Madame Levy goes to the races...
...one of the funniest, most self-revelatory, in-your-face and thought-provoking Jewish jokes of all time. Whoever came up with it probably got the idea from the 2005 U.S. Grand Prix at Indianpolis (where German Michael Schumacher and team mate Rubens Barrichello—the only notables to take part—were booed and pelted with waterbombs while driving at over 300 kmh).
Either way, they got, and get, it. Self-effacing, it slams stereotypes to reach across cultures and the ages. This person has his or her finger firmly on the pulse of the global psyche (in the vicinity of GoogleEarth's default placemark), hints at a backlash against the Tim LaHaye mob / NASCAR mentality, and damn, has a bloody good sense of humor.
If you're wondering why, Bubba, hold that thought. I know I'm in good company.
Alternatively, if highbrow culture rags are beyond your means, i.e. you browse with graphics turned off, let this guy cheer you up. He might have had it tough, but he can change writing styles like most do underwear.
I never had a chance. When I was a kid I belonged to some outfit called the Boy’s Brigade. Kind of Boys Scouts for Free Presbyterians. We’d wear these dopey sailor outfits Thursdays and gather in the church basement. Do a bit of marching. Then some tumbling on mats. Then home to watch Dan August. (Or was that later? No that ws later in life. That was Thursdays, but later on, when I’d got to play floor hockey at the Y. Like you care.)
Anyway. Yeah. As a fundraiser for the BB we were once asked to sell light bulbs. Yeah, light bulbs. Just this minute struck me as odd. Light bulbs. What a great idea. Never mind the cookies and the chocolates and the raffle tickets, get your kids to raise money selling lightbulbs. And so somehow we ended up with about ten boxes of Sylvanania lightbulbs in our house. Meant to sell them.
I never sold a one. My parents had to bail me out. When they eventually sold the house I grew up in, there was still a few bulbs left. I was 38. Them was a lot of bulbs.
Then there was the paper route. The Toronto Star. 33 papers. Along Gerrard Street in Toronto. I never collected any money. Well, some that was offered. Hey you paperboy, we haven’t paid you in three months. They’d offer up the eighty-five cents for weekly delivery times twelve and I’d head off to the corner store for green leaf mints, shoelace licorice and Black Cat gum.
I never had a job in school. I never had any money. Best that way. If I had had money, I would never have had money anyway, so what was the point?
More often than not, I find Brian singing my song. But, hell, he has an infinitely better voice...
