GOODNIGHT HUMA

August 17th, 2016

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In the great blue room

There was an email server

And lots of pantsuits

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And a picture of –

Yassar Arafat’s widow

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And there were three more pantsuits

And two little kittens,

Who looked kind of like the Clinton’s cat, Socks, who they gave

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away when they got their chocolate lab, Buddy,

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Who they weren’t watching too carefully when the

Car ran him over and killed him….

And some expensive china

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That was

pilfered from the White House

When the Clintons moved out in 2000

And a little house in Chappaqua

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According to the Secret Service….

And a young aide named Huma

Who was married to a man who

Had two names – Anthony Weiner when he was good

And “Carlos Danger” when he was a bad, bad boy.

 

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And a bowlful of “charity” money

To be donated to The Clinton Foundation.

By the Clintons.

To their own foundation.   Am I the only one who

Finds this suspicious?

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Attorney General Loretta Lynch does not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A quiet old lady. In a pantsuit. Who wasn’t really quiet.

Or ladylike.  Who wanted to be president of the United States

Because it was her turn.

And a younger woman named Huma, who was very loyal and

Didn’t even leave Carlos Danger the second time he posted

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his weiner on Twitter. Huma gave advice to the not-so-quiet

old lady and took advice too.

Don’t leave Carlos Danger. I didn’t leave Bill after that Monica

Lewinsky right-wing conspiracy. And now I’m going to be

President.

 

 

 

 

Good night, Jew intern.

Good night, Vince Foster.

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Good night, George Dubya

Good night, Benghazi Four

Good night, Carlos Danger — “Oooops-I-Did-It-Again…”

 

 

 

 

Good night, Omar Mateen-who-I-didn’t-know-was-seated-behind-me-at-rally

Good night, James McDougal

Good night, twelve Clinton bodyguards who died on our watch

Good night, Charles Ruff

Good night, John Ashe

Good night, Sean Lucas and all of the other people that had something to do with

Me and Bill and then just up and died

Good night, Rolling Stone reporter Michael Hastings

Good night, Sally Quinn

Good night, Dick Morris

Good night, Republicans-you-racist-religious-gun-toting-moonshine-

Drinking, sheet-wearing-ham-and-bean-supper-eating-Christians

Good night, Hispanic people – I am your “abuela”

Good night, Black people – you know that I’m one of you even though

The color of my skin means I get a better table at most restaurants and

Salespeople don’t watch me like I’m about to boost all their merch

Good night all you traitorous Dems who forsook me in 2008

Good night, Israel. I love the Jewish people.

Good night, Muslims – I just said that – I really love you more and

Burquas help de-objectify women – Huma told me to say that.

Goodnight, Claire McCaskill

Goodnight American women with shapely ankles who aren’t forced

To hide their unsightly cankles in pantsuits — in my first 100 days

In office I will sign an executive order outlawing skirts and dresses

Goodnight, John Kerry, Secretary of State and Heinz Ketchup heir – you may

Be an idiot but you’re our idiot

 

Good night, Obama and don’t think that just because you’re endorsing me

Now that I will ever forget your stealing the election from under me in 2008

Good night, Donald Trump who thinks that just because he has a prettier

Daughter people should vote for him

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Good night, Bernie Sanders, you socialist with three homes – well done!

Good night, Iran and please remember when you detonate

Your nuclear bomb in ten years that I helped you get it so

Please let me know beforehand so I can hide in Greenland

Goodnight Huma

Goodnight Bill

Goodnight my grandchildren – yo soy su abuela – see? I speak Mexican!

Goodnight…

Out, damned spot! out, I say!–One: two: why,
then, ’tis time to do’t.–Hell is murky!–Fie, my 40
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?–Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.

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…what was that?  Another vast right-wing conspiracy – of that I am certain.

Goodnight all you Americans who have Obamacare – wait ’til I get my hands on it

Goodnight to my black brothers and sisters – I don’t feel noways tired 

Goodnight America that I will run into the ground

 

 

 

Good night world

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I KNOW I’M GREAT – JUST ASK MY PARENTS!

July 25th, 2016

There was the Greatest Generation – the people who fought and died for freedom during World War II. Then came the Baby Boomers – the children of the men and women who fought and died for freedom during World War II. Baby Boomers embraced free love, LSD, and Boone’s Farm Apple Wine. Many Boomers would argue that being at Woodstock was like storming Normandy, but with better music.  Stay away from the brown acid…

 

The Gen-Xers were next, followed by Generation Y, but now, according to a couple of researchers, and to every single one of this generation, it’s all about the Millennials. If it isn’t about you, it isn’t about anyone. It’s hard to argue with this but I’m here to help you out. I want to help you feel better about yourself, though I’m confident that most of your parents have already seen to this. For the few of you whose self-esteem can’t be boosted by a Bliss Spa membership, or a college Study Abroad program that allows you to both help feed starving Ethiopians and also get course credit, the following tips are for you…

 

REDUCE YOUR TEXTING “FOOTPRINT”

There are only a few instances where the need to text is imperative, i.e., not while navigating the jam-packed streets of New York, exiting subway cars, walking through revolving doors, riding on escalators, standing on line when I’m behind you,  waiting for you to “step lively” so that my day can proceed.  This also goes for restaurants, Broadway shows, Off and Off-Off Broadway shows,  (except for Blue Man Group or Stomp, as someone should always be disturbing the cast and audience  — in short, stop whenever your need to text exceeds my need to not want to slap you.  These are the only texts you should ever need to use.

 

  1. “My H2O just broke” (because god forbid you say “water” – that’s so old school).
  2. “My leg is on fire”
  3. “Am being chased by ISIS – no, not Lord Grantham’s yellow lab, the other ISIS (binge-watch Downton Abbey).

 

Let’s face it – “you can’t think and chew gum at the same time” didn’t become a cliché because you can think and chew gum at the same time. Ergo, you cannot walk and text at the same time. Did you know that the rate of functional illiteracy rises proportionately with the number of times you text each day? I can’t see the screen of your smart phone or “ intellectually engaged” tablet and I’m not clairvoyant but I know that you are writing in acronyms. You can probably neither spell nor define “acronym,” because you have no mastery of the English language, so I will help you. “#SOBORED,” is not a word.

 

MIND THE APP

You need another app like you need another nostril.  Don’t you have anything better to do while waiting for the bus? Wouldn’t anything be better than checking your MTA “app?”  Where is the M104? How many 5ths of a mile is it from here? How many traffic lights are there between 58th Street and Broadway and 42nd Street and Avenue of the Americas? Are they synced? If two trains leave Grand Central Station and one is carrying a 45-lb bag of Mighty Dog Chubby Dog Kibble, and the other train will get to Cleveland on the first Thursday after we “spring forward” to Daylight Savings Time, is there an app for that?  How about a “What-the-fuck-am-I-doing?” app?  You don’t need an app for that.

 

Here’s the thing of it – you have APP-OCD. It’s like a substance abuse problem, without the fun of abusing a substance. Unlike jeggings and sweatpants, your brain doesn’t expand to absorb all of the junk you’re feeding it. So for every Epicurious or HauteLook app you’ve downloaded, that’s one less Russian novel you’ll be able to absorb. I take that back. You’re a millennial – you wouldn’t be able to understand Anna Karenina without flashcards. Or emojis. In fact, I don’t understand why you use the acronym, “RTM,” when one of skills requires the ability to read.

 

STOP BINGE-WATCHING

It’s a terrible term. You never binge-read. You don’t binge-think. What don’t you do in order to watch 62 episodes of “Breaking Bad,” in one weekend?  Patience is a virtue. In the 1980s, we were more than happy to wait an entire summer to find out who killed JR.  Having something to look forward to gives you – well, something to look forward to. Cramming in all of anything into your head as fast as you can is – well – let me make this visual for you. During the summer, Coney Island  hosts its annual Hotdog-Eating contest. Next time. instead of just checking on “huffpost” to see who won – force yourself to watch every minute of the contest. See Joey Chestnut soak 61 hotdog buns in water, then shove them down his throat, followed by the dogs and some condiments in ten minutes.  That’s what you look like when “scarfing down” every episode of “House of Cards” in a day. If you have to be instantly gratified in every aspect of your life, what’s the point? I’ll let you take a break now and binge-watch “In Treatment” to figure that one out.

 

GET LESS POLITICAL

You don’t read newspapers. You know less about history than Sam Cooke. You think “The Daily Show” is a news program. You’ve never watched Sean Hannity but you know you hate him. You’ve never watched Rachel Maddow but you know you love her. You marched on Zucotti Park but even years later, neither the leaders nor you, the hip, young politicos, can even guess as to what its goals were,  even after listening to screaming unintelligible, angry sound-bites from scared 20-something NY-1 reporters and keeping the  free goat cheese ravioli, homemade stews and Katz’s pastrami sandwiches away from the homeless people who actually could have used a square meal.

 

Here’s what’s going on in your “radical” head: “Oh, there’s a group of grungey-looking yet mildly attractive young people carrying signs and walking in a particular direction. I’ll follow… Maybe they have weed.”  “Dang – some of those white girls look sooo hot with dredlocks. But they’re appropriating – not cool.”  “Wow – I have that same shirt from Abercrombie…. I think I hear Dylan leaking out of that guy’s earbuds…Rad!  “Wow – maybe they’ll let me shout into the bullhorn…”  ” I wonder if he’s a poser or he really wants to end fracking….WTF is ‘fracking’? Maybe it’s like fucking but with a French person? I don’t know – I took French in middle school”   How come the reporters always get to move to the front? I wish I had a microphone… Maybe my parents will get me a job as a reporter…”Want to be a really radical millennial? Look up the word “humble” in the dictionary and try emulating the definition. Try saying, “Please,” and “Thank you.”  Educate yourself on all factions of the United States political system so you can have an opinion that was not given to you by your progressive college professor who, by the way,  has yet to leave college, probably makes six figures and lives in subsidized faculty housing.  Stop saying “My dad’s secretary stood on line for 19 hours so I’d be the first person in my dorm to have the IPhone 6.”

 

DON’T TELL ANYONE, ESPECIALLY ME, ABOUT THE “ART” YOU’RE PUTTING OUT THERE…

Really. You haven’t even uploaded it and I know I don’t want to watch your web-series, visual media’s answer to the self-published book. No one wants to watch your web series, no one wants to read your self-published book.  Yes, despite the fact that you made up an “indy publisher”- sounding publishing company – “Yeah – it’s being published by Harwich House…” Good name. Sounds publish-y. British-y. Boutique-y. People might buy that.  They’ll certainly buy it before they buy your book. “Harwich House” sounds real.   Throw that bad novel up on the Internet. Sell it on Amazon. Fuck – they sell lamb chop panties on Amazon – why not your shitty novel? You think we really think all those 5-star reviews were written by people who aren’t you, your relative or someone you paid?  Vantage Press laughs at you.

And stop posting your life in short films on Youtube. No one – and I mean no one – probably including some members of your immediate family  – wants to watch your wedding on Youtube. You’re not Angelina and Brad. You’re not Jay Z and Beyonce. You’re not even my Uncle Sol and Aunt Ruthie.  You’re you. You probably don’t even really love your spouse – you just wanted to be married, like it’s some sort of life EZ Pass.  There’s one reason I love watching your weddings on Youtube, though.  It’s because not even your wedding was real. You hired a coach to teach you a first dance, you’ve planned the flash mob, you’ve made sure that the lighting and sound were perfect. You chose “your song,” not because you share a special song, but because you have to dance your first dance to it.  You’ll need the video because you were too busy orchestrating your wedding to actually experience it. So now, you and your partner can sit back with a bowl of popcorn and your micro-brewed beer and see that you’re not as attractive as your parents said you were.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SHE DID IT HER WAY…HILLARY’S 2016 CAMPAIGN SONG

December 19th, 2015

President Obama was so invested in the Israeli election this year and Israel, I’m guessing, might be interested in the U.S. Presidential election, 2016.   First one out of the Democratic gate — Hillary “shoulda woulda coulda” Clinton.

Like most presidential wannabes, Hillary will need a campaign song. JFK had “High Hopes, “ FDR, “Happy Days Are Here Again,” But, sadly, her handlers have their hands full deflecting, avoiding and denying, so they might not have time for composing. Following John Kennedy’s edict to “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” I have stepped in.

Here’s the thing, Hillary. I’m kind of tone-deaf, so I borrowed the melody from Paul Anka’s iconic “My Way,” one of Frank Sinatra’s biggest hits. But the lyrics? I wrote these just for you, Hillary…

(to the tune of MY WAY)

Hello, it’s Hil-la-ry

I’m back again, I want to serve you                                   

You might be sick of me

But Bill said “run!” and I deserve to                                                                           

To move back to DC                                                           

That’s all I want, to be your POTUS

Forget darned Benghazi!

I’ll tell it my way…

 

What difference does it make?                            

Those dudes are dead, why do they blame me?

It was just a video

Yet they continue to defame me

I lost a few emails

Thirty-three thou, or was it fifty…

I like to email Bill, my handsome hub – he thinks it’s nifty

To do it my way…

 

Yes there were times that I was blamed

For scandals we know I was framed

From Whitewater to Travelgate

Deny them all in triplicate

I bob and weave, and I deflect

There’s no one better to elect

And through the smears and all the lies

I spin it my way

 

I kissed Arafat’s wife

I didn’t know, she was in disguise

She wore a nice chador, I was confused,

Thought we were allies

I just want to step in, want to protect

our precious nation

And add a few more mil to the

Hill and Bill Clinton “Foundation”

And get rich my way…

 


The servers all have been wiped clean

Blame it on Huma Abedin

My senior aide betrayed me too

I’m quite surprised she’s not a Jew

But wait – I need the Jewish vote

I studied at the yeshivoth

I’m Jewish too, I’m sure I am

I’ll daven my way…

 

I’m named for Edmond Hillary

Although some doubt it, how that could be?

He climbed Everest after I was born

Who’s keeping track?

I could have sworn!

But I was born five years before

I’ll tell it my way…

When Bill and I moved from DC

We took some flatware and TVs

Some plates and cups, a few armoires

We didn’t know they weren’t ours

Yes there were chairs we took as well

Could not remove that darned doorbell

We needed stuff for Chappaqua

I’ll pack up my way…

 


I’m going to run, I’m going to win

And much to everyone’s chagrin

I won’t fight fair, that’s not my style

I’m quite the crafty white Gentile

Lewinsky who? We’ve got Carville

And George Souros – he thinks I’m swell

Stephanopolis– see? I can spell

I spell it my way

 

I’m here to stay, I’ll never leave

There’s nothing that I can’t achieve

And through it all, with nerve and gall

And though my ethics might appall

I’ll just blame Sidney Blumenthal

And do it my way.

JUST WHEN YOU THINK THE FRENCH AREN’T SOOOO BAD….

June 16th, 2015

It has recently been reported that The Louvre has not been allowing Israeli Jewish tourists into the museum.  Surprised?  No.  Surprised that it took this long?  Well, a little.

The Charlie Hebdo massacre sickened me.  The solidarity rally in Paris?  Well, I was a little skeptical.  I mean, no one wanted to stand next to Netanyahu.  But I thought, maybe, just maybe, the French are getting it together.  A part of me still believed,  “Well, if the KOSHER MART massacre happened but there were no shootings at Charlie Hebdo, there would probably be no rally.  BTW, no-friend-to-the-Jews-President Obama, contrary to your skewed, anti-Semitic thinking, it was shot up because it was a KOSHER MART  — no coincidence.  Note  that it did not say HALAL MART or SUPER MART or NO SPECIFIC KINDA-MART.  Let’s just make a huge leap, Barry — those Muslim terrorists knew the chances of killing Jews  there were equal to your choosing a vacation spot with a golf course.   It probably won’t be long before those tolerant French  will be texting ISIS:  “Oh, the Cohen family?  They’re staying at the Plaza Athenee.  Room 735.   Just do us a favor and abduct them after they’ve paid their tab, though – okay?”

Though, clearly it is wrong to discriminate against any one group of people just because they are members of that group, you French do it with such ease and panache.  And I’m getting pretty good at it too…  Alors…

 

TO:  FRENCH PEOPLE

FR:  MOLLIE

RE:   UM… I THINK YOU KNOW…

It’s been a while.  Remember, back in 1940, when the Nazis just kinda-sorta snuck their way through the Ardennes and the Low Countries into France?  Remember?  And it’s not like it was August, where you could at least say, “Well, it was ze summer and we close down all ze shops and ze museums.   How could we defend ourselves against zis Nazis when we were on holiday?”  The Germans invaded in June and your basic response was, “Table for 40,000?  Zis way, please!”  At least Poland was out-manned and ill-equipped.  But it takes me longer to grow out my bangs than it did for you guys to go from “Bonjour!” to “And I’ll take some sauerkraut with that!”   Yes, I know.  Along with your fabulous Vichy government, Lieutenant Marshall Petain and the rest of les collaborateurs,  there was a French Resistance.  Call me a cynic.   I’m sure some of your countrymen’s hearts were in the right place, but I can’t help but thinking the thought of your wine bars turning into beer halls was at least somewhat of a motivation.   Your government seemed to hand over the French Jews to the Nazis like a housewarming gift.   After all, they probably had all the toasters and coffee percolators…So out went the croissants, in came the pfefferneuse, au revoir Bordeaux, Vilkomen Reislander.  The iconic photographs of Hitler and fellow Nazi, architect Albert Speer standing in front of the Eiffel Tower – priceless.

And the photo of the anonymous Frenchman weeping as the Gestapo marched into Paris?

Why was he really crying?  Because his nation was now overtaken by savage, heartless monsters?  Because his country was being raped by some of the most  barbaric fiends in history?  Or because some American tourist asked for directions in French?  So, for four long years you were occupiedby Germany.  But it wasn’t so bad.   Okay – so they looted the Louvre, hung a giant Swastika flag over L’Arc d’Triumphe, and the Left Bank stunk of Limburgercheese and Knockwurst.

Do you recall who saved your sorry derrieres in 1945?  Who stormed the beaches of Normandy?  No – say it louder, now – plus fort!  C’est ca! The Allies!  Almost 200,000 of those Allies were Americans.  Yes, the same “ugly” Americans who, on a daily basis, devalue your most prized city, Paris, by roaming through the J’eu D’Pomme, down the Champs Elyse, wearing “I Heart Paris” t-shirts, shouting out at patesseries from the 18th aggrandizement to the Left Bank, “Errr… how many euros will it cost me for one of those buttery crescents?”

or, “I bet you named your Napoleon pastry after that there general guy!” I have nothing nice to say about Joe Stalin, but ecoute and don’t ever forget it – if it weren’t for the Russians and the Americans,  you’d be saying “Danke Schoen,” every time someone lit one of your stinky  Gauloises cigarettes.

And, during World War II, more than half a million Jewish Americans fought so that you’d have the right to your bouillebaise, your cassoulet, your crepes.  They even let you keep your mimes.  (Actually, no one else wanted them).

 

And how do you re-pay us?   From the end of World War II until the past few years, you’ve had to hide your anti-Semitism – c’est domage.  You’ve done an amazing job confusing us considering you pretty much hate all Americans and then there’s the small subset of American Jews, (and all Jews, for that matter), whom you also hate.  So, as an American who is Jewish, it’s – well –let’s just say we’re never confused.  Let’s talk about what you have in your favor, France.  Excellent cuisine, great wine, the best fashion sense – yes,  yes – the Parisian woman, whether she’s 17 or 77, always looks effortlessly put together.   But maybe your women have been too heavily influenced by CoCo Chanel.   A fashion visionary? Mais oui!  And not only a bona fide  Jew hater, but a card-carrying Nazi. Oh! Oh! You’re surprised? “Non!   Not our little Coco!  C’est imposible!”  C’est vrai!   Your haute couture guru was not only a Nazi sympathizer but a spy for the Nazis, beginning as early as 1941.  Oui!  She even held meetings with Heinrich Himmler.  Yes.  That Heinrich Himmler.  So your  petite “Coco,” of the Chanel bag, (and just because Jackie Kennedy wore it, that fugly quilted bag with the chainstrap is, by the way, atrocious), and the Chanel suit and the “Little Black Dress,” had no problem with millions of Jews and millions more Catholics, Gypsies, disabled people and homosexuals being shipped off to concentration camps and gassed.

It has been, I am sure, quite difficult to control yourself for any length of time when it comes to hating Jews. It’s like me and Haagen-Daaz chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream.   While delicious, I know it’s not good for me, and migh even evoke scorn and rolled eyes by the legions of size triple zeros staring me down in the frozen food section.  I can resist it for months and months and then suddenly, usually after a nice Chinese dinner, my willpower just disintegrates and I must have it.  Sort of like you and anti-Semitism.  “I don’t hate the Jews because they are Jewish,  I don’t hate the Jews because they are Jewish, I don’t hate the Jews because they are…” and, then the willpower goes right out the door and your unfiltered thoughts just fly out of your mouth.  “I love Hitler!” and“Your parents should have been gassed!” and  oops — all of your contributions to B’Nai Brith and the Shanah Tovahs! On Rosh Hashanah – right out the window.

Galliano.  Chanel.  Is it something about fashion designers and anti-Semitism?  Strange, since so many fashion designers – Tory Burch, Diane von Furstenberg, Calvin Klein, Zac Posen, Elie Tahari, Sonia Rykel, (I’d include Ralph Lauren, nee Lipschitz, so he probably doesn’t want to be included, particularly because his clothing shouts, “You!  Jew!  This is for the goyim in Cos Cob, Connecticut!  Step away from the pleated khakis and no one gets hurt!”).  So Galliano spewed his filthy, hate-filled anti-Semitic remarks in, of all places,  La Marias, the Jewish Quarter, in Paris.  Talk about irony.  And let’s not forget your tres drole comedian Dieudonne M’Bala M’bala.  I can’t figure out what’s downright more funny – the stateroom scene in the Marx Brothers’ classic film, “Night at the Opera,” or this hugely repulsive M’Bala M’Bala, ( why is his  last name “times two”?  More threatening?  Easier to remember?  Don’t want to get him confused with the M’Bala with just one surname?), who, as he tells his quite receptive French audiences, out for an evening of drinks and laughs,  that Holocaust Remembrance Day” is “memorial pornography.”  As  Stars of David dance across a screen and the sound of trains taking Jews to concentration camps and certain death play in background at a typical M’Bala M’Bala concert-concert,  the audience just guffaws.   And this Cameroonian-French fat racist tells his audiences, “I am not an anti-Semite,” which makes me wonder what the audience tells itself as it laughs and applauds.  “Je ne suis pas antisémite! J’adore Jerry Lewis et Woody Allen!”

 

Fine.  You have profiteroles and nifty ways to tie a scarf.  But you don’t have an Iron Dome, something you might want to seriously consider before taking to the streets with your anti-Semitic posters.  Is it any wonder that thousands of French Jews are moving to Israel?  “C’est bon!”  I can hear many of you cry.  And as Vichy France moves north, you wonder why so many of us are so torn.  You know – “I love France. Except for the people.”   I’ve been to your country.  I’ve shopped Les Galleries Lafayette and visited Les Halles.  I’ve walked your boulevards, climbed the steps of Sacre Coeur, mastered your Metro , been pick-pocketed by your – well, you know who your pick-pocketers are…   I schlepped through the Louvre and the Pompidou Centre, rummaged through St. Ouen Flea Market, eaten in your brasseries and bistros, though my SINGLE favorite memory of your country was watching one of my fellow Americans try to open a door in Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors.

I know, French people, you feel victimized.  After all, there’s enough anti-Semitism in Europe to  around.  Why should I pick on \ vous when there’s the Brits, the Scots,  the Germans, the Swedes, the Belgians, the Turks – oh my – let’s not leave out those Turkish Delights. Definitely,  that M’Bala M’Bala gives you a bit of an edge.  Or maybe it’s because I hate pate.  Then there’s the air space you wouldn’t grant us when we were going after that humanitarian Momar Khadaffi. Is it simply ennui or is it your inability to take a stand on anything other than that Beaujolais Nouveau must be released in November?

Heck, perhaps it’s Maurice Chevalier, or the fact that  the musical Les Miserables seemed longer than the June Rebellion of 1832.   But it’s probably because you have that…um…how can I put it?… you possess… I cannot seem to find the words…ah, yes…comment dit-on?  Ah yes – that je ne sais quo.   Au revoir, France.  No chicken soup for you!

REGRETS? NOT ONE OR TWO – HILLARY CLINTON’S NEW CAMPAIGN SONG

June 6th, 2015

President Obama was so invested in the Israeli election this year and Israel, I’m guessing, might be interested in the U.S. Presidential election, 2016.   First one out of the Democratic gate — Hillary “shoulda woulda coulda” Clinton.

Like most presidential wannabes, Hillary will need a campaign song. JFK had “High Hopes, “ FDR, “Happy Days Are Here Again,” But, sadly, her handlers have their hands full deflecting, avoiding and denying, so they might not have time for composing. Following John Kennedy’s edict to “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” I have stepped in.

Here’s the thing, Hillary. I’m kind of tone-deaf, so I borrowed the melody from Paul Anka’s iconic “My Way,” one of Frank Sinatra’s biggest hits. But the lyrics? I wrote these just for you, Hillary…

(to the tune of MY WAY)

Hello, it’s Hil-la-ry

I’m back again, I want to serve you                                   

You might be sick of me

But Bill said “run!” and I deserve to                                                                           

To move back to DC                                                           

That’s all I want, to be your POTUS

Forget darned Benghazi!

I’ll tell it my way…

 

What difference does it make?                            

Those dudes are dead, why do they blame me?

It was just a video

Yet they continue to defame me

I lost a few emails

Thirty-three thou, or was it fifty…

I like to email Bill, my handsome hub – he thinks it’s nifty

To do it my way…

 

Yes there were times that I was blamed

For scandals we know I was framed

From Whitewater to Travelgate

Deny them all in triplicate

I bob and weave, and I deflect

There’s no one better to elect

And through the smears and all the lies

I spin it my way

 

I kissed Arafat’s wife

I didn’t know, she was in disguise

She wore a nice chador, I was confused,

Thought we were allies

I just want to step in, want to protect

our precious nation

And add a few more mil to the

Hill and Bill Clinton “Foundation”

And get rich my way…

 


The servers all have been wiped clean

Blame it on Huma Abedin

My senior aide betrayed me too

I’m quite surprised she’s not a Jew

But wait – I need the Jewish vote

I studied at the yeshivoth

I’m Jewish too, I’m sure I am

I’ll daven my way…

 

I’m named for Edmond Hillary

Although some doubt it, how that could be?

He climbed Everest after I was born

Who’s keeping track?

I could have sworn!

But I was born five years before

I’ll tell it my way…

When Bill and I moved from DC

We took some flatware and TVs

Some plates and cups, a few armoires

We didn’t know they weren’t ours

Yes there were chairs we took as well

Could not remove that darned doorbell

We needed stuff for Chappaqua

I’ll pack up my way…

 


I’m going to run, I’m going to win

And much to everyone’s chagrin

I won’t fight fair, that’s not my style

I’m quite the crafty white Gentile

Lewinsky who? We’ve got Carville

And George Souros – he thinks I’m swell

Stephanopolis– see? I can spell

I spell it my way

 

I’m here to stay, I’ll never leave

There’s nothing that I can’t achieve

And through it all, with nerve and gall

And though my ethics might appall

I’ll just blame Sidney Blumenthal

And do it my way.

MY DOG OR LENA DUNHAM? YOU DECIDE.

April 12th, 2015

DOG OR LENA DUNHAM?  A QUIZ

BY MOLLIE FERMAGLICH

DOG OR LENA DUNHAM?  A QUIZ

BY MOLLIE FERMAGLICH

 

 

How Lena Dunham is Like a Dog

 

Do the following statements refer to (a) my dog or (b) Lena Dunham?

 

She gets upset if you refer to her as a “dog”.

 

The first thing I noticed about her was that she looked better in clothes than without them.  But not that much better…

 

She’s “man’s best friend,” but admitting you find her “attractive” is, I believe, a crime in most municipalities.

When we walk through the Union Square Green Market, she pretends to pee right next to the “By Bread Alone” stand when, in fact she is licking crumbs off the ground.  When caught, her big brown eyes say,  “It said ‘Gluten-free.”

 

She’s been on the covers of “Glamour” and “Vogue”.   That was irony – right?

 

She’s crazy for cream cheese but don’t try to trick her with that Neufchatel.  “It’s like eating kosher Moo Shu Pork – what’s the point?”

 

One day we walked into Thompson’s Square Park and she pretended to not notice the homeless people standing on line for a free hunk of cheese and three-day old bread.  I said to her, “That is so sad – perhaps there’s something we can do,” and she just looked at me with her big brown eyes and said, “Do you think this sleeveless dress accentuates my flabby arms”?

 

She has an obsession with petit fours and Funions.

 

She is openly hostile toward Jews and when scolded, she chews on a stuffed toy as though it were a Peeps.

 

She doesn’t have a lot of hair all over her body, but she makes up for it with bad tattoos, cellulite and invisible panty-lines.

 

She ate my copy of “Lean In.”  She thought it said, “Lean Cuisine.”

 

Her mom is Jewish, and she thinks she’s only culturally Jewish.  Someone’s in dire need of “The Idiot’s Guide to the Nuremberg Laws.”

 

She requires fewer calories to function than wolves but still whines when we’re out of Chunky Peanut Butter.

 

She prefers the company of humans, particularly if they pretend to like “Girls”.

 

She moans loudly when those Sarah McLaughlin/ASPCA commercials come on, then worries that she’s experiencing schadenfreude.

 

If it were up to her, every room in the house would have a step-and-repeat banner.  And no mirrors.

 

I should have named her “Scruffy”.

 

Someone should tell her she looks horrible in fishnet stockings, but we’re all scared she’ll bite.

 

She has trouble telling the difference between vomit and Pasta Putanesca.

 

She loves the Hassidic community but is openly hostile toward short, squat young women who look like Jonah Hill.

 

I feel she is judgmental about the food she is served.  Yet she always asks for seconds.

 

 

THE LOST LETTERS OF BARACK OBAMA AND NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

March 17th, 2015

While Bo, President Obama’s dog, (the purebred Portuguese Water Dog, a gift from the late Senator Ted Kennedy, despite Obama’s pre-oath-of-office promise to save a dog from a pet shelter,  but it sounded good), was digging and scampering in the East Lawn of the White House, he came upon the following “buried” treasure – letters between President Obama and the late European general and war-monger, Napoleon Bonaparte.   What follows is just part of the recently- discovered historical, hysterical documents…

 Dear Barry,

First, I hope you don’t mind if I call you “Barry,” when your full Christian name is “Barack.”  Wait…  My bad.  I may be dead and resting in my fantabulous tomb at Les Invalides  in Paris, but I’m kinda thinking “Barack” isn’t a “Christian” name. I know it’s not a Jewish name.   Not saying you don’t like Jews.  Not even saying you aren’t a fan of the current state of Israel.   You think you  are, I am sure, but that’s like me saying I’m a fan of Lean Cuisine Swedish meatballs.  I know, I know – you’re close to those Emanuel brothers from Israel – Rahm, Ezekiel  and Ari.  Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but they’ve done for Israel what you’ve done for the state of Israel.  Think about that for a good long time.  I’m not going anywhere. Write back if you want any tips on how you can successfully go from POTUS to “Emperor,”

Fondly but manly yours,

Napoleon Bonaparte

P.S.  The whole Cuba thing?  Brilliant.  Now you get great cigars and can have your own Caribbean island.    By the way, those ’61 Studebakers the citizens of Cuba are driving around in – those aren’t classic cars.  In fact, they’re barely cars.  Stick with Fidel and Raul – they have the Benzes.  Fore!

 

 

Dear Napoleon,

May I say that — as President of the United States – did I mention that I am President of the United States? —  I am President of the United States, and don’t you forget that, John McCain and that other Mormon guy, – I am – well, “honored” might be inferred by you as a powerful man showing admiration for a greater powerful man.  That is something I am not prepared to do.   In fact, give me a sec – must sign Executive Order about that before  Congress finds out.  So, cool hearing from you, Mr. Napoleon. Not as cool as rappin’ with Jay Z or having Vogue’s Anna Wintour bow before me,  but as  almost as cool as playing the back nine at the Farm  Neck Golf Course on the Vineyard, an Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona cigar,  Sea  Breeze on the rocks and Nancy Pelosi waiting for me at the nineteenth hole.

And definitely cooler than listening to my pal Bill Ayers recount, over and over again  –zzzzzzzzzzz— how his fellow SDS Weatherman girlfriend was killed while blowing up a Greenwich Village townhouse in the 1970s.  And then come the stories of how he took part in the bombings of New York Police Department headquarters in 1970,  the United States Capitol Building in 1971 and   the Pentagon in 1972. Jeez,  Bonaparte, don’t you hate it when your  friends just  brag and brag and brag?   “Plastique, blah, blah blah and fuses blah blah blah and detonator yadayadayada…”

Bonaparte,  we have a lot in common.  We’re both strategists.  How I was able to get so many American Jews to vote for me not once, but twice, can only be attributed to my killer-strategery.  Who knows?   Maybe Rahm Emmanuel put a little peel-on/ peel-off sticker that said “Rabinowitz” or “Goldenblatt” over my name on those very reliable new voting computer sheets.  Despite the fact that you’re short and I’m tall, and you’re dead and I’m not, I feel you.    We’re both powerful men, visionaries who never let anything like public opinion or the law or even ethics,  get in our way.  So, what have I done to deserve the honor of hearing from you?  I mean, other than the fact that I am the President of the United States.  Encore une fois, Je suis le president.

Sincerely,

Barack Hussein Obama

POTUS or le POTUS a vous

 

 

My Dearest Barack,

To be honest, I can’t believe I got you off the links long enough to reply to my royal correspondence.   Though never much of a duffer.  I did enjoy a good game of chess but seldom found the time for such dalliances as “hobbies,” as most of my time was taken up invading and controlling other countries.  The fact that I was quite the Eurocentric fellow, I am rather surprised that you even responded.  You don’t seem to like people of European, Ashkenazi or Sephardic descent.  But trust me, had you the chance, getting to boss around and control Spain – (free-tapas-for-life)!,  the Netherlands,  Switzerland,  West Germany and Eastern Poland, I think you’d have enjoyed it.   Or, perhaps you’d have insisted that I return Europe to its pre-67 borders?  Hmmmmmm…. I don’t want to upset you, for you are a great leader.  Well, perhaps I exaggerate a bit.  I did see the results of the mid-term elections, November 2014.   Looks like the “United States” isn’t so united.  But as long as you think they are,  too bad for them –oui?

 

Au revoir for now,

Yours truly, sincerely and respectfully

Napoleon

 

 

Listen here, Napoleon!

How dare you question any decisions I have made as the President of the United States?  First, I’ll have you know, I am a staunch supporter of the increasingly- shrinking State of Israel.   First, I love hummus.  Not a fan of the “Sabra” brand, but you understand…   Next, I love hummus.  And finally I am a sucker for hummus.

Salaa— I mean, Shalom,

Barrrrrrrry

 

 

Dear Barrrrrrry,

A question — don’t you have a press secretary or intern or someone to proofread your correspondence? There are only 2 “r”s in “Barry.”   There was a “Barry” on “The Brady Bunch.”   And there was Barry White.  But your name is “Barack.”   Next, saying the fact that you like hummus means you are a friend of Israel is like  saying…no… I won’t even waste my time thinking of a really witty simile.  Also, I am pretty sure you are confusing hummus, the delicious mixture of ground chick peas, tahini and other sumptuous ingredients, with Hamas.   I used to get confused sometimes, especially while at war,  between “cassoulet,” a hearty French stew,  and cabernet, a hearty red wine.

But, to my knowledge you have not suffered from battle fatigue.  While both of us spent our entire careers avoiding working for private industry, at least I fought for my country.  Perhaps you can claim hand-cramp as some sort of fatigue, though I think it’s a sort of adult temper tantrum. I sense that you are not a happy leader of your people.  It seems that you might, to use the name of a Jean Renoir classic film, be under L’Grande Illusion,” in that you believe many more of your people than is accurate, embrace your presidency.  May I put it like this, Barry – you are probably lucky they don’t exile anyone to Elba or St. Helena anymore. St. Barts wouldn’t be so bad.  Ooooops– no golf courses on St. Bart’s.

My bad.

Couldn’t-Be-Gladder-to-Be-Deader,

Monsieur Bonaparte

 

 

 

Mr. Napoleon, Sir,

Perhaps the formaldehyde has gotten to your head.  To think that all I think about is the game of golf is ridiculous.  I spend so much of my time thinking about  The Affordable Care Act and how glad I am that Michelle and the girls and I don’t have to rely on that because otherwise we’d be in deep s*it.   I mean, I’m the President of the United States.   I like my doctors.  And I can keep them.  Period.

I spend more time than I’d like to thinking about everything going on in the Middle East and what I can do to not do very much of anything.  To that end, I chose John Kerry,  (yes, that John Kerry, married to Theresa Heinz, whose first husband’s  family is responsible fowhat you would probably call an appalling condiment),  as Secretary of State.   We have some very nutty titles here in the U.S.  Secretary of State.  Secretary of what state?  We have 57 states here.  Big Ooooops!  I clearly confused the number of states here with the number of Islamic states in the world.  Or maybe I had Heinz 57 on the brain.  Who knows?  Whichever answer is both politically expedient and won’t send my public approval ratings into the cellar is what I meant.  What’s that?  My public approval ratings are already in the cellar?  Well, let me say this about that.  This.  And I mean it.

 

Respectfully,

Barack Hussein Obama

President of the United States

Twice

 

 

Dear President Obama,

What’s up with your middle name?  Perhaps this is a tad provincial on my part, but what happened to good old American middle names like “Kyle” or “Stewart”?  And “Barack”?  Well, I take that back.  Look at my first name.  “Napoleon”.  Okay, Barry.  Stop laughing right now.  You’re the POTUS.  Short jokes are tempting, I am sure, but they are easy.  Don’t make many jokes.  You are not funny, Barack.  You know how I know this, even though I am buried like an onion in the ground?  When the Jews don’t laugh at your jokes, you need a new joke writer.  Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu does not find you funny.  Tzipi Livni?  Well, that’s another story.  I’d laugh at your jokes too,  if you allegedly undermined my re-election. A question, Barry — and I probably know the answer to this — but welcoming talks with those madcap Iranians while boycotting Benjamin Netanyahu’s speech to the American Congress is mishugunah, no?   You’re sitting down with the Iranians?  Have you perhaps seen “Breaking Bad”?  No – it is not on The Golf Network.   Talking peace with the Iranians is like asking Walter White or Gustavo Fring to be your “plus-one” at a family wedding.

I wouldn’t be the first or the last to say this, Barry.  I think you have a “Jewish” problem.

 

L’chaim!

Napoleon

 

 

Dear Mr. Napoleonowitz:

How dare you insinuate for one minute that I am not a friend of the state of Israel?  I’ll admit,  they have been a real pain in the tuchus to my Muslim brethren which I don’t have because I am, as you know, a Christian, (*see Reverend  Wright).   The United States has always been a great ally of the state of Israel.  Well, until I took office.  Those Jewish people are so sensitive!  Just because the Middle East is as stable as unglued dentures – this is not my fault.  I have always been and remain a fair man, a president of substance and compassion, and if anyone has any problems vis a vis my relationship with the (illegal) state of Israel, put the blame where it belongs – on George Dubya.  He not only corroded U.S/Israeli relationships, he is also responsible for:

1)    Global warming

2)    Inflation

3)    Stagnation

4)    The sinking of the Titanic

5)    The San Andreas Fault

6)    Those ugly platform shoes that should have gone out of style with The BeeGees.”

7)    ‘Lite” mayonnaise

8)    Those little unpopped kernels at the bottom of your movie popcorn that you think you can eat and wind up breaking a cap on

9)    Crocs

10) That HBO show, “Girls,” which really should be called “White Girls.”

11)  Heather Mills-McCartney-Mills

12)  “The Godfather Part III”

Bon soir, mon ami

Barry

 

 

Mon Frere Barry,

Bon soir?  I’m buried.  It’s always a “bon soir.”  Or, a soir, at least.  But that’s good.  I was never a fan of the outdoors.  I freckle(d).  So when you look at pictures of great battles I commanded, I’m

the one in who hung out in the Grand Imperial Tent, eating Chicken Marengo and Lobster Thermador, while my legions were blown apart by muskets, and butchered like baby lamb chops by the Duke of Wellington, among others. Remember, Barry – back in those days, SPF 45 sunscreen didn’t exist.  I can handle the heat, but the humidity kills me.  Or would, if I weren’t already dead. Oh, and re:  Rahm Emanuel.  He’s what Grammy Hall would call “ a real Jew.”

 

Mr. Napoleon

 

 

Hey!  Napoleon!  Dude!

Are you insinuating that I am not a friend to the Jews even though Israel isn’t really a country and it doesn’t belong to those Jewish people?  FYI, I like egg matzoh.  With a little shmear.

 

Judaically your,

Barry

(definitely a Jew-kinda-name ‘cause my daughters have been to Bar Mitzvahs, so there!)

 

 

 

Mr. POTUS,

It is true – there are many Jewish boys named Barry.  But I’m willing to bet the Champs Elysee that there isn’t one Jewish boy named Barack.  Am lying here –literally  – and with my brilliant strategic mind, am wondering what you will do next.  Here are some politically ridiculous yet wise suggestions:

 

1)    Turn Guantamo Bay into Cuban cigar factory.   Once you return those prisoners to ISIS,  it’s a Hilton Havana

or “Survivor” location.

2)    Invite Kim Jong-un to go bowling at the White House.  I’d have said play golf, but that would have been too easy.

3)    Chuck Hagel resigned.  Ahmadenajad’s looking.  Problem solved.

4)    Be nice to Michelle because – honestly –  no contest.

5)    Ask John Kerry, “Why the long face?”

 

If I think of anything else, you know where I am,

xoxo,

Napoleon

 

 

 

 

MON AMIS…NON, NON, I DON’T THINK SO…

October 5th, 2014

TO:  FRENCH PEOPLE

FR:  MOLLIE

RE:   UM… I THINK YOU KNOW…

It’s been a while.  Remember, back in 1940, when the Nazis just kinda-sorta snuck their way through the Ardennes and the Low Countries into France?  Remember?  And it’s not like it was August, where you could at least say, “Well, it was ze summer and we close down all ze shops and ze museums.   How could we defend ourselves against zis Nazis when we were on holiday?”  The Germans invaded in June and your basic response was, “Table for 40,000?  Zis way, please!”  At least Poland was out-manned and ill-equipped.  But it takes me longer to grow out my bangs than it did for you guys to go from “Bonjour!” to “And I’ll take some sauerkraut with that!”   Yes, I know.  Along with your fabulous Vichy government, Lieutenant Marshall Petain and the rest of les collaborateurs,  there was a French Resistance.  Call me a cynic.   I’m sure some of your countrymen’s hearts were in the right place, but I can’t help but thinking the thought of your wine bars turning into beer halls was at least somewhat of a motivation.   Your government seemed to hand over the French Jews to the Nazis like a housewarming gift.   After all, they probably had all the toasters and coffee percolators…So out went the croissants, in came the pfefferneuse, au revoir Bordeaux, Vilkomen Reislander.  The iconic photographs of Hitler and fellow Nazi, architect Albert Speer standing in front of the Eiffel Tower – priceless.

And the photo of the anonymous Frenchman weeping as the Gestapo marched into Paris?

Why was he really crying?  Because his nation was now overtaken by savage, heartless monsters?  Because his country was being raped by some of the most  barbaric fiends in history?  Or because some American tourist asked for directions in French?  So, for four long years you were occupiedby Germany.  But it wasn’t so bad.   Okay – so they looted the Louvre, hung a giant Swastika flag over L’Arc d’Triumphe, and the Left Bank stunk of Limburgercheese and Knockwurst.

Do you recall who saved your sorry derrieres in 1945?  Who stormed the beaches of Normandy?  No – say it louder, now – plus fort!  C’est ca! The Allies!  Almost 200,000 of those Allies were Americans.  Yes, the same “ugly” Americans who, on a daily basis, devalue your most prized city, Paris, by roaming through the J’eu D’Pomme, down the Champs Elyse, wearing “I Heart Paris” t-shirts, shouting out at patesseries from the 18th aggrandizement to the Left Bank, “Errr… how many euros will it cost me for one of those buttery crescents?”

or, “I bet you named your Napoleon pastry after that there general guy!” I have nothing nice to say about Joe Stalin, but ecoute and don’t ever forget it – if it weren’t for the Russians and the Americans,  you’d be saying “Danke Schoen,” every time someone lit one of your stinky  Gauloises cigarettes.

And, during World War II, more than half a million Jewish Americans fought so that you’d have the right to your bouillebaise, your cassoulet, your crepes.  They even let you keep your mimes.  (Actually, no one else wanted them).

 

And how do you re-pay us?   From the end of World War II until the past few years, you’ve had to hide your anti-Semitism – c’est domage.  You’ve done an amazing job confusing us considering you pretty much hate all Americans and then there’s the small subset of American Jews, (and all Jews, for that matter), whom you also hate.  So, as an American who is Jewish, it’s – well –let’s just say we’re never confused.  Let’s talk about what you have in your favor, France.  Excellent cuisine, great wine, the best fashion sense – yes,  yes – the Parisian woman, whether she’s 17 or 77, always looks effortlessly put together.   But maybe your women have been too heavily influenced by CoCo Chanel.   A fashion visionary? Mais oui!  And not only a bona fide  Jew hater, but a card-carrying Nazi. Oh! Oh! You’re surprised? “Non!   Not our little Coco!  C’est imposible!”  C’est vrai!   Your haute couture guru was not only a Nazi sympathizer but a spy for the Nazis, beginning as early as 1941.  Oui!  She even held meetings with Heinrich Himmler.  Yes.  That Heinrich Himmler.  So your  petite “Coco,” of the Chanel bag, (and just because Jackie Kennedy wore it, that fugly quilted bag with the chainstrap is, by the way, atrocious), and the Chanel suit and the “Little Black Dress,” had no problem with millions of Jews and millions more Catholics, Gypsies, disabled people and homosexuals being shipped off to concentration camps and gassed.

It has been, I am sure, quite difficult to control yourself for any length of time when it comes to hating Jews. It’s like me and Haagen-Daaz chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream.   While delicious, I know it’s not good for me, and migh even evoke scorn and rolled eyes by the legions of size triple zeros staring me down in the frozen food section.  I can resist it for months and months and then suddenly, usually after a nice Chinese dinner, my willpower just disintegrates and I must have it.  Sort of like you and anti-Semitism.  “I don’t hate the Jews because they are Jewish,  I don’t hate the Jews because they are Jewish, I don’t hate the Jews because they are…” and, then the willpower goes right out the door and your unfiltered thoughts just fly out of your mouth.  “I love Hitler!” and“Your parents should have been gassed!” and  oops — all of your contributions to B’Nai Brith and the Shanah Tovahs! On Rosh Hashanah – right out the window.

Galliano.  Chanel.  Is it something about fashion designers and anti-Semitism?  Strange, since so many fashion designers – Tory Burch, Diane von Furstenberg, Calvin Klein, Zac Posen, Elie Tahari, Sonia Rykel, (I’d include Ralph Lauren, nee Lipschitz, so he probably doesn’t want to be included, particularly because his clothing shouts, “You!  Jew!  This is for the goyim in Cos Cob, Connecticut!  Step away from the pleated khakis and no one gets hurt!”).  So Galliano spewed his filthy, hate-filled anti-Semitic remarks in, of all places,  La Marias, the Jewish Quarter, in Paris.  Talk about irony.  And let’s not forget your tres drole comedian Dieudonne M’Bala M’bala.  I can’t figure out what’s downright more funny – the stateroom scene in the Marx Brothers’ classic film, “Night at the Opera,” or this hugely repulsive M’Bala M’Bala, ( why is his  last name “times two”?  More threatening?  Easier to remember?  Don’t want to get him confused with the M’Bala with just one surname?), who, as he tells his quite receptive French audiences, out for an evening of drinks and laughs,  that Holocaust Remembrance Day” is “memorial pornography.”  As  Stars of David dance across a screen and the sound of trains taking Jews to concentration camps and certain death play in background at a typical M’Bala M’Bala concert-concert,  the audience just guffaws.   And this Cameroonian-French fat racist tells his audiences, “I am not an anti-Semite,” which makes me wonder what the audience tells itself as it laughs and applauds.  “Je ne suis pas antisémite! J’adore Jerry Lewis et Woody Allen!”

 

Fine.  You have profiteroles and nifty ways to tie a scarf.  But you don’t have an Iron Dome, something you might want to seriously consider before taking to the streets with your anti-Semitic posters.  Is it any wonder that thousands of French Jews are moving to Israel?  “C’est bon!”  I can hear many of you cry.  And as Vichy France moves north, you wonder why so many of us are so torn.  You know – “I love France. Except for the people.”   I’ve been to your country.  I’ve shopped Les Galleries Lafayette and visited Les Halles.  I’ve walked your boulevards, climbed the steps of Sacre Coeur, mastered your Metro , been pick-pocketed by your – well, you know who your pick-pocketers are…   I schlepped through the Louvre and the Pompidou Centre, rummaged through St. Ouen Flea Market, eaten in your brasseries and bistros, though my SINGLE favorite memory of your country was watching one of my fellow Americans try to open a door in Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors.

I know, French people, you feel victimized.  After all, there’s enough anti-Semitism in Europe to  around.  Why should I pick on \ vous when there’s the Brits, the Scots,  the Germans, the Swedes, the Belgians, the Turks – oh my – let’s not leave out those Turkish Delights. Definitely,  that M’Bala M’Bala gives you a bit of an edge.  Or maybe it’s because I hate pate.  Then there’s the air space you wouldn’t grant us when we were going after that humanitarian Momar Khadaffi. Is it simply ennui or is it your inability to take a stand on anything other than that Beaujolais Nouveau must be released in November?

Heck, perhaps it’s Maurice Chevalier, or the fact that  the musical Les Miserables seemed longer than the June Rebellion of 1832.   But it’s probably because you have that…um…how can I put it?… you possess… I cannot seem to find the words…ah, yes…comment dit-on?  Ah yes – that je ne sais quo.   Au revoir, France.  No chicken soup for you!

NOT-SO-STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

August 18th, 2014

Dear Russell Brand,

I know.  You think I am dead.  There was a big controversy about my “alleged” anti-Semitism a few years ago but, when I died earlier last year, the media, kind of sort of “forgot” how, for decades, I kind of sort of forgot I was actually Lebanese and hid that fact by selecting the very American and vanilla surname, “Thomas,” which I concealed for the more than the six decades I worked as a reporter covering the White House.  I chose “Thomas” because another very famous Lebanese person also chose the surname, (Danny Thomas)

 

and I figured why not ride his coat-tails?  No one seemed upset by Danny Thomas.  Oh darn – that’s right – he started St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, was a very funny comedian and a kind, charitable man.  That’s probably why.  Not fair!  Also not fair that, just because I yelled, “Let the Jews go back to Germany,” the Hearst Corporation forced me to resign.  Why is it that bad things happen to good people like me?

But enough about me – I’m dead.  What’s that?  Applause from Tel Aviv?  It’s hard to hear under all this dirt.  When I was alive, I was the woman who sat in the first row at White House press conferences because I’m petite.  Okay 0– the size of a Gummy Bear.

In fact, the press corps voted me “In Case of Re-Make-of-Wizard-of-Oz-Most-Likely-to-Be-Cast-as-Entire-Lollipop-Guild,” the reporter from NPR called me “Dweeble” and one of the Fox News cameramen said I resembled the innermost of those Russian-dolls-within-a-doll-within-doll – you get the picture.  People can be so cruel.  Even dead people like me.  Rusell, you look like the love child of a filthy, matted-hair, anorexic evil pirate who mated with Tiny Tim.

                                            

But, I digress…

I’m writing to applaud you for your recent call to BDS (Boycott, Divest, Sanction)  Israel.   I always thought it stood for “Burn, Dissect and Sautee.”  But I guess the “moderates” like you are taken more seriously.  I know there are more celebrities out there who feel just like us, like that mensch, Mel Gibson. But most of them keep quiet.  I did hear that Selena Gomez is on board with us, but she’s just a former Disney starlet who’s dated Justin Beiber, so she doesn’t really count.  Speaking of Justin Beiber, I heard that after he toured the house in Amsterdam where Anne Frank and her family supposedly hid during that supposed Holocaust that we both know never happened, he wrote in the guestbook, “Anne Frank would have been a Belieber.”  That gives us both some indication that, if Selena Gomez had half a brain, she’d  still be missing the other half, so being on our side isn’t exactly a plus for you and me.

 

And then there’s that freakish, hideous Roger Waters of that band Pink Floyd, whose brain was probably host to more drugs than the Merck Pharmaceutical Company.

He’s one of us.   Though I cannot say with certainty that he dabbled in psychadelic drugs in the sixties and seventies, he seems to suffer from severe delusions.  Though he continues to stress that he is not “anti-Jewish,”  he claims that he is “not anti-Semitic and has also said, “or pro-Nazi.” “The Star of David represents Israel and its policies and is legitimately subject to any and all forms of non violent protest.” But, you and I know he wasn’t referring to Israel or the Jews.  We know there were no Nazis and no Holocaust, which is why, for the life of me, I don’t understand why those Jews don’t just move back to Germany, which they should never have left in the first place, right, Russell?

And yet, Mr. Brand,  unfunny comedian, hack writer, skinnier-than-a-pipe-cleaner, wonky wanker that you are, I’m not too confident that, now that I’m as dead as the Dead Sea, you’re quite the one to take my place as “Jew Hater Extraordinaire.”  As I lie here, literally, I think about how you managed to forever destroy everyone’s memory of the 1981 film “Arthur,” because now when we hear that title, instead of thinking of the late and brilliant Dudley Moore, we think of you and, truth be told you did to that script what the Allies did to Dresden during World War II.  Those poor alleged Nazis – all they were trying to do was cleanse the world of Jews.  I guess no good deed goes unpunished…

 

It is also rumored that you dabbled in drugs to the degree that Picasso dabbled in oil paints, and this does worry me.  But then there are things you’ve done that are quite encouraging.  For example, the fact that you came to work dressed as Osama bin Laden the day after September 11, 2001, gives me hope.

And mentioning clothing designer Hugo Boss, responsible for all of those lovely Nazi uniforms, including those adorable Hitler Youth boys, during a magazine awards show last year – priceless, just priceless!   Kudos on your divorce from that Katy Perry girl – clearly she was not your soul mate.  There are so many other fish in the sea.  I believe Yassar Arafat’s widow is still single and looking and that Hanan Ashrawi could always be looking for something on the side – who knows?

 

But do you think you can a responsible anti-Zionist, ( secret code for “anti-Semite” we must use because otherwise even the Upper West Side liberal Jews get insulted and stop funding our causes), when you continue to smoke weed and shoot smack into those skinny little veins of yours?  I saw that portrait of you where you try to look like Che Guevera.

You must have been higher than a cable TV satellite to do that.   You, as leader of your desired revolution will be sitting on a chair, trying to stay upright as your head nods up and down and you’re conscious only long enough to hunt for a Cadbury chocolate bar.  One journalist actually called you “one who’s more idiot than savant,”  which brings to mind just one question: “Who are you going to lead, Russell Brand — The Betty Ford Clinic?”

Perhaps one has to be hideous-looking to be an anti-Semite.  Or perhaps most anti-Semites are physically unattractive.  It’s a kosher chicken-and-egg conundrum. But I think of you, me, Stephen Hawking, John Galliano, Coco Channel, (good dresser but a skinny meis kite and actual Nazi), Truman Capote, Pat Buchanan, Louis Farrakant, George Bernard Shaw, Henry Ford, John Stewart, one of those fabulous self-loathing Jews, who, like me, is the size of those Fisher-Price Little People.

I’ve also heard from sources I will protect, (because I can’t talk because I’m dead), that that silly ISIS group in Iraq is giving Christians the option of converting to Islam or moving or dying.  Three options.  That’s more than the Chinese restaurants when they offer “one from Column A, one from Column B.”  But once they off all of the annoying Jews, they’ll be coming for you and all of the other non-Muslims in the world.

I’m dead so I’m not so worried.  But you better start thinking now about how to blame the Jewish people for that.  I know they’re to blame for the sinking of the Titanic, the Bubonic Plague, Hurricanes Katrina and Sandy, (as in “Sandra” as in “Jewish”), Mount St. Helen, aspertame, chafed thighs and the possible marital troubles of Beyonce and J.Z.

So, Russell, please – keep up the good work, stay off the smack if you can and, in case you’re wondering, like most living people whether there’s a heaven or you just lie in a box until the maggots eat you when you die, I can’t really answer that.  The only thing I know for sure is that it’s hot as hell down here.

 

XOXO

Helen (I lied about my last name and nationality for 60+ years) Thomas

 

 

 

 

DO YOU OWN A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR?

August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.

 

So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…

 

 SPANDEX MAXI DRESSES

Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.

 

 

BIRKENSTOCKS

Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.

 

SEMI-SHEER BLOUSES AND SKIRTS

Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.

 

SHRUGS


Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.

 

DORKY PLASTIC EYEGLASS FRAMES

Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.

 

CUT-OUT SHOULDER BLOUSE


Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.

 

SHORT-IN-FRONT/LONG-IN-BACK DRESS


This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.

 

ROMPERS


What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.

 

GLADIATOR SANDALS

I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.

 

ONE-SLEEVED BLOUSES


This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…