Happy Hanukkah

Before I churn out this blog, I have something to confess. I was not raised Jewish. (Sorry Jackie!) My mom's a nice Irish Catholic girl and my dad's a naughty Jewish boy. (Which sounds kinky, but I mean in a paternal manner, I swear.) Being that my mother was the one who had to carry my fat ass in the womb for 9 months, her religion ruled out. (Have you seen the size of my head? Even then it was huge, and that's not fun coming out of you, ok?!)

As a baby I had my Christening. At thirteen, I squeezed into a hideous J.C. Penny's suit from the husky section for my Confirmation. I still wear a St. Christopher's medal around my neck to this day.

That being said, I grew up with a major case of Jew envy. I share my birthday with Jesus, so it's only natural I share a affinity with the most famous Jew of all, Mr. Hay-seuss himself. My dad gave up his religion for my mother's sake, but when she wanted to name me Christopher aka Christ himself my dad put his Jewish foot down. Thank god! Imagine if I was a Chris? You know it'd be pronounced Kress. Sick! So I'm just Brian. But for those who want to worship the ground I walk on (or want to nail me in any terms :) you can call me Baby Bresus!

Now, back to my childhood...

No Bar Mitzvah. No Hebrew School . No Bris. Although the few lucky ones who've seen my schmekel (and by few I mean one) they know that I've been circumsized. (Too much visual information? I apologize, and promise not to mention my penis in this blog unless it's integral to the plot, I swear!)

In fact, the only real Jewish influence in my life were the snax. I'm fluent in the world of brisket, kugel, latkes and macaroons. It was when I first attended my dear cousin Josh's Bar Mitzvah that I realized that I had an major itch for everything the Jews had to offer, beyond the culinary world. Tables overflowing with gifts in silver and blue paper, a DJ walking us through the Chicken Dance on the dance floor, cheesy neon 80's sunglasses party favors...I wanted it all. I wanted to smear my lox on my everything bagel while gobbling down matzah balls while trekking to the holy land on Yom Kipppur. I wanted to sing baaaa-rukkkke-a-toooooooy-ada-noy as my voice cracked and zits formed, dammit!

My family didn't celebrate many Jewish holidays, but when Hannukah came around, we'd always whip out the dreidels and the menorahs and when they were dry and ready, oh Jewish we did play! My major issue with Hanukkah (besides the spelling...H? Ch? Whatevs...) was the date. Sometimes it came before Christmas. Sometimes it appeared directly afterwards, this year I think it started on Halloween (i.e. two days ago) and I seriously remember holding a joint oscar/menorah lighting party in high school. I don't quite remember, I tend to block out the days in which Helen Hunt wins an Academy Award.

The advantage of coming home for the holidays early this year was that I was fortunate enough to spend the first night of Hannukah with dear old dad. He called me up and invited me over to his house for a nice family father-son Hanukkah celebration. "We'll light the menorah, we'll say some prayers, we'll hang out together. Come over, it'll be nice."

Well, it all started out according to plan...

My dad just moved into his new house, and being that his real menorah was packed away in storage, we resorted to running out to Walmart to purchase a cheap plastic version. (P.S. There's nothing more priceless than asking a Walmart employee where we can find a menorah and having them reply "That's some Jewish hat, right? We ain't got none of those here." I do NOT exaggerate. Eventually we did find someone who knew that a menorah a) is NOT headgear b) is located in the seasonal section, FYI)

Anyhow, we lit the menorah. (i.e. screwed in a bulb)



We said a prayer.



We took the Hanukkah party into the living room and as we sat down on the couch, I noticed my dad had a fleet of stuffed animals lined up on his coffee table.

"Dad, why in earth did you pull out all these stuffed animals? Were you playing with them earlier?"



He fills me in that his current girlfriend Cynthia (she's his "moon goddess") lined them up on his coffee table as a welcome home surprise, accompanied with a note reading "Welcome Home Big P."

I reply, "Awww, that's sweet."

He looked up from the stuffed animals and a devious smile spread across his face and his eyes began to bulge, in a the most wicked diabolical sense.

He began to speak, his voice tinged with a most sinister tone, "She didn't enjoy the position she found them in the next morning!"

The sad thing is I knew exactly where this was leading, but being that it's Hanukkah, I figured I'd humor the man, so I asked him the follow up question which he so obviously baited me on...

"Dad, what position did she find them in?"

My father, with utmost delight, began to visually take me through the most detailed recounting of how he positioned these poor defenseless stuffed animals. Luckily for ya'll (ya'll? I'm in Florida right now, cut me some slack!) I was able to whip out my camera to capture a few candids during the graphic scene you're about to witness.

Clearly no expert on the Jewish faith, I know enough to assume that the events which happened next are not typical of most family Hanukkah gatherings, nor were they documented in the Torah - possibly because no hebrew translation for the phrase, "plushie gang-bang" existed back in the day...

If the first night of Hanukkah produced the following results, can you even imagine what is in store for these animals by the 8th day?!





Look at the man's face, something is not right up there. God love him :)







Accused: The Sesame Street Version





Look at this poor animal's face!!!!



If this is may Dad's idea of a Hanukkah celebration, is it any wonder my mother insisted on raising us Catholic?!

On that note, Happy Hanukkah to all, and to all a goodnight!

Peace, Love & Snax,
Brian