Archive for July, 2010


Thursday, July 22nd, 2010

Dear Mel,

Let me start by telling you that I am an old Jewish woman
, writing to you from my huge estate outside Berlin, where my family has lived and prospered for over a century.  Yes, of course Mel – can I call you bubella? – I still have all of our property – candlesticks, valuable paintings, silverware, gold teeth.  As you know, all of us Jews are extremely wealthy and crafty.  On behalf of all of the Chosen People, may I say thank you for the blood of all those Christian children – an important ingredient when preparing our Passover Matzo.   In the words of your very white and  pre-Vatican II Catholic father with two last names and no first name, Hutton Gibson, may I say, “What Holocaust?”

Mel Gibson’s father says Holocaust exaggerated

So, Mel, maybe it’s just the “yenta” in me, but Vos iz mit dir? No, that is not Aramaic, my little Meshugener Max – it is Yiddish for “What’s wrong with you?”  How did everything go so wrong for such a handsome, winsome, fun-loving Aryan like you?  I know, technically, that as a Catholic, not a Protestant, if there was a Hitler, which there wasn’t because there was no Holocaust which is why I still live in such opulence in the Motherland, that your family might have also perished because those silly enough to think that the Holocaust actually happened – lol – also believe that not only 6,000,000 Jewish people were killed by those nasty Nazis that never existed also purportedly, allegedly for those who believe in fairy tales, tall tales, but that 5,000,000 others including Catholics and gypsies and those people to whom you told the Spanish newspaper El Pais “They take it up the ass. [laughs, stands up, bends over, points to anus] This is only for taking a shit.” Remember that, Mel, bubbee?  The homosexual community was not too happy with you when you said that.  But you probably don’t believe they exist anyway.

For a long time, Mel, you were more fun than Oktoberfest in Alexanderplatz.  You were the nutty cop in those silly Lethal Weapon movies, and the nutsy-kooko paranoid cab driver in “Conspiracy Theory.”   You were quite the maverick in ‘Maverick,” and could there be a “madder” Max than you?  I don’t think so.  Not beyond Thunderdome.  Not beyond Theresienstadt.  What’s that?  No of course, there were no concentration camps in Europe during World War II.  I know that, Mel.  They were summer camps.  Concentration camp. Summer camp.  You can see how anyone could confuse the two.  War? What war?  Maybe Color War, some Arts and Crafts, a bisel bug juice.

Remember what your Revisionist History Papa Hutton Gibson said right before your film  “The Passion of the Christ,” opened?  By the way, and I’m certain most Jews feel the same way – who could be offended by the way you presented Jesus as having been relentlessly pursued by an evil cabal of Jews, headed by the high priest Caiaphas, who finally blackmailed a weak-kneed Pilate into putting Jesus to death?  Anyway, remember when your papa said,  “the Holocaust was fabricated and mostly fictional,” and that we Jews “had simply emigrated to other countries rather than having been killed.”  Emigrated, shmemigrated.  We never left. What Holocaust?

By the way, why was it called “The Passion of the Christ”? The title bothered me almost as much as the movie.  “The Passion of the Christ”? It’s like that cartoon show,The Batman.” When did “Batman” become “the” Batman?  It’s like “The Cher” or The Brangelina.” Maybe you had a few dozen Long Island Iced Teas when you were making up the title?  I mean, before you became a little – you know – maybe unhinged – you didn’t have this problem.  You didn’t make “The Braveheart.”  Am I right, bubella?  I’m right.

I am not familiar with the American idiom, “sugar tits,” but I think that maybe it’s not such a nice term to say.  I don’t even know what it means.  Sugar donuts?   Sure.  Sugar-coated?  Yum! Sugar Magnolia?  Why not?  But “sugar tits”?  Is that some sort of Aussie idiom?  A side-note, Mel, bubbee, – my niece wanted me to ask you:  how are you Australian if you were born in Peekskill, New York?  I guess that’s like asking a short, angry, badly coiffed, mustachioed Austrian who bore as much resemblance to the “Aryan race” as Mel Brooks, “How are you Aryan?”

Map Of PeekskillA Map of Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific Islands

And so now, Mr. Big Shot – your William Morris-Endeavor agency, an agency founded by at least a few people who wouldn’t feel out of place at a Passover Seder, who did not drop you as a client during the whole anti-Semitic rant of a couple of years ago, and a few people who would not feel out of place at the Pines in Fire Island who also did not drop you after your homosexual slurs and insults, have now decided you’re not good for their business.  And when a talent agency drops a client who can bring in billions of dollars well, that just doesn’t happen.  We’re talking about a profession with an ethical compass which would let them sleep at night after making a book/mini-series deal for Bernie Madoff, a group of people who’d still rep Jeffrey Dahmer had he not had the life shanked out of him in gen-pop.  It’s a long, slow fall, Mellela….  So here you are, with your Russian-sort-of-Mail Order Bride, and those tapes where you insulted and demeaned just about everyone except pre-Vatican II Roman Catholics, you just might have finally cooked your goose.  Not kosher, never touch it.  Feh!

Where did it all go wrong, Melvin?  Not so cute when you’re a Melvin.  Not a cute name.  Well, first – you left your wife for someone named “Oksana” who is not an Olympic gold medal winner.  Perhaps an Olympic gold digger winner if such an event was to make it to the games.  Who knows – Ping Pong and ribbon gymnastics did.   Next, you had baby with her.  You already have seven children.  Why one more?  Perhaps you wanted to do TV reality show, “Mel and Oksana + Eight”?




The Equal Sign

TLC Drops Jon Gosselin, Relaunches as 'Kate Plus 8'

Or,  because Oksana is dead ringer for Octomom,  you  thought you were dating Octomom and when you realized you weren’t, you were a little fuzzy from maybe too much Planter’s Punch and Dewar’s so at that point even this is making sense to you, Mr. Devout Christian-Who-Hates-Jews-and-Blacks-and-Hispanics-and-Homosexuals and stop me if I left anyone out… And that’s a pretty ridiculous theory.  But even that makes more sense than your father.

Oksana Grigorieva and Octomom Nadya Suleman

What is next for you, Mel Gibson?  Will you go back to Australia and then say you are really Peekskillian?  Will you reunite with your first wife, Robyn?  Or maybe you will just kick back the Foster’s Lager, throw a bunch of shrimp on the barbie and make some obscure Gillian Armstrong movie?   You could shear sheep and watch “The Thornbirds” over and over again.  Here are some career moves that would not be so wise, Melvin….

1)    Borscht Belt Comedian
2)    Social Director on Rosie O’Donnell’s next Rosie’s Family Cruise
3)    Cantor
4)    Orthodontist
5)    Broadway gypsy
6)    Gypsy-gypsy
7)    Fifty-Cent

And yet, all is not lost, bubella.  Here are some great career choices for you:

1)    Admissions Director – Seventh Ring of Hell
2)    World’s Greatest Holocaust Denier Dad T-Shirt Manufacturer
3)    Take-A-Drunk-to-Work Drunk
4)    Southern Border Patrol Guard
5)    Cinco De Mayo Denier
6)    (Hitler) Youth leader
7)    Rosetta Stone Aramaic for Beginners Pitchman

So all is not lost.  There are still many good years ahead of you.  And now before I go, because it is time to count all of my money and valuable paintings and polish all my precious jewels, I leave you with a question:  when you watch your career go down the drain down under, does it go counter-clockwise?

Gai kaken oifen yam!


Tuesday, July 13th, 2010

We all have talents.  Skills. Things we’ve done or can do, have, know,  that perhaps many people don’t, can’t or haven’t even considered.  Many of us, and rightly so, are proud of our accomplishments.  You’ve served in the military?  A sincere thank you from me to you.  You volunteer at a hospital or pet shelter?  That’s something to be proud of.  You got into an Ivy League school and your parents are working poor/middle class?  A definite accomplishment.  You won a Pulitzer Prize, an Olympic gold medal, a Fulbright Scholarship?  Nice.

But how about the things you’ve done that you truly believe are major feats of performance and/or endurance and/or intelligence  that are – trust me – not?  Your friends and your family are too caring and loving to tell you.  As you should know by now, I am not.   For instance…

“I stopped smoking” –       Wow.  That means you’ll live even longer to annoy even more people, especially current smokers,  during a lifetime that could have been cut shorter if only you hadn’t.  No one cares.  Correction.  RJ Reynolds might care.  And they’d like you to reconsider.  How about this?  Every time you let those words come out of your mouth, you have to pay the person you tell what you would spend on a pack of cigs.  What’s that?  You stopped what?   I can’t hear you now.  Just the way I like it. ☺


“I’m a very fast reader.” Oh really?  After your SATs and/or MCATs and/or GREs, it really doesn’t matter.  And, if you don’t retain what you read, it never mattered.   And – no one – really – no one gives a shit.  How long did it take you to read this?


“I work at a non-profit.” –    I would have to know wtf that is before I’d be able to be impressed.  Non-profit?  That sounds like you’re not too good with a dollar.  It’s like saying I teach at a non-school.  Or I write for a non-newspaper.  It’s like non-dairy creamer – they don’t tell you what it is, just what it isn’t.  I, for one,  am non-interested.


“I recycle.” You mean, you separate your plastics from your cans, and you bring your cans and bottles back to the supermarket and you bundle your newspapers with cord and make a separate pile for magazines and…— zzzzzz – oh, I’m sorry.  I just nodded out like a junkie on a subway from just listing the ways to recycle.  When the party invitation says, “BYOB,” it doesn’t mean “Bring Your Own Bore,” in which case your dance-card would be mighty full.


“I ran the NYC marathon.”–      Tell me you ran from a mugger, or ran toward a burning house to save some people and some pets, or you ran for a bus which, if you didn’t catch, you’d have to wait 58 minutes for the next one.  These are logical reasons to run.  Toward something important or away from something threatening.   When you tell me you ran the NYC marathon, my first thought is: why did you stop in Central Park instead of continuing to run until you get to – oh, I don’t know – Wyoming? !?!?  Why so hostile, Mollie?  Well, I’ll tell you.  There is a certain smugness to runners that is hard to find in most other sports enthusiasts.   “I have to eat just to keep weight on.”  How nice. Every person who’s had to eat nothing but ice chips for a week to lose a pound would like to pummel you in the face with a gallon of Gatorade.

And your fast metabolism does not make up for how fugly you look in your stupid running shorts which, by the way, guys –  are a tad effeminate-looking.   When I see any of you stretching  on a park bench before you run, I want to run up from behind you, kick the leg that’s on the ground and watch you tumble like a tea kettle.  No one ever asks yet you love to tell us, “I have a BMI of 18.”  Guess what?  You are still going to die and if you keep offering us that unsolicited bit of information, it might not be from natural causes.  I know you love to be super-thin and bony and you lady runners – you love it when your collar bone sticks out like a coat-hook.   I’ll admit, most of you are in admirable shape;  some of you look like Jack Skellington from the “The Nightmare Before Christmas”.   Love the silver Mylar cape you get when you cross the finish line – bet it makes you feel like a super-hero.  Yes.  You are Super Baked Potato Man.   Do you check the NY Times’ list of runners and times the following Monday?  How does it feel when you see your name, the fact that you came in 4,933 in your Nike Zoom Equalon +4 running shoes  and a barefoot Kenyan man, whose villagers combined don’t make what your sneakers cost, came in first?   See you at the Verrazano Bridge start line next year and don’t just run.  Jump.


“I’m a vegan.” –  A choice, and a pretty silly one at that.  Everyone, for the time being anyway, is free to eat whatever he or she wants.  It’s when you impart the information that you’re asking for trouble.  I hear those words and the first thing I want to do is cram a standing rib roast down your throat.  Others are more tolerant.  Probably not.  Probably just less vocal.  Remember — you are a live vegan for the moment.  Tell me, just once, that ToFurkey tastes like the real thing, and that could change.


“I tan easily.” – Um, do you really think that’s an accomplishment?  Because, you know, if I eat rolls before the main course is served, I get full easily.   If I wear a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops during a blizzard, I get cold easily.  You tan easily?  In 30 years, when your neck looks like crispy chicken skin and the rest of you looks like a Louis Vuitton bag, I’m guessing that won’t be so much a feat as it will be an answer to, “Why do you look like that?”


“I know all of the dialogue from every Star Wars film.” –    Only an accomplishment when you wrote all of the dialogue of every Star Wars film.  Ask George Lucas.   “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi.  You’re my only hope.”  You know, you’re probably right.  So keep this to yourself.  Do or do not…there is no try.


“I can really hold my alcohol.”    Hold it where? What does this mean?  Does this mean you think you can chug back 5 Jagermeisters and then drive while texting and  your girlfriend’s hand or mouth where it should not be in a moving vehicle?  Does it mean you can drink half a keg of beer and still get the ping-pong ball in the beer cup?  The only people this might impress are already drunk.


“I speak five languages.”  I speak one.  Shut up.


“I know how cats think.” Oh really?  And how did you acquire this knowledge?  Did “Mittens” confide in you?  Ask her what’s so fun about batting around a feather on a long flexible plastic rod?  Maybe Whiskers can tell you what’s up with that pigeon head-bob before they pop out those hairballs.  I’d sure like to know  who came up with chasing a tin foil ball around the house for 19 hours for no reason other than to keep the humans awake.  Why do they prefer washing themselves with a sandpaper tongue, rather than luxuriating in tepid water seeped in bath oil beads?  I’ll keep going with these inane questions.  What’s that?  You only think you know how cats think, but, at best, you have an active imagination, a urine-soaked home and no friends?  Ahhh.  Thought so.


“Our family is descended from the Mayflower.” This is no more of an accomplishment than the BTK Killer being your uncle.  It’s like Princes William and Harry, and their entire line of living-off-the-goodwill-of-what-must-be-a-pretty-inebriated-country, being born into vats of money they didn’t earn. By revealing your “pedigree,”  you are telling me that you are white, and probably not a great lover of anyone other than other white anglo-saxons.  You are also telling me that you are a great lover of Miracle Whip, martinis, and madras plaid pants.  The Mayflower?  Probably was a swell calling card a few hundred years ago.  But today?  Why even mention it in 2010, especially when you have to add the disclaimer, “but we’re not prejudiced,” or “but we have nothing against people of color,” or “but we tried to pay those Native Americans for the corn, which they insisted on calling ‘maize.’”


Tuesday, July 6th, 2010

New Yorkers, despite our reputation for being cold and uncaring, can be pretty outgoing.  As a lifelong resident of this city, I have noticed that the extrovert in the New Yorker rears its head at particular times.  For example, if you board a bus and then realize you don’t have a MetroCard and ask, “Does anyone have change for a dollar?”, other passengers will do anything, even attempt to follow “The Talk of the Town” column in The New Yorker, to avoid making eye contact with you.  Yet, if you are walking down the street, minding your own business, people are somehow compelled to get into yours.

I have put up with decades of perfect strangers talking to me, asking me inane questions, commenting on the weather, asking for directions, the time, spare change.  Here’s my rule of thumb – unless you want to give me your winning Power Ball ticket, or my kidney is hanging out of my back and I haven’t noticed, chances are I don’t want to talk to you.  If I do, I will initiate the conversation.  I’m not smiling, I’m not making eye contact and I always hope that my aloof attitude and consistently cold shoulder will invite you to not approach me.

This seemed to work pretty well. Until I got a pug.  A chubby pug.  A chubby, happy, beautiful pug who, despite strangers’ unsolicited theories, is not overfed, gets plenty of exercise and is quite healthy. He is who he is.  He’s a big boy.  But for some reason, you cannot leave us alone.  You are compelled to tell us things either I know or he doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t know he’s a dog.  He knows he likes rolling in the fall leaves, peeing in the snow and “America’s Next Top Model” marathons. He’s just happy he’s not a person, I’m sure.

And yet, like some small-town anchor person or town crier or big-mouth yenta, you must stop us, take us out of our moment of bliss to say:

“Your dog is fat.

“Wow – I bet he’s a good eater!

“He’s panting.  Maybe if you cut down on the dog biscuits, he’d breathe better.”

“I’ve never seen such a fat pug.”

“He’s like Frank in “Men in Black.”  Only fat.”

So here’s the deal – Johnny is getting pretty pissed. He can’t talk like that formaldehyde-filled, stupid stuffed  cat on “Sabrina the Teenage Witch.”  But like most dogs and the people who love them, we communicate. I know what he’s thinking. He’s tired of hearing your unsolicited comments. Really. Both Johnny and I know that if we don’t have anything nice to say, we shouldn’t say anything.  But you started…

*      You’re old and skinny and I could hang a backpack on your dowager’s hump.

*      The only people who think a bald-headed guy with a ponytail looks hot are bald-headed guys with ponytails.

*     You’re 45 and you’re wearing a “BeBe” t-shirt that says “BeBe.” In silver glitter.

*    That’s  malt liquor  in your brown bag and you’re missing your eye-teeth.

*    Nice rollers.

*  You do know that t-shirt you’re wearing says, “New  York Mets”?

* Are those coffee stains or bleach stains on your coat?* I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “I’m thin and that dog is fat.”  Here’s what I’m thinking: “You’re a size double-zero and that means you don’t exist.  Twice.”

* You are carrying a “WordSearch” puzzle book.

* I got this fat by eating the thighs of people who   tell my mommy, “your dog is fat.”

* Nice Botox.  We can rent you out at Surprise  Birthday parties.

* Your hand is not a handkerchief.

* You’re 68.  Real tan or spray tan – same level of hideousity.

* You have two moles and five hairs growing out of  each of them.* The 1980s called.  They want their floral leggings back.

* If G-d meant for them to be worn on the street, He wouldn’t have called them “housecoats.”

* Awww — you were just a condom away from not having ugly children.

* Why would you smoke a cigarette and wear a flammable  jacket at the same time?

*Crocs.  That’s all.  Crocs.

So the next time you see Johnny and me walking down the street, in the park, by the river, you don’t have to say hello or even smile. In fact, we’d prefer if you just keep walking. But if you insist on stopping, don’t give us that “look,” because now you know that we are looking right back at you and, more often than not, it isn’t pretty.  It isn’t even presentable.