Rabbi Sol Solomon’s celebrity interviews, Rabbinical Reflections (sermons), songs, and other appearances on the show.
INDEX: http://davesgoneby.net/?p=25407
Topics include: comedy, Addicted to Show Business.
Segment originally aired July 2, 2011 on the “Dave’s Gone By” radio program hosted by Dave Lefkowitz.
Note: Interview segments extracted from “Dave’s Gone By” may have music and other elements removed for timing and media re-posting considerations. For the full interview with all elements, please visit the audio of the complete original broadcast: Full Episode
All content (c)2011 TotalTheater Productions.
More information on Dave’s Gone By: http://www.davesgoneby.com More information on Rabbi Sol Solomon: http://www.shalomdammit.com
Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #19 (6/25/2011): RYAN DUNN
(aired June 25, 2011 on Dave’s Gone By. YouTube Clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QGoZRYSFmX0)
Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon, with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of June 25, 2011.
What is the definition of a jackass? A donkey, of course. Also, a stupid person, a fool. That’s according to Webster’s Dictionary and to me, when we talk about the late Ryan Dunn.
Dunn was a castmember on the MTV television program, Jackass, which had crazy people doing idiotic, dangerous things. Putting their heads in beehives, skating into walls, firing objects in and out of their tuchases, and falling on things – lots and lots of falling on things. This is what passes for entertainment in the new millennium. And hey, sometimes it’s funny. A person walking on the street slips on dog poop – it’s amusing. Unless they’re badly injured, in which case it’s hilarious.
Goofy people pulling stunts that the rest of us are too mature or just too cowardly to do can be an appealing form of comic relief. After all, it answers one of the basic curiosities of mankind: “What would happen if?”
What would happen if I ride a motorcycle into a group of midgets dressed like nuns? What would happen if I cover my best friend with firecrackers, make believe I’m going to light them, but instead, I kick him really hard in the nuts? Hours, my friends, of delightful, high-class entertainment!
Along with Johnny Knoxville and Steve O, Ryan Dunn took part in these perilous shenanigans. And there was always controversy. Parents worried that their children would imitate these yutzes and put themselves in the hospital – or worse. But that never bothered me. These were professional pranksters. If they wanted to strap raw meat to their behinds while being dangled over a swamp full of alligators – who am I to judge? And if your kid is stupid enough to copy that, well, alligators have to eat, too. So if you want to hurt yourself or your willing accomplices, that’s between you, your friends, and the guy holding the water cannon.
But I call Ryan Dunn a jackass – and a putz and a moron and a bastard – because on the night of June 20th, he had enough drinks to befuddle Russia, and then climbed in his Porsche and started to drive. Eventually, his fancy car came to a stop. Unfortunately, it was in the middle of a tree.
Police estimate the automobile had been going 130 miles an hour, and that Dunn’s blood alcohol was more than twice the legal limit. And yet, a miracle occurred. Oh yes, Dunn and his friend in the passenger seat were both killed, but thank God, they didn’t kill anyone else.
A car is a loaded weapon – especially if you’re loaded. You’re rich, you’re famous, you think you can get away with anything, and you’re gonna live forever. Guess what? You’re rich, you’re famous, but if you have three Stolis and a whiskey sour when you get behind the wheel, you will not live forever, nor will you deserve to.
I don’t care if you’re Mel Gibson, or David Cassidy, or Gary Collins, or Lindsey Lohan, or Nicole Richie, or Rip Torn, or Rick Springfield, or the woman down the street with three kids and a Percodan habit – if you’re driving under the influence, you should be arrested for attempted homicide.
When you get in a car – sober and alert – you depend on your own ability to get safely from where you start to where you want to end up. Alas, you are also dependent on everyone else on the road obeying the rules and maintaining the same level of caution. These include schmucks on their cellphones, women doing their makeup in the rear-view mirror, idiots on bicycles who think the road is their own personal videogame, and the prick in the SUV who thinks a couple of beers won’t affect him if he just drives a little more slowly. The only thing that shocked me about those drive-by shootings in L.A. is that they were done by gang members and not white-collar working stiffs just trying to get home without being cut off at 70 miles an hour by a Jeep Cherokee blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd.
And so, I come not to praise Ryan Dunn, but to bury him. Thirty-four years old and a victim only of his own arrogance and negligence. When they put the word “Jackass” on his tombstone, his fans might take it one way, but anyone with a brain will know exactly what it means.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches.
RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #18 (6/18/2011): Father’s Day
aired June 18, 2011 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AI7TbF3qbcg
Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon, with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of June 19, 2011.
Happy Father’s Day, goddammit! What a nice thing to be able to celebrate: a non-sectarian holiday that nevertheless follows the fifth commandment: honor thy father and thy mother.
It actually took awhile for the papas to catch up to the mamas on this. Mother’s Day became an official holiday in 1914, but it wasn’t until 1972 that Father’s Day became an official national holiday. Of course, since then, we’ve added an official Grandparents Day, and if Hallmark had its way, we’d have an Uncles Day, a Stepmother’s Day, a Caribbean Nanny’s Day.
Not that these are bad things; anyone responsible for raising a child deserves a day of pampering and obeisance. As the father of 21 and a half children – or is it 22 and a half? A couple of them are very quiet – but as a father, I know what it is like to endure the crying, and the screaming, and the begging, and the pouting, and the tantrums when my wife needs me to help with the kids. I know what it is like when your baby has 103 degrees fever, and you don’t know whether to rush to the emergency room or stay home and finish watching Hawaii 5-0. I know what it is like when you’re in a supermarket, and the kids are yelling and pulling things off the shelves and smashing the cart into the displays, and someone looks at you as if to say, “Is that your kid?” And you just want to say, “No, my real kids are at home. These are aliens who were sent from hell to destroy the earth. As long as I keep them busy in the King Soopers, the world is safe. So you should thank me and stop giving me the stink-eye, all right?”
I remember my father. He was a small man who kept getting smaller as the years went on. I remember he used to come home, stooped and exhausted, holding his abdomen and lower back after hours of lifting heavy bundles. Which was strange because he was an accountant. But in his life he was also a jeweler, a furrier, a candy store clerk, an insurance salesman, a math tutor, a night watchman – anything to put food on the table. And let me tell you, sometimes there wasn’t a table to put food on, so we had to put it on the floor. And one time, the floor fell in, so we had to put the food on our downstairs neighbors’ floor. I still don’t know why they wouldn’t let us use their table…
But what I remember most about my tateh are the quiet times, like when he took me fishing in the Hudson River. We didn’t have to say anything; we just sat side by side getting our tetanus shots.
I remember papa showing me how to daven and put on tfillin in the synagogue. I would get all tangled in the leather straps and the tallis, and I’d get frustrated and start cursing. And then he’d start cursing. Then the rabbi would come over and threaten to throw us out. Then we’d start cursing at him. You can’t buy moments of bonding like that.
I’ll also never forget one of the last things my father ever said to me. He said, “Son, no matter what your mother says, you really are my child. I love you, and I hope one day when you have children, they will give you the joy – and the trouble – that you have given me.” If he only knew.
But what can I say? Once you have children, you can’t imagine not having children. And since it’s illegal to kill them once they’re born, you have to do your best on their behalf. Hopefully, one day a year, they remember you with a tie, or a DVD, or a Sony Blu-Ray player (HINT HINT HINT if you’re listening, you little bastards!).
Whatever your relationship is with your father; if there’s issues, if there’s bad feelings – put them aside for a day if you can, and call him, send him a card, maybe buy him a hooker if he’s lonely – give thanks to the man who put you here, because he may not always be there.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches.
RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #16 (5/14/2011): Israel’s Birthday
(Aired May 14, 2011 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8SWeaSKKVY)
Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon, with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of May 14th, 2011.
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear Israel –
You adorable 63-year-old country, you –
You-bastion-of-democracy-in-the-middle-of-Muslim-lunatics, you –
You military marvel even though you’re surrounded by enemies always attacking you, you –
Happy birthday to you!
This past Tuesday, May 10th, marked the Israeli holiday of Yom Ha’atzma’ut – Independence Day! The day back in 1948 that Israel told the United Kingdom, “Thanks for looking after the place for a few years. But, really, it’s time for you to go. We’re a big little country; we can take care of ourselves.”
And do that they have. From the minute Israel booted out the English protectorate, the Arabs attacked. They attacked in 1948, they attacked in 1956, they attacked in 1967, they attacked in 1973 – on Yom Kippur, yet. In 1978, PLO terrorists kept attacking, so in 1982, we attacked. Was nice for a change.
Each time, with the admitted help of American money and missiles, Israel kicked tuchas. All the while, we built schools, farms, hotels, theaters, falafel stands, high-class brothels – don’t ask me how I know about that last one.
Despite having to dump six percent of its gross national product into the military every year, Israel thrives. Despite Jihad rockets launched into Gaza, and threats from charming neighbors like Syria, Lebanon, Libya and Iran, Israel thrives. Despite occasional rotten oranges, like that former Israeli president who raped a girl – (please, Israeli women are loose enough, you don’t have to go raping them. Don’t ask me how I know about that) – despite all that, Israel thrives.
So now we hear that Hamas, the Palestinian party that governs the Gaza strip, has made peace with its old enemy, Fatah, the reincarnated version of the PLO. What kind of names are those anyway? Sounds like you’re coughing up phlegm: Chhhhamas.. F’tah!
For years, these two organizations did what most Arabs have tended to do: hate and kill each other. Ahh, the good old days! But now they’ve made peace…not with Israel, but among themselves, so they can gang up in Israel. Isn’t diplomacy wonderful?
In fact, it works so well that America’s chief envoy to the middle east just resigned. He gave up. After two years of begging for a two-state solution, from a two-terrorist problem. Now, since the death of Yasser Arafat – who should rot in gehenna with scorpions laying eggs in his anus – Fatah has appeared more moderate. Leader Mahmoud Abbas gave indications he might actually work with Israel and the United States to make something decent happen.
But now he’s joined forces with Hamas, aka the Islamic Resistance Movement, aka the kinds of people who think 9/11 was a lucky number. These are the Jihadists, the suicide bombers, the type of folks who could watch an entire episode of Family Guy without one giggle. In other words, terrorist scum.
But hey, Israel has negotiated with bloodthirsty mongrels before. We just wear gloves.
All it would take this time is for Hamas to say two little words: Israel Exists. That’s it. Acknowledge to the world that Israel is a sovereign country that has a right to be exactly where it is. You wanna have a laugh? Go look on google for maps of the Middle East. Do it. I’ll wait.
Okay, if you get a regular website run by normal people, you see little Israel and the rest of the Arab world. Now check ANY Arab-run website. The same map will not even have the name “Israel” on it. It’s either blank or called Palestine. It’s not Palestine, you Bedouin schmucks, it’s Israel – live with it. So we can finally live with you.
You know, I hate Germany. Germany turned a bunch of my ancestors into fertilizer. But I don’t look at a map of Western Europe and go, “Hey, what’s that blue thing between Poland and Belgium? Maybe if I close my eyes, it will go away. Ohhp, no.. still there.”
Israel will talk about two states, the west bank, the Golan Heights – all the land we won fair and square in the Six Day War. We will even listen to ideas about carving up Jerusalem – we’ll listen, doesn’t mean we’ll do it.
But nothing happens – just as it hasn’t happened in 63 years – nothing happens until all the Arabs admit that we are here and here to stay.
Happy Birthday, Israel! Yes, we’re going to a party-party. Just not the Hamas-Fatah party.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches.
Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon, with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of May 7th, 2011.
YAHOOOOOOO! Dammit. I am writing this while still under the euphoria, the magic spell of the big news on Sunday night: Bin Laden…been liquidated. Public enemy number one – and let’s hope when they came for him, he made number two!
This animal, this bastard, this ARAB, who created more chaos than a Loehmann’s white sale, has finally been found and put to death. It took nine and a half years. I don’t know why it took nine-and-a-half years. A six-foot-four, middle-aged man with a beard and a dialysis machine roaming around caves for a decade, sending out audio tapes – and we don’t know where he is? George Bush couldn’t find him, but then again, George Bush couldn’t find his ass in his underpants.
But finally, after thousands of days, hundreds of American casualties, billions of tax dollars, it took just one bullet. To kill the man responsible for four planes, a truck bomb, a dozen suicide squads, and 3000 bodies in lower Manhattan – one bullet: Allah not so akbar.
Was bin Loser the tip of the iceberg? Of course. Terror cells are like pimples; you squeeze off the head, a little pus oozes out, but an hour later, there’s a new head on it. So certainly, we must remain vigilant, and we shouldn’t be surprised if this strike at the heart of international terrorism only redoubles the efforts of the bad guys to be bad guys.
But for this window of time, let us be joyful, and grateful, and even a little giddy. This is Disneyland, Lotto, the Super Bowl and a Lady Gaga concert rolled into one dirty turban. Now, I know, on Passover, we spill a bissel wine from our glasses because we are not supposed to rejoice when our enemy suffers. But COME ON.
In fact, if I am less than completely ecstatic, it’s only because bin Laden did not suffer. In 30 seconds he went from sitting around his million-dollar mansion to taking a slug in the noggin’. Too quick. Too easy. This is the kind of guy you shoot in the foot, then in the knee, then in the hip, then in the arm, then you cut off his fingers, then you pull out his eyes, then you press his face on a Forman grill, then you cut off his ears – and then you start torturing him.
If it sounds like I’ve spent too much time thinking about these things, you’re right – nine-and-a-half years. Thanks to our good, close friends in Pakistan. “Osama who? Al Qaeda what? Nawwww… not in our country. You must be thinking of Canada.” Let me tell you something: venture just another mile or two from Islamabad, and I will bet you find Jimmy Hoffa, Natalee Holloway, Amelia Earhardt and my left blue sock that never made it out of the dryer.
Pakistan has a lot to answer for – and not just `cause their spicy food makes you crap blood. They could have helped us; they could have delivered Osama bin Laden to Washington D.C., put a bow in his hair and dropped him on the White House lawn. Instead, we have to sneak in like Jethro and that Israeli chick on NCIS. After it was over, then we call the Paki prime minister and say, “Oh, by the way, that library book you had out? Wink-wink. The one you said you couldn’t find, that you already returned, and that the dog ate? We came and got it. And the next time we ask if you have one of our DVD’s, you better rush the return box or you lose all borrowing privileges. Have a nice goddamn day.”
I do have to wonder – with everybody dying to see the pictures and the proof – why did the Navy Seals dispose of bin Laden so quickly? Obama said his body was prepared according to Islamic tradition – although where they got 100 pounds of camel dung on a Sunday night is beyond me. But really, did we have to give bin Laden a respectful cleanup? Of all people – we should have rubbed his lips with pork and hung a Jewish star around his neck.
And beyond that, we could’ve put him on display! Maybe a Pay-Per-View special with Geraldo Rivera; every hour he reveals another inch of the corpse. Vegas would go crazy. But what do we do? We bury the him at sea. If we wanted bin Laden to drown, just put him in a tank and let the families of 9/11 victims piss on him for an hour. Why deny America the satisfaction of seeing our mortal enemy vanquished? Instead, we have to take the word of the White House, the military, the DNA tests – and I’m willing to. But if there are people out there who deny the Holocaust and disbelieve that we ever put a man on the moon, how the hell are we supposed to make a bunch of Jihad jugheads believe their martyr didn’t really live out his life playing pinochle in Morocco?
I know. I’m being negative. It comes with the Jewitory. If there was ever a time to leap up and do a hora of delight, this is it. But there are still too many questions, too many terrorists, too many memories.
Osama, you ugly dead son of a bitch, you’re with your 72 virgins now. Bet you never figured they’d all be men. And they all look like Gary Busey. And they all have razor blades on the ends of their shmeckels. Let the eternal raping begin.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches. Vengeance is mine saith New York.
Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon, with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of May 1, 2011.
Mazel tov, mazel tov – it’s over. Finally, it’s over. The biggest merger since A&P took over Waldbaums in 1986. I’m talking, of course, of the wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton, which, barring someone not forever holding their peace, happened Friday in England.
I have to say, I feel terrible. Not for the bride and groom; he’s rich, she’s hot – they’re set for life. No, I feel bad for the morning TV news shows. What will they talk about now that they have to send their cameras back across the Atlantic? How will they fill twenty minutes out of every half hour if they can’t stop English people on the street and say, “Hey, aren’t you excited?” If they’re not careful, these news programs are gonna have to resort to something drastic – like reporting news.
I know, I’m being a killjoy. But find me a Jew who isn’t!
More to the point, I do have mixed feelings about the overdose of media coverage for what is, at its core, a simple ceremony between a man and a woman. Or, if you’re in Massachusetts, a man and a man. Or if you’re in Rhode Island, a woman and a woman…which is my favorite. But turning this semi-sacred ritual into an international media circus rankles, mainly because so much pomp and circumstance and money is frittered away on a one-time event.
Pundits have said the marriage of Billy and Kate is just another distraction, a shiny bauble that hypnotizes us into briefly forgetting just how screwed we are by every corporation in the world. It’s the media saying – “Don’t look at that gas pump with five dollars a gallon on it; look at Buckingham Palace with the horses, pretty horses. What? You’re worried that your home value just depreciated another ten percent? Come watch a princess shop for a dress that’s 30 times the value of your house! Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
Now, I’m not saying there aren’t positives about the whole marital megilla. Certainly England is getting tons of tourism and free publicity, and part-time jobs for people willing to stand on street corners and hawk souvenirs that say, “He gets to bone her in the Palace, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
And I will also say that while the wedding is definitely a mindless distraction, it’s also happy news. How much of that do we get? Every day it’s Syria this and Democrats-versus-Republicans that, and a fire in the foothills and a serial rapist in the suburbs, and Tokyo melting down and Charlie Sheen melting down, and cancer victims throwing up and glaciers thawing out until you just wanna pack it in.
So for once, we get a big, bright, beautiful happening: a ritual that upholds tradition while giving everyone a parade and a party. Two nice young kids, the gorgeousness of London, and the old woman can die now, she has an heir – it’s all good.
So while the temptation is to be a sourpuss and go, “millions of people are homeless and starving, and these bluebloods are eating cake; the reality is, people are gonna be homeless and starving no matter what, and a few hours of nuptial noodling isn’t gonna make a farthing’s worth of difference.”
And hey, for those of you who are really jealous of the prince and princess and their billion-dollar wedding just remember: They had one of these 30 years ago – and we all know how that turned out. Let’s just hope this time, when the princess gets slammed in the tunnel, it’s only a metaphor.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, NY. To the happy couple, L’chaim!
Rabbi Sol Solomon interviews comedian Shecky Greene
Topics include: comedy, show business.
Segment originally aired April 30, 2011 as part of the “Dave’s Gone By” radio program hosted by Dave Lefkowitz.
Please Note: Interview segments extracted from “Dave’s Gone By” may have music and other elements removed for timing and media re-posting considerations. For the full interview with all elements, please visit the audio of the complete original broadcast: Full Episode
All content (c)2011 TotalTheater Productions.
More information on Dave’s Gone By: http://www.davesgoneby.com
More information on Rabbi Sol Solomon: http://www.shalomdammit.com
RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #13 (4/24/2011): Easter
Aired 4/23/11 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgmT5qW-5Vc
Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon, with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of April 24th, 2011.
April 24th is a big day for our Christian brethren because it is Easter Sunday, the day that commemorates Jesus rising from the dead. According to the story, Jesus was crucified, pulled off the cross, and buried in a tomb. Three days later, they move away the rock – because that’s what you always do after you bury someone, you go back in and make sure they’re dead – and lo and behold, no corpse. The cave was empty.
And then, depending on which gospel you read, Jesus started appearing to his followers. He returned from the dead and visited his old pals. He saw the apostle Peter, and Paul, and Thomas – the famous “doubting Thomas.” Jesus said to him, “You don’t believe I’m dead? Stick your fingers in my wrist holes.” That’s actually in the book of John. Jesus telling Thomas, “You don’t think it’s me? Why don’t you blow in my feet like an ocarina? What? Disgusting? I spend seven hours bleeding to death on a cross, and you don’t wanna get goo on your face? Forget `doubting Thomas’; I’m gonna call you `asshole Thomas.’ How do you like that, ha? Pussyboy asshole Thomas. Now shut up and put your thumb in my ankle.”
I dunno. Obviously, I don’t believe in the whole resurrection thing, or any part of the Jesus story. But what intrigues me is the accepted idea that Jesus rose on the third day, and on the 40th day, he ascended to heaven. That leaves 37 days – nearly a month and a half – when he’s the walking dead, strolling around Bethlehem and wherever.
Wouldn’t that have been enough time to…I dunno…do anything? The gospels are very cryptic about his whereabouts all those weeks. Which is another reason they’re so suspect. If somebody rose from the dead, wouldn’t you follow them everywhere? Wouldn’t you take notes on every single thing they did? Instead: one visit here, an appearance there, a possible sighting in New Mexico.
And what if you were Jesus coming back to earth – what would you do? Was he still wounded? If he was part-human; maybe he went to a hospital, got himself re-hydrated, a couple of splints, maybe a chest x-ray.
And when he felt better… I don’t think they had guns in those days, but don’t you think he would’ve grabbed a sharp sword and gone looking for some people?
If I were Jesus, I’d be like, “Hello, there. Remember me? Oh, that’s right, you didn’t see my face. You were too busy looking at my back while you were whipping it 39 times. Ohhh..no hard feelings. You were just doing as you were told. But, see, I’m the son of God now. So you have two choices: I can either put this sword through your head, or you can take me to Herod, and then I’ll put this sword through your head. Who? Pilate? Oh, I’ve been to Pilate. His courtroom, as a matter of fact. Let’s just say I put his gavel in a very interesting place.”
Now, see? If the New Testament read like that, I’d believe in it. Here you’ve got the son of God coming back with six weeks on earth to wreak havoc, get revenge, maybe get a little somethin’-somethin’ from Mary Magdalene. Or the reverse – maybe he uses his post-mortem super powers to unite everyone on the planet, prove that he’s divine and turn the whole world Christian.
But no. He comes back, a few people see him, and then he goes off to God. What a wasted opportunity! Which is why I’d sooner believe in the Easter Bunny than Jesus. But that’s just me. I certainly wish our goyische friends and neighbors a happy holiday, with lots of good family gatherings and frilly bonnets and chocolate bunnies.
Although speaking of food, it does occur to me that if the last supper was, as they say, a Passover Seder, that means for his final days on earth, Jesus could eat only Kosher-for-Pesach meals. Forget all the other tortures of the crucifixion; can you imagine how constipated he was? That poor bastard.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, NY.
RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #12 (4/10/2011): Killer Whale
Aired April 9, 2011 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube: Rabbinical Reflection #12 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StApRbPeamA
Shalom Dammit, this is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of April 10th, 2011.
If I go to a pet store and bring home a poisonous rattlesnake, at some point, if I make one little boo-boo, I’m dead.
I could feed it a thousand times with no problem. But there’s gonna be one time that I’m dangling a tasty mouse in front of the snake. The mouse wriggles away, I instinctively grab for it, and my hand goes in the terrarium. Before you can say Moishe Rabenu, a pair of venomous fangs will sink into my knuckles. At which point, my hand will swell up bigger than J-Woww’s boobies, and my blood would be so contaminated, you’d think I’d gotten a plasma transfusion from Rip Torn.
Is there a moral to this story? Yes. This is why we don’t bring home poisonous snakes.
But tell that to the yutzes who keep snakes and lizards and tarantulas and have no problem until the day they have to evacuate the whole apartment complex because a cobra’s on the loose.
Much as I sympathize with the agony Roy Horn must have felt when they were re-attaching his face, I still would have shouted into his reconstructed ear: “IT’S A TIGER! That thing with stripes on it and razor-sharp claws? It’s not a goldfish. It’s not a puppy, you moron, it’s a tiger. It’s a man-eating tiger. Now I know you’ve been eaten by men before, but this is different!”
And so we come to the story of Dawn Brancheau, a pretty, athletic young girl who was a trainer at Sea World in Florida. In February 2010, she was doing her usual act with Tilikum the Whale. You know: roll over, jump for the fish, ride on your back, thrash me underwater until my lungs explode. That kinda thing.
As you may recall, Dawn Brancheau slipped in the water, and Tilikum went into a frenzy. By the time he was done, Dawn was dead.
Shocking and horrifying for the spectators; public-relations nightmare for Sea World. After all, if it weren’t for putting wild things in captivity and making them perform like Dumbo, Sea World would just be a fish-tank with a gift shop. So what did they do?
Despite the fact that Tilikum drowned one trainer, and was involved in the deaths of two previous trainers, they not only put the whale back in public view, but onstage! As of last week, Tilikum was once again flipping, rolling, dancing, doing magic tricks and reciting passages from Othello.
Oh sure, new safety measures have been put in place. Like trainers can’t wear ponytails anymore – which I know makes all the difference. But how many people does this demon dolphin have to murder before Sea World thinks, “Ya know… Maybe we should have a laser show instead?”
I mean, the name of this mammal is Orca – killer whale. This stupid fish has a reputation so violent, they put “killer” in its name. Nobody says, “The depressed and vaguely poetic whale.” Or, “come see the mathematically gifted and hilariously flatulent whale!” No, it’s a killer whale. It kills! It kills trainers. If it had a rifle with a telescoping lens, it would kill presidents.
And you can say, “Oh, they’ve worked with Tilikum. He’s had a year’s hiatus from performing, he’s been in confinement, he’s been punished.” Let me tell you what he’s been doing for a year – that fish has been lifting weights, making weapons out of mackerel bones, he probably joined the marlin brotherhood… We should not be trusting this animal no matter what precautions they think they’re taking.
Look at Jaws. Scary, wonderful movie, but there’s one piece of logic that you have to check at the door when you see it: If you don’t go in the water, you’re fine. You could dance a jig ten feet from the shoreline; all the shark can do is growl at you and give you the middle fin. Now granted, the shark had to be dealt with because fishermen, cruises, coast-guard patrols need to be in the water. But nobody needs to see a fish twirl a basketball. It is a non-essential activity.
And so here’s my recommendation if we really want Tilikum to be a productive member of society: take him to Japan and let the whalers have at `im. It’ll be a fair fight, and if he loses, you get to feed a million homeless earthquake victims on blubber.
As for Sea World, well, you take a frog, you put him in a dress and you make him jump through a hoop. Hours of entertainment, and nobody gets hurt.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, NY. Ribbit.
Shalom Dammit, this is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of April 3, 2011.
Japan, Libya, Syria, Gaza – all this going on, so what makes headlines? A guy in San Francisco who wants to ban circumcisions. Lloyd Schofield is trying to collect seven thousand signatures to put the issue up for a vote in November. If it passes, people will have to drive all the way to Orange County to get their bananas peeled.
Mr. Schofield claims he opposes circumcision on human-rights grounds, and that cutting off the foreskin is a cruel and pointless mutilation – especially when you’re doing it to babies who have no say in the matter.
I do not disagree with any of this. If I woke up one day to find a Rabbi hoisting me in his arms and giving me two drops of wine while his pen-knife does a rotato on my shmeckel, I’d be screaming, too.
Both sides of the issue claim health benefits. The anti-bris contingent says it’s traumatizing and causes nerve damage, and that at best, it’s cosmetic, elective surgery. And let’s face it – Jewish men are not black men; we need all the inches we can get. If I were a talking baby, I’d say, “Leave the penis, take the nose!”
The pro-circumcision group say that doing a cockwork orange is more sanitary, more aesthetically appealing, and has a lower risk of HIV, Chlamydia and penile cancer. Those findings are in dispute, but I have to say the idea of standing in the shower doing a smegma check every week is not my idea of a good time. Of course, if it’s a 22-year-old blonde doing the checking, I could be persuaded.
But if we take health off the table, we’re left with a brief but painful process that is done in the name of tradition. Like having relatives over on the holidays.
Can we replace the circumcision, a covenant stretching back millennia, with a new, harmless ceremony? After all, so much of what we do in Judaism is metaphorical. When we spill wine on Passover, this represents the ten plagues and the blood that was spilled when we vamoosed from Egypt. It’s not like we have to go out every Pesach and kill an Arab. Although with the missiles coming from Gaza right now, sometimes I’m tempted…
On Chanukah we light the menorah to symbolize the drop of oil that burned for eight days in the great temple. So why can’t we take a baby, have him wear a little condom, and then the mohel yanks off the Trojan and says, “Ut! This is to commemorate what we used to do to baloney ponies for 5,000 years.”
As you can see, I sympathize with Lloyd Schofield’s argument. When we hear about African tribes slicing their women’s privates like mango chunks, we react with horror. And I’ll be honest, if a grown man came to me and said, “Rabbi, I wanna convert. I’ll do the Bar Mitzvah, and I’m willing to skin the flute,” my first response would be, “Are you suuuuuure? I mean really sure? `Cause if you think peeling an onion makes you cry…”
And yet, for all the reasonable challenges to circumcision, I can’t throw the baby out with the pee-water. Maybe there was something our forefathers knew that we don’t; maybe there is a real covenant between us and God that has to be symbolized by a painful whack to the wang; maybe we have no business messing with a tradition that someone found valuable because hospitals do it automatically no matter what religion you are?
I say, until you can categorically prove that circumcisions are unhealthy, leave `em alone. Give parents the right to choose as they wish for their children, and for their children’s yogurt hoses. Or, as Dooley Wilson would sing:
You must remember this: A bris is still a bris A baby’s gonna cry So what if there’s some blood upon his thigh? We don’t ask why.
And though some skin he’ll miss He still can take a piss And let the semen fly So take a tip…from this Rabbi And just comply.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, NY.
So if you have a boy And if he’s not a goy Then kiss his flap goodbye At least he keeps his pink whale eye And stays a guy.
