Are You Kosher? by Russell Andresen

version.
    In spite of all of my complaints about her drinking too much, screwing around too much, and not really being a hands-on mother, I love her more than anyone on this entire planet. She is everything to me. She saved my life. I do not know what happened to my biological mother, nor can I say that I really care. Itsa Glassman is my mother. They say that you cannot choose your family; well, she chose me and I thank her for that. I worry about her. It’s the circle of life, my friends. It’s my turn to look after her. I may not approve of her behavior sometimes, but she is still my mother and G-d help anyone who fucks with her.
    For almost six thousand years she has been my life, my heart, my pain, my misery, my radiance, my confidant, and most important, my “Mommy.” I cannot imagine life without her, nor do I want to.
    Jewish mothers can be the biggest pains in the tuchas that the world has ever known. Sorry to disappoint you, my Italian friends, but they have your mothers beat hands down. But when I look back on my life and the observations I have personally made of other families over the centuries, I can’t think of any other person I would rather call Mom than Itsa Glassman.
    I love you, Mom.
     

Chapter 19
    Joseph: The Amazing Technicolor Faygelah
    “Get busy living or get busy dying.” That’s something that I once said to a good friend of mine. You may have heard of him as Joseph, the son of Jacob. It was way after the flood had ended and the Israelites were now living in Egypt. The centuries were going by quickly and the population of the earth was expanding.
    One of the hobbies I had at the time was watching the caravans bring in the new slaves; my friends and I would wager on who would crack first. Harold, Murray, and Big Black Jimmy, or as we called him, BBJ, would speculate on who were the strong. BBJ was a eunuch, but I don’t think it took. This was always a glorious time for us. Each newbie was carefully scrutinized and the wagering would commence.
    The caravan unloaded its contents as the four of us decided how much to bet. We usually bet in sacks of grain.
    “Right there,” Harold said, pointing. “That fat fucker, three sacks of grain.”
    “Bullshit,” said Murray. “I’m picking that little whimpering Ethiopian.”
    “Fuck both of you,” said BBJ. “I got the little gimpy Israelite. How about you, Izzy?” he asked, turning toward me.
    I carefully sized up the crop of incoming slaves to see who gave me the best chance of winning, when I saw him. His eyes were looking down, his shoulders were dropped, and for all intents and purposes, he looked like a broken man, one who had just lost his best friend.
    “I’ll take the little faygelah-looking one at the end of the line, that tall drink of water,” I said.
    “Bullshit,” Harold said.
    “Bullshit, bullshit!” I replied. “You want to make the wager five sacks?”
    “Y-Y-You’re on,” said Harold; he always had a bit of a stutter, especially with “Y.”
    Later that evening, the four of us returned to the holding area, where the new slaves were going through the initiation process to get them used to living in servitude. They were all quietly tucked away in their beds and had no idea what lay in store for them this evening.
    BBJ liked to get things started. “Hey, gimpy,” he whispered. “You ever see a castrated cock? You know I’ll let you play with it.”
    Harold would start with his old standby, referring to them as fresh fish. “Here fishy, fishy.” Murray would chime in with the usual “Come here chubby, chubby. I can be a real good friend to you.”
    That night, I did not get involved in the cat-calling. I could make out my target in the faint light of evening and saw him kneeling and praying. Normally, this would have been a sign of weakness to me, but for some reason, I left him alone.
    The verbal assault lasted for maybe another twenty minutes until finally, Harold’s little fat fucker started to cry like