FinermanWorks

Each week of the year a specified portion of the Torah is read in synagogues. Saturday, at bar mitzvahs around the world, the congregations heard Leviticus’ strictures on treating leprosy. If you weren’t invited to the ceremony, let me summarize the prescription.

First, wait to see if God bothers to cure the leper. If the leper seems cured, the following rituals are to be performed. The former leper cannot enter his tent for seven days, but must sleep outside it. The leper is to shave his head and eyebrows (and beards where applicable). To thank God, the recovering leper must prepare two lambs for sacrifice. If, however, the leper is poor (leprosy can effect your income–especially if you are a pianist or waiter), two pigeons are an acceptable substitute.

Blessed is the Lord our God for not being a status-conscious materialist.

During the service, the Rabbi must have felt like a leper trying to explain the relevance and profundity of this Torah passage. What did he say? There is not much conviction when a sermon begins “Some scholars think that it means this….” According to these scholars, if your eyebrow is sinful and impure, you would want to shave it, too.

Of course, Rabbi Eugene has a different interpretation. I have long suspected that the Book of Leviticus was the first example of Jewish humor. Yes, the Greeks introduced burlesque (The Trojan Horse was anatomically correct) but Leviticus proves that we pioneered irony. “Let’s insist that a fingerless leper shave.”

No doubt out of guilt, however, Rabbis will not admit that Leviticus is a practical joke. (Of course, you can eat shrimp. What else are they going to serve at Jewish weddings?) But–unlikely as it is–if the bedouin barbarism of Leviticus is intended to be serious, then perhaps the Torah should be revised with more contemporary (less embarrassing) but equally revered Jewish texts.

Suitable alternatives would be the works of Philip Roth, George Gershwin or the scripts from any old television sit-coms. “And God did command Alan, Mel and Buddy to suffer the foreskinned Rob among them, saying ‘If I can make a funny Gentile, I must really be God.”

Margaret Thatcher is now completely dead.  The film “The Iron Lady” remorsely depicted her recent years, that sharp mind and temper lost in dementia.  In fact, that cruel accuracy was the most memorable facet of the movie.  The script itself was confused and befuddled.  The hapless viewer really had trouble keeping track of her life; apparently, “The King and I” took place on the Falklands.  She may have also murdered the Little Princes in the Tower by cutting off their school lunch programs.

Of course, Meryl Streep gave a remarkable performance.  She could impersonate every British prime minister, probably simultaneously.

From the archives, here is my prime minister primer.

My idea of casual conversation would include an allusion to Benjamin Disraeli. My acquaintance’s idea of a response was “Who?”  I hoped that I maintained a stoic mien but my eyebrows might have been doing the semaphores of  “How can you be so ignorant?” The lady, a friend of a neighbor, is Gentile; so she would have been indifferent to the most interesting feature of Disraeli. I just provided her with a brief description of a “British prime minister of the 19th century and a man of extraordinary charm and wit.”

Now, I don’t want to seem like a pedantic bully  (even if I really am) but I think that a middle-aged college graduate should have heard of Benjamin Disraeli. He is not obscure. It is not as if I had belabored the poor woman with such prime ministerial ciphers as Henry Campbell-Bannerman or James Callahan. (And if I had mentioned Andrew Bonar Law, she might have slapped me.)

I realized that Americans’ criterion for historical significance is whether or not it was made into a movie. But Disraeli has been, and he has been portrayed by George Arliss, John Gielgud, Alec Guinness and Ian McShane. Given Disraeli’s origins, Adam Sandler or Ben Stiller may feel entitled to play him! No, that woman should have heard of Disraeli.

In fact, I think that a number of British prime ministers merit at least a minimum of recognition.

Robert Walpole (1721-1741), a $2,000 question on Jeopardy but he was the first prime minister.

Lord North (1770-1782), the idiot during the American Revolution.

William Pitt the Younger (1783-1801, 1804-1806) if only because Pittsburgh was named for his father.

Earl Grey (1830-1834) because he had such great taste in tea. Yes, really.

Benjamin Disraeli (1868, 1874-1880): He needs no introduction.

William Gladstone (1868-1874, 1880-1885, 1886, 1892-1894): Disraeli’s rival. If Disraeli was Groucho, Gladstone was Margaret Dumont.

David Lloyd George (1916-1922) in case you were wondering who was standing next to Woodrow Wilson at Versailles.

Neville Chamberlain (1937-1940) who is now remembered as an insult and an accusation.

Winston Churchill (1940-45, 1951-1955), the man George Bush claimed to be–give or take the eloquence.

Margaret Thatcher (1979-1990): Disraeli’s politics with Gladstone’s charm.

Tony Blair (1997-2007) if only to prove that you were not completely oblivious.

David Cameron…oh maybe not.

“North Korea moved missile to east coast”

Like any immature tyrant, Kim the Young’un would crave the prospect of a New York premiere.  He blithely ignored the practical considerations.  Silo rentals are much cheaper in Chicago than Manhattan.  And he can forget about avoiding the U.N. inspectors now; in New York, they get free parking.

If he  thinks that the U.N. reports are bad, wait until he sees the New York Times’ reviews.

“Pre-postmodernist louche bildungsroman”–Michiko Kakutani

“The mutant love child of Sandra Oh and Harvey Fierstein”–Alexandra Stanley

“Absurdism reminiscent of the early oeuvres of Christopher Durang”–Ben Brantley (Wait, that’s supposed to be a compliment!)

And from the Korean archives…

Kim Jong-il Dead

At such times, I miss Larry King…

Welcome to Larry King Live. My guests tonight are former secretary of state and not bad golfer Colin Powell, former secretary of state and still a looker Madeleine Albright, and classy historian but regular mensch David McCullough.  Our topic tonight:  What is the impact of the death of Kim Novak, and how did a beautiful Chicago Polish girl become dictator of North Korea?  Of course, I am not surprised that she had the atomic bomb.  Did you see the way she danced with William Holden in “Picnic”?

Powell:  “Picnic” was a very good movie, but I think that there is some confusion here.

Larry:  You weren’t suppose to look at white women that way?

McCullough:  Kim Novak is still alive.  It is Kim Jong-Il who is dead.

Larry: So will Alec Baldwin get custody of their child?  Let’s call Alan Dershowitz to find out.  Hello eminent professor and killer lawyer, have you been watching the show?

Dershowitz:  God help me, yes.  Alec Baldwin was married to Kim Basinger. He has never been married to Kim Novak, Kim Stanley, Kim Hunter, Kim Darby, Akim Tamiroff or Kim Jong-il.

Larry:  You know Akim Tamiroff looked sorta Jewish, but I think that he was Armenian.  Madeleine, do you ever confuse the two?

Albright:  No, I try to mistake myself for Episcopalian.  But weren’t we suppose to discuss Korea?

Larry:  Absolutely, and after this break, Paula Deen will join our conversation on the death of Kimchee.

 

Parody’s End

Hoping to exploit the popularity of World War I and influenza pandemics, HBO promoted “Parade’s End” as the intelligent “Downton Abbey.”  It wasn’t even an intelligible version.  A better comparison would be that “Parade’s End” is the British “Burns and Allen”:  Madcap wife dismays husband and Empire.

There are only a few minor interpolations.  Just imagine that George has Asperger’s Syndrome, Gracie is sleeping with the entire membership of  the Hillcrest Country Club, and the club’s golf course is the Battle of the Somme.

The Bread of Affliction

A.D. 30:  When given the choice between flogging and crucifixion or a week of matzoh, Jesus proved that He wasn’t a masochist.  Hoping to sleep in, He did place a wake-up call for a week later.  The problem is that eternity can be off by a few days.  Confronted with three more days of unleavened misery, Jesus must have quipped “the Jews are trying to kill me.”  Unfortunately, the remark was taken out of context.

A.D.  2013:  In what seemed to be a suicide attempt, my lunch was peanut butter on matzoh.  The asphyxiation was not irreversible; I merely required a tracheotomy with a jackhammer.

p.s.  From the Archives: https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2006/12/23/the-greatest-story-ever-miscast/

Irony #1:

In a display of unimaginable humility, Pope Francis admitted that Argentina was in South America.  This was considered an act of heresy in his native country which insists that it is part of Europe.  Argentina acknowledges a slight proximity to Brazil and Paraguay but dismisses the coincidence as mere guilt by association.  “The geography is an optical illusion” explained the Argentine Chamber of Commerce; “It really is more accurate to think of us as western Italy.”

While Chile’s population is also of European extraction, Argentina denies even being extracted.  The rest of South America agrees with Argentina’s assertion but also adds some very unkind adjectives.

Irony #2:

Covering the papal election of Francis I, a NBC reporter exclaimed, “South America has been waiting 2,000 years for this.”

Without even knowing there was a Church?  During those first fifteen centuries,  South America probably did not need a Pope unless it was to judge potato-carving contests.  At least in North America, the Pontiff would have been gainfully employed as the lacrosse commissioner.

And perhaps South America has been waiting for its own Pope since it split off from Pangaea.  Of course, at that time His Holiness would have called the Diosaur.  This is not to suggest that every large reptile was a practicing Chretacian.  There were also Jewrassics.  Who do you think got blamed for the meteor?

“Hello and welcome to our coverage of the 111th Papal Election.  I’m Bob Costas, along with Matt Lauer.”

“Bob, did you know that the Romans spelled 111 as CXI?”

“No, I didn’t and neither did the Romans.”

“Now this election is called a conclave because the Cardinals are meeting indoors.  So if they were meeting outdoors, it would be a convlex.”

“Thank you, Matt, for that expression of faith.  You believe everything the interns tell you.”

“The potential Popes will be judged on beauty, poise and talent.  Did you know that Pope Benedict XVI won because of his Marlene Dietrich imitation?

“Why does your staff hate you so much?  I doubt that you are intentionally cruel.  Maybe they are just underpaid Ivy Leaguers who resent a man of your unique intelligence making millions.”

“Thank you, Bob.  Now, the contest will be held in the Sistine Chapel which was named…”

“Let me guess, Matt! Was it a nun named Sister Tina?”

“Of course, a Catholic would know that.  Well, I sort of had a Catholic education, too.”

“Yes, one or two of your wives were…”

“And in grade school I had Catholic friends, at least when I gave them my lunch money.”

“Let’s talk about the Papal election.  If the cardinals’ choice reflected the demographics of the Church, the next Pope would be a Brazilian woman.  Of course, that won’t happen.  What we would call Gerrymandering was originally Hieronymandering.” So the college of Cardinals is a  disproportionate  bloc of Italian curmudgeons.  Imagine a room full of Antonin Scalias.  Fortunately, they can’t abide each other;  so they need to agree on the least repellent candidate.

Cardinals are not allowed to filibuster, so they are less medieval than the U.S. Senate.  There is also a time constraint; if no candidate is elected by the third day, the cardinals start getting smaller meals.  By the ninth day, they are looking for communion crumbs.  By the time the stomach growls are doing Gregorian chants, someone will get elected.”

“I knew that.”

No, you didn’t, Matt.  Our coverage continues with Savannah Guthrie skinny-dipping in baptismal fonts.”

I was persecuting Anne Hathaway before it was fashionable!

From September, 2008…

 Magnifique Timing

The French are connoisseurs of scandal. How would Americans react to topless photos of Laura Bush? Mais les Francaises give an appreciative smile to the display of their First Lady and note that it is a French tradition. The Louvre has a gallery’s worth of bare-chested French queens. There is even a porcelain bust of Marie Antoinette’s bust; the guillotine was merely her second venture into the topless.

Nevertheless, the executives of Lancome Cosmetics could have wished a more discreet time to introduce their new perfume “Magnifique.” According to the hyperventilating advertisement:

“It’s the fragrance that celebrates her vibrant feminity, her joie de vivre. Infused with the spicy impertinence of saffron, the warmth of roses and smoky embrace of nagarmota wood. Audacious. Passionate. Utterly Magnifique.”

On second thought, Lancome should have named the perfume “L’Embezzelle.” That is the scent emanating actress Anne Hathaway, Lancome’s symbol of its new product, and the girlfriend of convicted embezzler Raffaello Follieri.

Follieri claimed to be the chief financial officer of the Vatican, coaxing millions from the easily impressed. Perhaps he was offering time-shares for the Sistine Chapel. The self-proclaimed financier collected millions as well as the affection of the Hollywood starlet. She moved into his $37,000 a month New York apartment. Unfortunately for his investors, he was not robbing St. Peter to pay Paul. Follieri has admitted to 14 counts of fraud, conspiracy and money-laundering. He faces a prison sentence of 4 to 5 years; it is unlikely that Ms. Hathaway will volunteer to share his cell.

The actress has suffered the indignity of this bad publicity, but she denies any knowledge of Follieri’s chicanery. In law, this is referred to as the “stupid slut defense”. Ms. Hathaway is reported to be cooperating with the FBI–does she have a choice–and has turned over all of the jewelry that Mr. Follieri gave her. And, yes, she has also broken up with him.

Nonetheless, I feel that Lancome might have created a more appropriate ad for Ms. Hathaway:

“It celebrates your infinite gullibility and your irrepressible vacuity. The tropic allure of an off-shore bank, the oaken splendor of a juryroom, and the tantalizing bouquet of a plea bargain. It is all your senses but common. Shamelessly yours! L’Embezzelle!”

From the Irony archives, the remarkable world of Antonin Scalia….

The 19th Amendment’s Statute of Limitations

Addressing its gender gap among American women, the Republican Party now disputes women have a right to vote.  “Yes, there was some sort of amendment in 1920” stated Justice Antonin Scalia, “and I suppose anyone who was alive back then would still be entitled to vote.  But from a strict constructionist interpretation, that right does not apply to anyone born since then.”

Chief Justice John Roberts added even 92 year women “cannot  just waltz into the voting booth.  These prospective voters would need ten pieces of identification to verify their age.  That would include their Wellesley yearbooks, notarized cotillion dance cards, medical records of hickeys from F. Scott Fitzgerald.  A written note from their father would also be required.”

Election judges will also have the right to challenge the voter’s gender.  “Medical probes probably won’t be necessary.  A few cellphone photos of the appropriate areas should suffice.”

 

The Supine Court

Apr 28th, 2008 | WASHINGTON — The Supreme Court ruled Monday that states can require voters to produce photo identification without violating their constitutional rights, validating Republican-inspired voter ID laws. In a splintered 6-3 ruling, the court upheld Indiana’s strict photo ID requirement, which Democrats and civil rights groups said would deter poor, older and minority voters from casting ballots. Its backers said it was needed to prevent fraud.

Discounting Indiana’s requirement of 12 photos–including three nudes and one of the prospective voter eating watermelon, Chief Justice John Roberts dismissed the objections that the standards were discriminatory and onerous. “Twelve photographs are easily accumulated. A picture at a Rotary golf outing, your Harvard yearbook, the wedding announcement in the New York Times. And anyone who hasn’t been photographed nude at a frat party just hasn’t lived.” The Chief Justice did acknowledge the possibility that the poor and minority groups might not have such prestigious photos, if any at all. “In that case, just bring a letter of introduction from your former owner.”

In a concurring but separate opinion, Justice Clarence Thomas felt that prospective voters–should at the request of election judges or state troopers–sing ‘Camptown Racetrack.’ “I do it without them even asking. And if you don’t know the words, you don’t deserve to vote.”

Justice Antonin Scalia recommended that, in lieu of a photo ID, the prospective voter have a finger cut off. “If nothing else, this will prevent anyone from voting more than ten times in an election.” When Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg asked if that would prevent a citizen from voting in more than ten elections, Scalia replied, “So?” and then hit her.

 Blind Justice–and how to do it!

In its customary five-to-four decision, the Supreme Court has ruled that the Constitution only prohibits “unusual” punishments. “‘Cruel and usual‘ are hunky-dory” wrote Chief Justice John Roberts. “Punishment is supposed to be cruel, and believe me the Founding Fathers were inured to suffering. Look at everyone’s teeth on the John Adams series. And that was probably their cleanest orifice.”

The Court did offer some guidelines as to the definition of an unusual punishment. “It would have to be too obscure for Jeopardy” explained Roberts.

Justice Antonin Scalia elaborated, “Public disembowelment is permissible because everyone has heard of ‘hanging, drawing and quartering’. Impalement is another time-honored practice. Beheading, burning at the stake, hot coals in the eyes, all those nostalgic favorites are sanctioned by this court. So what is an unusual punishment? Imagine stuffing uranium in someone’s mouth and then sewing the lips shut with piano wire. This would be an unusual punishment because I just thought of it–and I am applying for the patent.”

In his concurring opinion Justice Anthony Kennedy explained, “Forgive me but Scalia knows where my grandchildren live.”

 

So, what would I do if I ever grew up?  (Public relations was never meant for adults.)  I have thought about teaching history.  As you readers know, I do that without being asked.  Why not make a career of it?  However, before I apply for a masters degree in becoming Mr. Chips, my wife offered a word of caution.  Try substitute teaching; experience all the disillusioning reality before committing myself to a year’s worth of college classes.

And that is what I am doing–or at least attempting.  I have contacted the surrounding school districts and begun filling out their application forms.  However, I am amazed at the differences in their questions and criteria. (The names of the school districts have been changed to protect the guilty.)

At “Ordinary People” High, where the school yearbook portraits are by John Singer Sargent,  the application asked:

Can you speak English without using your hands?

Under what circumstances, if any, would you mind a student beating you with a polo mallet?

At “Risky Business” High, the ideal applicant is a professor of education who wants to go slumming.  Its form had some dozen essay questions on my educational methodology.  I replied that as a substitute teacher I was hoping to take a fairly-accurate attendance.  (I would be wary of any class where the boys all claim their names are Dick or Heywood.)

“John Hughes” High seemed obsessed with my criminal activity.  Its application was a litany of accusations and self-incriminations.

Why should we believe you?

List your gang insignia tattoos.

What would you most enjoy about being a Catholic priest?

And I mustn’t forget a letter of recommendation from my parole officer.

Perhaps I should delay adulthood and stay in public relations.

Buckingham Palace announced today that Matthew Crawley will receive a state funeral and his body interred in Westminster Abbey.  The awkward fact that the late Mr. Crawley is a fictitious character on the soap opera “Downton Abbey” did not alter the Queen’s declaration of public mourning.  A Palace Spokesman (actually Prince Philip) explained, “Princess Di wasn’t all that real, either.”

In Parliament, there was debate regarding  Crawley’s death in a traffic accident.  The government promised to put a memorial stoplight at the site of the accident.  That failed to placate the public outrage.  Noting that worse things have occurred at the BBC, such as a staff comprised of KGB moles, Prime Minister Cameron did concede that the plot twist was outrageously stupid.  If anyone could come up with a better ending, the Prime Minster asked for suggestions.

Here is what members of Parliament, passing tourists and the cafeteria staff recommended…

The death most in keeping with Lady Mary’s character: After a successful mating with her husband, she beheads him.

The death most enjoyable to Labour voters:  A servant insurrection, of course.  Matthew holds off the scythe-wielding footmen while the rest of the aristocracy escapes.

The death most enjoyable to Tory voters:  Matthew is assassinated by Mohandas Gandhi.

The death most comprehensible to an American audience: While playing cricket, Matthew is bored to death.

The death most convenient for other British series:  The time machine of Doctor Who lands on Matthew.

The death with the best marketing possibilities:  Downtown Abbey merges with Boardwalk Empire.  It turns out that Lady Cora’s brother is Meyer Lansky.  Matthew apparently has a hunting accident with a Tommy Gun, although the quick marriage of Lady Mary with Al Capone raises some questions.  (HBO insists that Maggie Smith do nude scenes–but she still will look better than Lena Dunham.)