You have no idea what I’m talking about. You think, “Maurice, what the fuck do ripped jeans have to do with the stock market being at an all time high?” Well let Maurice tell you. Because these are the two things Maurice pays the most attention to in his life: women and the stock market. So since Maurice is always looking at women’s legs, he has noticed that the ripped jean trend is getting really out of hand. The holes are almost bigger than the material. He has seen holes so big that a foot of thigh is exposed. Maurice hears that people are paying $300-$400 for these ripped schmattas. Maurice also watches the stock market at home all day and all night. He sees the big, fat stock market bubble. He sees the DOW at 21,000. He sees that Tessler is worth more than Ford. GM, and Chrysler combined. He sees the valuation of Apple at 800 billion dollars.
Now what does Maurice do when he’s not looking at women and not looking at the stock market? He’s sitting on the toilet making kaki. And what does Maurice do while he sits on the toilet? He makes connections between the two things that he does all the time and gets a lot of genius insights. One day, he had a big idea. He saw the connection between ripped $400 jeans and crazy, sky high stock prices. The only way that he can explain how women could be proud to wear ripped jeans is if they are the opposite of poor. The ripped jeans are screaming, “Look at me you poor motherfuckers! I can wear these disgusting, torn apart jeans and I don’t give a shit what I look like. Not only do I not give a shit, I’m proud that I can afford them! I don’t have to wear a hole-free pair of pants with a nice crease. I can look like a poor schmuck because I’m rich and everyone will love me even if I look like a piece of shit.” to Maurice, ripped jeans are a contrary indicator. People have so much money that they don’t know what to do with it anymore.
Think about the Depression. Would anyone during those times freely wear a pair of ripped pants? I think that some people would have rather starved to death just so they could afford to buy a new pair. Even in my own lifetime, I remember in the 70’s if I got a hole in my Levi’s, I would either give them away, or cut them and make shorts. I had my Calvin Klein’s. They were $50. I got so upset when I fell and tore a hole in the knee. But it’s not like my family was poor. We were very middle class. But we were not rich. The top baseball player at the time, Mickey Mantle, only earned $100,000 a year and the Dow was at 700. The Depression was still looming large in people’s minds. You did not want to be seen in ripped jeans.
Now to Maurice, all of this is a big warning sign. It means things are at their extreme. How much bigger can the holes get? How much higher can the stock market go? Yes of course the holes could get even bigger and the stock market could go even higher, but Maurice thinks that the clock is ticking. You should sell all your stocks this minute and then immediately place your $400 ripped jeans on eBay. Then go out and buy yourself and pair of nice grey, flannel slacks. This way you’ll be ready for the economic winter.
I understand Trump; he’s like me. We both feel like we’re pieces of shit. We both feel we’re being mocked by the whole world, so we’re angry. We want to get even with everyone. We want to show how great we are.
So what did Trump do? How did he show everyone that he was big, really big? He made a lot of money. He built big, big buildings with gold on the top. He married models. He bought the Plaza. But it didn’t help. People kept laughing at him because he was such a buffoon; he was such a parody of himself. It didn’t matter that he went to Wharton; to the New York intelligentsia, he was always just a bridge and tunnel guy. So he had to do something bigger. What’s the biggest thing he could have? The white house. He has the white house now and he’s still angry. People are still making fun of him, even though he has everything. He has the white house, Melania, supposedly 10 million dollars, and yet he’s still crying with his 16 year old girl, whiny, spoiled Tweets.
It’s just like me. I don’t like myself. I’m a cripple. People laugh at me. People ignore me. People think I’m a retard. So I want to show everyone how great I am. I tried making money in the stock market. I tried writing poems. I tried buying 400 dollar fancy, leather jackets. I even got a job copy writing in New York at a fancy ad agency. But it didn’t work. People still laughed at me. People still thought I was a retard. I was too angry. I didn’t get enough respect. I was still a cripple. I didn’t succeed. I didn’t get published. Not only did I not make money, I lost the money I had. I stayed angry. Even now with my beautiful baby girl, living in my holy city of Yerushalaim where people love me, I still have enough anger to cause the third intifada.
So there it is. Trump ain’t no mystery to me. Trump is me. Fortunately for me, and the rest of the world, I don’t have my finger on the button. I hope Trump has more control over his anger than I do. I run over Jews for Jesus guys trying to convert me with my wheelchair in front of the police. Oh dear Donald, please have more restraint than I do. Please call me before you do anything really really bad. I understand you my brother.
A timely new curse coined by yours truly. This curse is appropriate for the following situation: when you think, feel, or even smell that you’ve been screwed by somebody else. You immediately scare the shit out of the person and scream, “Trump you!” Meaning you’re gonna have his balls in a vice.
Now please dear readers, join in with me and suggest other possible uses for “Trump you.”
Have a good day and “Trump you, Trump!”
Actually, it was 86…okay okay, 79. But really, I stopped counting after 60. I don’t know when the idea came to me. I was on my way to shul yesterday, and here in Jerusalem there are no cars on the street on Yom Kippur, so everyone was walking. As I went out of my house, I just started saying “Shana Tova.” Then as I started passing more people, I continued. Then, I don’t know why, I decided, “Hey, I could keep this up.” I started noticing that I would only say it to people who I thought would answer me back, so I decided to make myself say it to everyone I met, regardless of if I thought they would answer. It was hard. I could see some faces that looked very mean or cold, but I did it anyway. Then the more I did it, the more I got into it. I decided to start counting. I got to Keren Hayesod and I was already up to 20. I started feeling a little high, like I was Moshiach on a wheelchair instead of a donkey and I was going to announce the building of the third Beis Hamikdash.
What was really great was the unexpected answers and even more great was that some of the people who looked like motherfuckers, suddenly smiled and said, “Shana Tova.” Some people even gave me an entire bracha and wished me an easy fast. Philipinos and Sri Lankans (foreign workers here), answered me in Hebrew, “Shana Tova.” And kids too, even tough 12 year old boys with their bike gangs answered me.
Today, the day after, I’m continuing this. I’m saying “Boker Tov” to everyone I see on the street, in stores, or in cafes. I’m especially forcing myself to say it to people who I know I don’t like. The thing is, they answer me, and then because of that, I feel less hatred towards them. When someone does not answer me, I try not to hate his fucking guts, which is also good practice for me. So it greatly reduces the hate I feel in general, of which I have copious amounts. As a side benefit, it makes me feel powerful (as opposed to my usual feeling of powerlessness) that I can change someone’s temperament, even for a few seconds. That almost gives me a hard on. And talking about hard ons, of course behind it all, I think that a beautiful woman is going to witness me doing this, and start chasing after me in my wheelchair. She’ll scream, “Stop stop, I have to talk to you! You’re incredible!”
We’ll see. This is probably some post-Yom Kippur hangover.
It was my birthday yesterday and I suddenly felt a surge of gratitude rising up from my left kishke. Of course today, I don’t feel it at all. But I still want to try to summon it up because I want to have it on paper for all the times that I don’t feel any gratitude for anything. Also, this is for people who think that I’m completely cynical and that I have a jaundiced view on life. Okay, so here’s my cripple gratitude list.
I am grateful that at 59 and being a decrepit cripple that I could have a new family and an incredible baby and the two best mommies in the world.
I am grateful that I still have all my marbles and I’m not locked up somewhere.
I am grateful that I found Celexa 15 years ago that saved me from my own mind, so I don’t feel like bashing in my head every five minutes (even though it reduced my libido by 65%).
I am grateful for my addiction to the stock market, even if it cost me a million dollars.
I am grateful to be in the holy land; to be with my people and every day to get to see how Hitler completely failed.
I am grateful that my sister made aliyah 34 years ago and brought my parents over, so that I would wind up here too and we would all be together.
I am grateful that I’m not in a 40 year old nightmare of a marriage.
I am grateful to be a cripple, so I stand out in any crowd and get a lot of attention.
I am grateful that I am a Jew and not a goy, thereby giving a big middle finger to the other seven billion people in the world.
I am grateful to live to see YouPorn; thousands and thousands of porno movies for free without having to masturbate in a skanky movie theater with a hundred other perverts.
I am grateful for music: Jimmy, Neil, John, Billie, Miles, Mick, Bach, and Satie.
I am grateful that I get poems plopped into my head and that I have the ability to polish them.
I am grateful for my sense of humor and that I can make even myself laugh.
I am grateful for women. Even if I haven’t had sex in seven years, I can still look at them.
I am grateful for all my people who not only fought and died and built this land for me, but actually welcome me with open arms to live here.
I am grateful that, after 40 years of not finding an outlet for my yidishkeit, I found my Chabad shul that gives me aliyahs with a smile, even though they know I’m an apikoyres (non-believer).
I am grateful for the Shuk, where I feel the most free and alive, and where there are at least seven different vendors who I can scream “fuck you” to and who will answer back with a big smile, “Fuck you too Morris!”
I am grateful for the cucumbers here. It turns out, I didn’t know what a cucumber tasted like.
I am grateful for my ten nieces and nephews and to have gotten a chance to tell them things that no one else would tell them and to listen to them tell me things that they couldn’t tell anyone else.
I am grateful to Mark Zuckerberg. I can post my poems and stupid videos and get 20 likes in two hours. Thank you Mark.
I am grateful for my 70 shekel bidet. It helps me not only clean myself, but actually expedites matters.
I am grateful for my new micro-enemas, the tips of which are one quarter the size of the old, Fleet enemas. I am proud to say that they are a product of Israel.
I am grateful that I haven’t killed or maimed anyone with my wheelchair in any of my tremendous outbursts of anger.
I am grateful that my parents are dead and I don’t have to worry about them anymore. They can’t give me any grief about yidishkeit.
I am grateful for my catheter and pee pee bag, so I don’t have to wake-up my caretaker. I get to pee in my bed two or three times a night without getting wet.
I am eternally grateful for Snickers.
I myself am not sure. Are we really living in such violent times? I’ve been thinking about these terrorist attacks, seemingly coming week after week: Paris, California, and here in my Jerusalem. We all cluck cluck about it, “It’s terrible. We can’t feel safe anymore. When is all this violence going to end?” We’re so convinced that something very awful and unusual is taking place.
But I have a question. When in world history has there not been violence? Even a bigger question: haven’t there been periods which were ten times more bloody than now? Just think about it: WWI, WWII, the Vietnam War for the Vietnamese and for Americans, China under Mau, Russia under Stalin. We could go even further back in time to the Middle Ages.
Even for in my lifetime, I remember the 70’s in New York when there were at least five violent murders a day. I was scared to go on the subway, even during the day. During the Vietnam War, I remember the news when they were reporting 50-60 soldiers on the daily casualty report. What about my grandparents and great grandparents living in Eastern Europe? They were living in terror of the next pogrom.
So what’s all the kvetching? I think we’re all brainwashed by Hollywood and our politicians to think that there was a mythical, peaceful, perfect time. The time of Ozzy and Harriette. The time of Ike Eisenhower. When America ruled the world and we all lived so cozy and safe on leafy streets in our split-levels.
So what’s my point? I don’t think these are particularly violent times. I think we’re just comparing it to some fictional picture of utopian times that never even happened. Of course, the CNNs, BBCs, and Foxes only reinforce this message.
So let’s all just grow up a little. It’s not so bad and trust me, if you think it’s bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
I know Thanksgiving is over, but my non-plastic assistant wasn’t here on Thanksgiving, so I’m writing this now. I want to give thanks to five plastic objects, without which, my life as a semi-independent cripple would be nearly impossible.
- My nearest and dearest, Frank bidet.Who else would do for me what Mr. Frank would do? He sits behind my asshole and spritzes water up it, for sometimes over an hour. He not only cleans my ass, and makes my asshole completely shit-free, but with his immense water pressure and tireless efforts, he forces out my kaki, no matter how compacted. Day after day, week after week, not even my mother (God bless her soul) would do this for me.
- My wife, Dr. Gav (model 230 electric back massager). Because my crippled hands are completely clenched closed and I can’t pull my pud. Because no Jewish girl ever laid a hand on me, let alone gave me a hand job. Because I refuse to see prostitutes anymore. So thank God I found my sweetheart. She very willingly allows me to tape her onto my arm, and very diligently rubs me the right way. This angel of mine doesn’t even mind that I watch dirty, disgusting porno of a lesbian massage scene with a happy ending. All she asks for in return, is a three hour charge.
- Manny, a wonderful guy who lets me sit on him and takes me anywhere I want to go. It’s my wheelchair. I love him so much that I would not even like to walk again. Without him, I would have to have Kumara (my overweight caretaker) piggyback me around in the 95 degree heat.
- Cathy the catheter stays up the whole night waiting for me to pee. She never kvetches. She doesn’t even mind being tied up with medical tape. Before her, I had to call Kumara two or three times a night. He was just about ready to cut my throat. Now I’m hooked up and Cathy has her wonderful assistant, the 1500 milliliter urine bag backing her up. How reassuring to have her around me all night.
- Straw Man, my super hero, be he ever so humble. With him, I can drink anything; hot or cold, thick or thin, fast or slow. He comes with me everywhere: home, cafes, Bar Mitzvahs, even remote cemeteries. He can handle it. He prevents public humiliation by delivering an even flow so I don’t spit out my carrot orange juice into the cleavage of the nursing mother sitting next to me.
To think that 40 or 50 years ago, before the great plastic age, none of my homeys even existed. I’m such a lucky fucking cripple.