Thursday, September 6, 2012

I want to sue a Jew

Last week a friar got in trouble for saying that in some cases, young boys actually initiated the sexual contact between themselves and throbbing members of the priesthood. And much the way VP candidate Paul Ryan is walking back from his claim of running a sub three hour marathon, that friar is now walking back from his previous statements.

"Walking back" is media-speak for "I fucked up."

Much has been made in the last few years of the abuse perpetrated upon these young men. And the church has been forced to shell out millions of dollars in reparations. 

All of which got me thinking that I need to contact an attorney.

You see when I was 11 years old we moved from the very Semitic confines of Flushing, NY to the corned beef and cabbage Catholic confines of Suffern, NY. When the glow of owning his first home wore off, my father realized he had done nothing to get me ready for a Bar Mitzvah.

He quickly enrolled me in a Hebrew School in nearby Monsey, NY, the most Jewish township in all of America and sometimes referred to as West Jerusalem. With 18 months to go before my impending 13th birthday, it became clear that this rapid fire immersion into Hebrew was not going fast enough to prepare me for a complete Haftorah reading. 

Drastic measures were in order. 

And soon my Tuesday and Thursday afterschool sessions at Hebrew School were supplemented with private tutorial classes with a genuine Hasid, Rabbi Chechuchmuchen. Or something to that effect. I only know that when he said his name out loud, large chucks of creamed herring came flying from his piehole.

If it isn't already clear from my tone of voice, these thrice-weekly visits to Rabbi Chechuchmuchen's shabby house off Route 306 were my personal versions of hell. Mind you, he never touched me or G-d forbid ask me to touch him, so in that respect my claim could be considered quite frivolous.

But I was forced to sit next to this hulking, heavy breather whose beaver skin clothing rarely made it to the laundromat. 

And I had no choice but to inhale the G-d awful fumes emitted from Mrs. Chechcuchmuchen's kitchen, where she was always preparing some odd, Halakhic-approved venison stew from a shtetl recipe that would have been best left behind in Eastern Lithuania. 

Lastly, I could not escape the non-stop wailing/davening of the 11 Chechcuchmuchen children, who were a constant reminder that the incredibly unattractive Chechcuchmuchen parents were having regular and productive sex. 

I hope I have painted a vivid accurate picture. 
Because if that's not child abuse, I don't know what is. 

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