing me your proposal to meet with you on the behalf of your father. In all honesty, prior, we never considered adding another member to our Jewy Manhattan Reading Club, but we don’t get cold emails from 9-year-old requesting a face to face meeting with our club, ever either.” Matilda replies. “Teaching Soul Cycling sounds fun but not if I’m just teaching baby boomers on how to feel better about being out of state, virtual grandparents, who refuse to identify with even the part time occupation of Grandmother, because it infringes upon their spacious lifestyle away from Uni Brow Maddow on MSNBC.  My dad always blames Facebook for making Baby Boomers, the laziest grandparent generation of all time. Lifting a finger is liking a picture.   My dad also just another piece published on the Good Men Project, The Last Self-Loving Jewish New Yorker, securing his good guy non-divisive status but not really. The piece is a letter to God about my dad apologizing for breaking his spiritually elevated, Kosher diet as of late, because mommy, a gentile, pushed the issue and he didn’t want it to become one, ruining their date to see Cheap Trick at the Capital Theatre on Valentines’ Day.  Can I borrow someone’s phone? I’ll read the piece to you right now.  4 phones come flying at Matilda and she manages to catch every single one. Matilda says. Just one is fine, here we go. And don’t worry about my Dad, he got a great spot. He’s with my two younger brothers now at the Lego store by 30 Rock.  He wrote a 30 Rock script that made him a Recommended Writer on TV Writer ages ago, back when he used to live in Brooklyn with mommy, then girlfriend, when Lena Dunham had much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself.

Not To Marry Gentiles (Deuteronomy 7:3-11)

3 unplanned kids later with my gentile wife, it’s a little late for that God, sorry. I never mastered the art of the pump fake. I did marry the mother of my 3 kids under a Chuppah, built by my hippie bud Marshall from Ithaca College. You know Cornell’s mentally challenged, next door neighbor. I even had Jewish naming ceremonies for three of my kids, my last one being for my lucky number 3, Samuel Teddy, Yitzhak Kornbluth. Because I love the story of a hundred-year-old Sarah getting knocked up well past her eggs’ expiration date, like Sarah Silverman 10 years ago. And unlike other, so-called brilliant comedians like Sarah Silverman, I at least outgrew, my truly tasteless jokes phase at sleepaway camp in Kent, CT. Despite me needing the comedic relief, knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck and to had endure the insufferable elitism of the blah breath kid from Dalton on the Upper East Side, who thought reading a book on Jim Morrison at 15 was the height of deep probing thought. Compared to portly, freckle faced Stork, who read op-eds by Peggy Noonan on how Regan wouldn’t be anybody without her writing his aw-shucks, smile inducing witticisms because he was just an over the hill pretty face, yokel from Northern Cal, who looked good on a horse. If stand up great Bill Hicks wasn’t impressed with Regan’s speaking prowess, then Regan must have been a zero-talent dope, with or without Peggy Noonan pushing for him to name our space missile defense system Star Wars over Space Force instead.

I’ll get to the point now God. I broke my Kosher diet streak of 4 months at a gastro pub in Portchester, NY 1 hour before seeing the legendary pop rock band Cheap Trick with my wife for Valentine’s Day and I feel awful about it, sick to my stomach really. I don’t care how scrumptious my wife’s Shrimp and Grits were or the Duck Roll wrapped and fried in paper thin won ton paper, stuffed with the most non-sour pungent, highly delectable shreds of Sauerkraut nestled inside each bite from Gentile heaven.

It all started with my gentile wife, originally hailing from Brisbane Australia, urging me to try one bite of her Shrimp and Grits, knowing full well, I’ve been a proud beneficiary of my spiritually elevated, Kosher diet regulated meals as of late. We wanted to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, yet my mom shot down that dream. On the phone she says to me, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.:”

But back to my Gentile wife pushing me to take a bite out of her Shrimp and Grits. I wouldn’t say it felt like she was trying to hard sell me on still giving the Passion a shot after all these years, knowing my younger Jewish brother broke his Mel Gibson movie strike and rushed to see Apocalypto opening weekend. Now, I wouldn’t say my wife’s repeated attempts to make me try her succulent forbidden, Gulf Shrimp felt like total overkill. But her big, bulging eyes became more enraged, the more I resisted a bite out of her deveined, broth rich, fleshy, chunky cooked morsel of southern love accentuated Shrimp.

I know you’re the one and only true God, who I worship with all my fighting, loving, funny man heart. Still, the Capital Theatre has been a tremendous source of joy for me, starting with seeing the final Grateful Dead show via simulcast from Soldier Filed there with an old school bud from High School, making me feel like I was at the actual concert in Chicago along with every other over the hill baby boomer, who loves to name drop celebrities they bump into at Dead Shows like the famed Bill Walton, to feel cooler by association. Truth is, Cheap Trick rocks out way harder than the Grateful Dead, they’re twice as melodic on most songs, explaining why they’re called the American Beatles for a reason. Plus, being a big Dead Head set list guy, I searched online for some recent Cheap Trick set lists, giving me the distinct impression they were going to replicate almost the entire set of Cheap Trick at Budokan, which is a legendary live album, that will transform the most hardened Gen X adult today into a true believer of the kick ass restorative powers behind hearing live, rambunctious, soul man blasting rock and roll.

So, while my wife just urged me to try one bite of her shrimp. Implying, it’s Valentine’s Day and we’re out on a date, while my mother was in town to babysit our 3 kids, which is a biannual production, so I should feel morally obligated to relish my Gentile blessed, Jesus approved Shrimp and Grits, more than growing closer to God through sticking with my Kosher diet, knowing I don’t have to do any of the slaughtering or blooding draining of cows myself. Still, all I heard in my stoned, semi paranoid head at the time was, come on, come on, try the Shrimp and Grits already, you uppity, fake news believing Jew. Then, I started to justify why taking a bite wouldn’t be the end of the world, stating, some married couples in Miami Beach go to swinging clubs on Valentine’s Day, so our thing can be my wife force feeding me shrimp and andouille sausage but having me act like I love it. For all the talk of us chosen people being the pushy ones Lord, I don’t feel gentiles get enough credit for being just as guilty of this charge if not worse. And I’ll take the Crusades for 500 Alex.

So knowing my mom was in town to babysit our 3 bundles of sunshine and my wife had gotten us the tickets to see Cheap Trick in the 1st place, I relented and tried her super scrumptious Shrimp and Grits because I feared it becoming an issue. Ruining our time together to see Cheap Trick at the famed Capital Theatre, where Janis Joplin performed her last show, which I wanted to avoid at all costs. This issue being my wife branding me as the obstinate, all knowing, morally exalted, big headed Jew. So I divorced myself from my ego, thinking, one bite of shrimp away from the house wasn’t indicative of me turning my back on you Lord because of my commitment to resume my Kosher diet the following morning, with dreams of duck rolls becoming a glorious remnant reminder, of the thrill offered by being a bad boy non-conformist, living to rock out to Cheap Trick without a worry in the world, living for the killer opener of Hello There and Come, Come On while not sweating the loss of my chosen, funny man father status just yet.

Still, when we got the Capital Theatre on the main floor, to see Cheap Trick blow the roof off the building, I lost my airy, spiritually elevated lift as of late. Granted, the fries, duck roll and vanilla bean porter, followed by an Anchor Steam on tap for old times sake before they assumed the stage didn’t help. But we had a great time together at the show Lord and I grew closer to my wife as a result, despite her nudge, playing a slight role in me veering me away from your Moses transmitted commandments. And deep down I know your main concern for us chosen people marrying Gentiles, is them driving ourselves away from you Lord, because of the odds of raising our children Jewish, falls dramatically in half, especially when our wives refuse to convert to Judaism, because they don’t believe your Jewish putz embedded DNA is the end all to the be all either.

But again, my gentile Australian wife was cool with the Jewish naming ceremonies for all three of four kids, which not every Gentile would. So, I’m not going to freak out over this gentile terror alert moment just yet. Still, my beautiful, super funny, ultra-chill wife from the land down under, also made me potato latkes from scratch for Hanukah with parmesan, which does wonders in addition to making me a Kosher Matzoh ball soup, using a real-life Kosher chicken for the stock, despite her being a veggie loving, practicing pescatarian 99 percent of the year. Thereby, proving my Gentile wife is capable of seeing through loving Kosher eyes. Even Kid Rock will give my wife an Amen on that one. More importantly, the night where I said goodnight to my Kosher diet and hello to intermarriage peer pressure at 43 years old, was more of a direct result of me not respecting your law for the night, versus fearing my wife’s semi- pushy wrath, which I didn’t want to ruin Cheap Trick, 42 years after they caused a tsunami of teenage shriekish joy at Budokan back in the day, which I wanted to experience on my own live in person, without rocking the Hello Kitty purse in the process.

Abandoning my Kosher diet for a night for Cheap Trick was a shame. It still taught me how much I need your love Lord, which requires me to make you the center of my universe, instead of the reverse. I should’ve shown your dietary laws as much love as my love of not wanting my wife to ruin Cheap Trick for me on Valentine’s Day. Surrender Shrimp and Grits, I must because I want you to love me back twice as much for making you feel like the center of my universe instead of Cheap Trick, as much as they rocked out with such divine powered authority.

The Jewy Manhattan Book Club is left enraptured in head spinning awe and incredibly moved in the process after hearing such a fresh, assertive, original, funny Jewish, disruptive, literary voice, that got them off from start to finish and Joshua’s 9-year-old Bashert agent feels incredible sense of calm and intense prideful satisfaction in knowing her reading of her dad’s piece helped seal the deal.

Matilda adds. “But the real reason my dad wants to join The Jewy Manhattan Club is to find a potential Jewish Godmother for my and 2 adorable, hilarious younger brothers and if anyone can appreciate my dad being the last funny man self-loving Jewish New Yorker in this age hysterical, resistor, kiss ass resistance, it’s you fab 4.”

Ester speaks on The Jewy Manhattan Book Club’s behalf.  “We’d be honored to have your dad join The Jewy Manhattan Book Club. But I actually like boozy, highly alcoholic, overpriced cabs from Napa. I’m pretty petite so they go straight to my head, but they also take forever to breath, so I like the anticipatory self-discipline it gives me. We just cracked open a delectable Polly Fume from France. Would you like to take a sip?”

Matilda says. “But it’s not spring break yet.” The entire room cracks up. Alte the comedy club owner replies. That’s hilarious Matilda, Ivanka Trump’s daughter would’ve just said something boring in Mandarin.”