Archive for June, 2015


Tuesday, 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…





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!


Saturday, 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.