Underpants On The Outside

1) When is Channukah?

December.  Well, December-ish.  Sometimes November.  See, here’s the thing.  Jews don’t really like to be tied down with dates and everything.  It’s best to keep an open schedule, just in case your neighbors decide to throw a last-minute Inquisition. 

Actually, Jewish holidays occur according to a lunar calendar, unlike the conventional Julian calendar.  There are plenty of reasons why we should switch over, just like there are a lot of reasons America should switch to the metric system.  Good luck making that happen.

In general, when you want to find out when a Jewish Holiday is, find increasingly observant Jews and ask them until you have an answer.  The internet-savvy could say that they “Jew-ggled it.” 

2) What do Jews typically eat on Channukah?

Latkes.  Latkes are potatoes and onions, shredded or mashed, then mixed with an egg and some flour, formed into patties and fried.  Despite being made exactly like hash browns, they somehow taste much more awesome than hash browns.  Definitely worth the circumcision, in my opinion.

3) I always heard that Jews receive eight presents for Channukah, one for each day.  Is that true?

Turns out that this is another December myth, just like Santa Claus and the idea that egg nog can be worthwhile without booze in it.  You know how it sucks figuring out what to get people for the holidays?  Mulitply that by eight.  That’s why Jews usually get one big present broken into eight different parts, like that year my parents gave me a Nintendo, but I had to wait seven days to get the power cord.  We just tell the Gentiles that bit about the eight presents to make their kids jealous.

4) What the hell is Dreidle?

A great way to keep kids entertained for twenty or thirty seconds.  The Dreidle itself is a spinning top with four sides and one Hebrew character on each side.  Supposedly it makes for some kind of gambling game, but no one knows the rules, because unlike legitimate games of chance, it isn’t played in a casino or by the black guys outside my apartment building.  These days, kids play Dreidle for chocolate coins wrapped in foil, and near as I can tell, the rules go like this: one player spins the Dreidle until such time as it rolls under a couch or similarly heavy piece of furniture, at which point all players eat their remaining chocolate and go off searching for the power cord to their new Nintendo.

5) How do you spell Channukah? 

It’s understandable that people are frustrated by the lack of a standard spelling for the name.  No matter how you spell it, you can’t get it right.  But that means you can’t really get it wrong either.  Think of it as free-form improvisation.  This year I wrote all of my cards spelling it with a pound sign, and I’d bet five bucks that no one says a word.

6) Are there any good Channukah songs and/or carols?

What, “Dreidle Dreidle Dreidle” isn’t enough for you???   Well then…um… some of our prayers have catchy tunes…  To be honest, for the most part we just sit around waiting to find out if Adam Sandler has come up with more liquor and/or marijuana based rhymes for “Channukah”.

7) What should I get a Jew for Channukah? 

Turns out that Jews like iTunes Gift Certificates, Starbucks Cards and giant tubs of popcorn divided into Butter, Cheese, and Caramel flavors just as much as the next Gentile.  There’s just one thing.  If you don’t mind, please make sure the front of the card doesn’t have Santa on it.  You can wish us a “Merry Channukah” all you want, but we all know what that word crossed out above Channukah is.

Do Jews have a traditional Channukah movie?  Y’know, like It’s a Wonderful Life?

Die Hard.  Not that it needs an explanation, but if Bruce Willis ever goes face to face with that claymation Reindeer, Rudolph’s nose will be red all right… with his own blood.

Several days ago I got home from work and there was a white envelope sitting on my pillow. Wonder Woman was out of town for a couple days, but, being the sweetheart that she is, she left behind what might be the nicest, most thoughtful card I have ever received. It was personal, so I don’t want to get too into it, but suffice it to say it was a list of all the great things about our relationship, the little touches and moments that I would probably take for granted if not for nice little reminders like that.

And yet… I couldn’t read it without a slightly sour taste in my mouth. Possibly because I don’t usually associate “love” and “making fun of Asian people.”

The card: on the front is a drawing of a bowl of brown soup, and floating in that soup are several small white cubes, which all appear to be quite happy. At least that’s what I gather from their facial expressions, which consist of two lines for eyes above one big smiley curve. Below the bowl of soup is the caption, “Miso happy to have you.”

MISO HAPPY TO HAVE YOU. Good lord.

Now, to be fair, I consider myself something of a specialist when it comes to the offensive joke. I’ve made my fair share of off-color humor. But after years of apologies I thought I was supposed to leave ethnic jokes out when I’m composing sweet nothings to my lady. Now I realize that arbitrary standards like that have kept me from a lucrative greeting card career.

What’s worse is that several times last week Wonder Woman told me that she had found the perfect card for me. I figured it had Batman on it, or some math jokes. Or maybe some tits. If there ever were such a thing as “the perfect card” for me, those things would be far more likely to be on it, being things I like significantly better than racism.

To be clear, I don’t find this joke “offensive” per se. It’s just that I know that that is not a joke I’d make in public, and I joke about blow jobs and ass-sex in a space frequently read by my mom. That’s gotta mean something.

This was the final week of the regular fantasy football season, and up until yesterday my team (Unconventional Foreplay) was number one in the league in both points and record.   Then we ran into the Chicago defense, and we’re still aching all over. 

I am fiercely competitive.  Admittedly, that’s a cliché, conjuring up images of the steely-eyed jock, someone with an unshakeable confidence resulting from a long history of success. Someone who says things like, “refuse to lose”.  It’s a cliché, but I think we can all agree that it describes me to a T.

Oh wait, I’m a high-strung ball of anxiety and the only part of me that could be described as steely has already been discussed on this space a number of times (and is currently not very steely at all.  Updates to come.)  The only competition I excel at is the running “who is funniest” competition between myself, my brother and his wife.  As the owner and operator of two, count ‘em two, humor-like blogs, I am clearly the winner, but I can only be so proud of myself: Thunder Lizard gives me a run for my money, but watching my brother make a joke is like watching a collie do long division: you’re not going anywhere soon unless you just do it yourself.

No, my version of “fiercely competitive” involves equal parts of the following:

a) Yelling, at a very high volume.
b) Vile, anatomically-directed curses, to be delivered at the decibel levels mentioned above.
c) A healthy level of reserved pessimism (for some reason, other people erroneously mistake this for “whining”)
d) A long memory for losses to be learned from and improved upon.  If education and improvement are unavailable, substitute with bitter comments and sour grapes instead.  (For example, I am still making snide remarks about the cubicle competition, which I don’t expect to stop for another two years or so.)

For example:  Last year, my first round fantasy draft pick (team name: The Sodomy All-Stars) was Daunte Culpepper, quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings.   Two years ago, Daunte had a terrific season.  Last year: less good.  One game, I was at our local sports bar, watching my quarterback play at a level that suggested severe nerve damage in his arm, possibly as the result of a stroke.  I got a little fed up and yelled, “Stop fucking turning the ball over!” but then the entire bar started to berate me.  That’s when they informed me that what I actually yelled was, “I HOPE YOU GET CANCER!”  Whoops.  (Later in the season, Daunte suffered a season-ending and positively horrific knee injury, but I want it clear that it was in no-way cancer related.  I also want it on the record that I do not ACUTALLY wish any carcinogenic misfortune on Daunte, and I hope he lives a long, healthy life.  On someone else’s fantasy team.  Lastly, I want it said for the record that he sucks.)

By the way, last year we weren’t even playing for money.  This year I was the clear favorite to win 120 bucks; now I’m likely going to owe the league a 30 dollar entrance fee.  Bonus.

I should have known I was doomed yesterday morning; the weather forecast in Hell was decidedly not conducive for snowball-making.  Now I think I’m going to rename my team “Unrelenting Mediocrity”.   Though, seeing as how I really want my team to win but know they’ll blow it at the end, I’m also thinking of “The Indianapolis Colts.”