I’m the Intolerator

Dear President Bush,

Now that you’ve declared to the world that you’re The Decider, why don’t you stop being such a stubborn schmendrick and decide to learn to speak proper English?

We all know that you’re as dumb as a box of hair, but since you’re the guy leading the free world, and we have almost three more years of living under your Deciderism regime, it would be great if just once you could decide to pronounce the word “nuclear” correctly.

NOO-klee-er. See, that wasn’t so hard was it?

Sincerely,

The Mispronunciation Intolerator

P.S.
That Rumsfeld decision? Not such a good one.

The Geezer Pleasers

Okay, will someone please explain to me what’s so hot about shtupping an 80-year-old guy who’s hard of hearing and hangs out in his jammies all day? Apparently Hugh Hefner’s personal bevy of blonde bunnies has been reduced from six to three because there was just too much jealousy and competition.

You’re kidding me, right?

I get that being one of Hef’s hand-picked shtuppettes gives a girl a little more, um, exposure but it’s hard for me to believe that these women are actually fighting with each other for the privilege of a few wheezy moments of Viagra induced boning with a guy who's old enough to be their grandfather.

I guess they’re just a bunch of Electra-lites. Great taste. Less Filling.

Happy Tax Day

For all of you in the eleventh hour of finishing your taxes, I wish you unlimited mental clarity followed by a really good bottle of pinot noir.

In the meantime, I recently got my tax refund check from the State of California. A whopping $2.00. When I was nine, my parents gave me a $2.00 weekly allowance for cleaning the kitchen after meals and making the perfect vodka tonic. In 1965, $2.00 was a big deal to a nine year old (as were good bartending skills).

But today I have to admit I’m a little disappointed. My bartending skills are still pretty good, and my kitchen is spotless. You’d think that Conan the GirlyMan, famous for his Neanderthal forehead, wandering hands, and lack of fiscal fitness would have found it in his heart to send me a bigger refund check. After all, I think I grossly overpaid this guy.

Time for the Terminator Tea Party.

Let My People Kvetch

Oy. Uncle Saul and Aunt Rose have been reincarnated as Easter candy.

Just When You Thought it Was Safe to Buy Gefilte Fish

“Have you accepted Moses as your personal savior?” Okay, maybe that’s not how we Heebs approach the unaffiliated (Jews who don’t belong to a synagogue), but after reading an article in today’s New York Times about “temple recruiters” hanging out by Passover food displays in supermarkets, I’m trying to imagine what the Jewish version of Jehovah’s Witnesses would look like.

A group of Hadassah bubbes is camped out by the matzo display at Ralph’s. With laser-like accuracy, they spot you, the twice-a-year-plus-Passover-Jew, at a hundred paces. You’re the one reaching for the egg matzos.

Bubbe #1 hands you a temple pamphlet touting Shabbat Yoga, comedy shows, and Torah cocktail parties while Bubbe #2 replaces the ’97 Bordeaux in your shopping cart with a bottle of Mogen David Concord Grape.

Next year in Riverdale.