bleary-eyed, but immediately saw the situation taking place in her living room. I was given a dirty look and she asked, “ What’s wrong with my little Jo-Jo?” She sounded concerned. “Izzy, what did you do to him?” she snapped.
I explained to her that it wasn’t anything I did and tried to the best of my ability to tell her the story he had just conveyed to me in between the sounds of his wailing. Bubbe just looked at me with a confused expression on her face.
“He’s a faygelah?” she asked.
“No, Bubbe, he’s a knish,” I replied.
She shook her head in disbelief and said, “I don’t like that, Jo-Jo.”
“He can’t help it, Bubbe. It’s who he is.” I tried defending him.
“Don’t give me that mishegas!” she snapped. “Did someone hold a knife to his throat?” She turned her focus on my blubbering friend. “And you!” She pointed. “You know that you are killing your parents? How dare you bring this kind of behavior into my house!” She was really pissed now. “Izzy, get away from him; it might be contagious!” She reached over and grabbed me by my ear.
“Let go, you crazy alter kocker!” I shouted in pain.
“Don’t you talk back to me, young man! I raised you to be a good boy! A man, for G-d’s sake! Now go to your room.” Her focus was once again shifted to Joseph, who was now probably wishing that he had taken Potiphar’s wife up on her offer. “As for you, young man, get out of my house and let that shiksa play with your shmekel and stop this mishegas about being a faygelah!”
Joseph looked at her, stunned. “I can’t go out there Mrs. Glassman! Please let me stay.” He started crying again.
Bubbe’s eyes went red and she cried out, “Where’s my spoon?!” That was all it took. As soon as she turned toward the kitchen, he bolted through the door. Bubbe’s reputation had obviously preceded her.
I’m not totally sure what happened to him after that fateful night, since Bubbe grounded me for two weeks and then we were on the road again for some business venture of hers. Joseph, for his part, was a really good kid and I actually liked him very much. Not that way, you faygelahs. Sometimes, when I look back on my life, I wish that I had made him a vampire. I truly think that he would have enjoyed the bright lights of Broadway and the soothing sounds of Judy Garland. And who doesn’t like Barbra Streisand? Shut up. I’m not a faygelah.
Whenever I think about Joseph, I always smile. He was a good guy even though his feet obviously never touched the ground. But that is one of the things that I have learned over my time on this earth. I may not approve of your life’s decisions, but who the hell cares what I think? I am just writing about my experiences. You want to be a faygelah? Be a faygelah.
I’ve been writing for a little while now and I think that it is time for all of you mortals to finally realize what a six thousand-year-old being gets really angry about. Let’s cover some of my personal gripes.
Chapter 20
Gripes
One of the problems about being an immortal is that I have had to watch the demise of the human existence, not once, but twice over the centuries. The first was during the great flood. The second, we are still in the process of watching firsthand, and I have to tell you that it is infuriating.
Try to put yourselves in my shoes. You know that unless some extreme set of circumstances occurs, you are going to live forever. In like manner, one of the things that you do to pass the time is to watch and observe how every new generation treats the gift of life that has been bestowed upon it. How will the next generation improve on the mistakes of others as time passes. Then you wake up to the realization that mortal man is inherently fucked up beyond repair. I want you to really think hard about what I just said, because I believe that you will all be in agreement with me.
Granted, some things have come along that mankind can be quite
I explained to her that it wasn’t anything I did and tried to the best of my ability to tell her the story he had just conveyed to me in between the sounds of his wailing. Bubbe just looked at me with a confused expression on her face.
“He’s a faygelah?” she asked.
“No, Bubbe, he’s a knish,” I replied.
She shook her head in disbelief and said, “I don’t like that, Jo-Jo.”
“He can’t help it, Bubbe. It’s who he is.” I tried defending him.
“Don’t give me that mishegas!” she snapped. “Did someone hold a knife to his throat?” She turned her focus on my blubbering friend. “And you!” She pointed. “You know that you are killing your parents? How dare you bring this kind of behavior into my house!” She was really pissed now. “Izzy, get away from him; it might be contagious!” She reached over and grabbed me by my ear.
“Let go, you crazy alter kocker!” I shouted in pain.
“Don’t you talk back to me, young man! I raised you to be a good boy! A man, for G-d’s sake! Now go to your room.” Her focus was once again shifted to Joseph, who was now probably wishing that he had taken Potiphar’s wife up on her offer. “As for you, young man, get out of my house and let that shiksa play with your shmekel and stop this mishegas about being a faygelah!”
Joseph looked at her, stunned. “I can’t go out there Mrs. Glassman! Please let me stay.” He started crying again.
Bubbe’s eyes went red and she cried out, “Where’s my spoon?!” That was all it took. As soon as she turned toward the kitchen, he bolted through the door. Bubbe’s reputation had obviously preceded her.
I’m not totally sure what happened to him after that fateful night, since Bubbe grounded me for two weeks and then we were on the road again for some business venture of hers. Joseph, for his part, was a really good kid and I actually liked him very much. Not that way, you faygelahs. Sometimes, when I look back on my life, I wish that I had made him a vampire. I truly think that he would have enjoyed the bright lights of Broadway and the soothing sounds of Judy Garland. And who doesn’t like Barbra Streisand? Shut up. I’m not a faygelah.
Whenever I think about Joseph, I always smile. He was a good guy even though his feet obviously never touched the ground. But that is one of the things that I have learned over my time on this earth. I may not approve of your life’s decisions, but who the hell cares what I think? I am just writing about my experiences. You want to be a faygelah? Be a faygelah.
I’ve been writing for a little while now and I think that it is time for all of you mortals to finally realize what a six thousand-year-old being gets really angry about. Let’s cover some of my personal gripes.
Chapter 20
Gripes
One of the problems about being an immortal is that I have had to watch the demise of the human existence, not once, but twice over the centuries. The first was during the great flood. The second, we are still in the process of watching firsthand, and I have to tell you that it is infuriating.
Try to put yourselves in my shoes. You know that unless some extreme set of circumstances occurs, you are going to live forever. In like manner, one of the things that you do to pass the time is to watch and observe how every new generation treats the gift of life that has been bestowed upon it. How will the next generation improve on the mistakes of others as time passes. Then you wake up to the realization that mortal man is inherently fucked up beyond repair. I want you to really think hard about what I just said, because I believe that you will all be in agreement with me.
Granted, some things have come along that mankind can be quite
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