Hypocrites Are a Gift From God

On Sunday morning over breakfast, I made it a point to thank my wife for watching shows like "COPS" and "The First 48" with me, and I mentioned that I was grateful that she didn't watch them grudgingly either, that she actually enjoyed them.


"Sure, buddy," she said to me, taking a vivacious bite out of her home-made egg & cheese bagel sandwich, "the thing I just don't like about cops is, like, they're really just out there all the time trying to catch people doing the wrong thing."

I popped a piece of turkey bacon into my never-shutting trap.


"Fuckin' aye right," I said, crunching happily.


At my old ambulance company, they called me a narc, and I relished in the moniker. You bet your asses I'm a narc. Of course, I was a narc who stole routinely stole armfuls of nitrile gloves from E.R.s all over Philadelphia, stole bedsheets and blankets from coworkers ambulances and even pilfered a penlight from my own truck so my wife could use it on her practicum. While I would have been petrified if someone had caught me doing the wrong thing, I love catching other people doing the wrong thing. I love holding them accountable for their inappropriate actions. And I love, love, love, love, hearty kissy poo love seeing people get into trouble.


"So, is that why you wanted to become a cop?" my wife asked me one day long ago, "to catch people doing the wrong thing?"


"Absolutely."


A prime example fell into my lap on Sunday afternoon. We were filling up my wife's car at the gas station when a gold Taurus wagon pulled up to the pump next to us. Some ugly hagitha was filling up the Taurus while the three children in the backseat played impishly around with each other. They were between the ages of seven and eleven and they were jumping around all over the place like Mexican fucking jumping beans.


"How much do you want to bet they don't buckle in when she leaves?" my wife asked me, glaring at the car's occupants. One of the little kids glared back.


"Well, I don't know," I said, trying on optimism to see if it fit, "they are stopped at a gas station.

The hagitha got into the driver's seat and, without a word, put the car into gear and drove away, the jumping beans still at it. As the Taurus wagon passed us, I caught sight of its bumper-sticker.

"Children Are a Gift from God."

I looked over at my wife for the punchline. She did not disappoint.

"I guess they're such a great gift that she's trying to give them back."

I have to think that the joy of being a cop isn't just in taking illegal guns off the streets, or shitheads who bust their wives in the mouth for not having the potroast done on time-- I have to think that some of the satisfaction and pleasure of that job is derived from pulling up behind a fucking hypocritical biatchburger like that, dragging her by her hair to the back of her vehicle and pushing her face right into that bumper-sticker, breaking her nose against the car's sheet-metal in the process. Of course, you can't behave like that, unless you're a rogue cop, which is really no cop at all, but you can certainly pull her over, issue her a citation and, if you're feeling really ballsy, point out the contradiction.

It would have been a wonderful career-- hypocrites and all.

My Sabbath Elevator

I'm thinking of changing my blog's name from "My Masonic Apron" to "My Sabbath Elevator."

Just when you think you belong to a semi-sensible religion, you get kicked, right in the circumcision-arena.

Yes, that's right, kids-- the Big Rabbis have officially outlawed Sabbath elevators.

I'll bet you didn't even know there were such things. Well, there are. And, apparently, all-of-a-sudden, they're not good enough. No-- not kosher enough.

Or whatever.

The bad news came from the pen of Rabbi Yosef Shalom Elyashiv, who is described by the New York Times as "a revered 99-year-old scholar" and "one of the most influential voices in the Jewish world" and, if that weren't enough superlatives, why not throw in "widely considered to be one of his generation's greatest authorities on Jewish law."

Well, let me just say this: if you think this crooked, knobby-kneed handbag with nostrils isn't taking an elevator on Shabbat, you're crazy.

The ruling has thrown the Orthodox Jewish world into a tizzy, especially considering that these elevators were constructed solely for the use of Orthodox Jews on Shabbat, so that they can utilize the convenience of an electrical device without actually touching any of the buttons-- thereby allowing them not to violate Sabbath covenants. (The elevators were designed to stop at every single floor and open and close, so that no buttons need be pushed, working on the theory of, "You'll get there... eventually.")

The New York Times article I read quotes 29-year-old Yosef Ball who, with his wife, now has to climb (sorry-- "schlepp") up seven flights of stairs after synagogue on Saturday, with a baby carriage, two toddlers and three other children. Now, does this ruling seem fair to you? Apparently, God wants you to be constantly making Jewish babies, but He won't let you use the fucking Shabbat elevator to get all their crying, tired asses upstairs?

Oh, no, wait-- it's not God-- it's Rabbi McCrustyface.

And therein lies the problem. Well, one of them.

Anytime you have human beings interpreting religious law, you're going to have issues like these. And, yes, they're stupid. You want to use the elevator on Shabbat in order to facilitate your getting to and from synagogue so you can praise God and feel like you're an active participant in something larger? Go ahead. Who gives a shit? Helicopters are falling from the sky in Afghanistan. Children with swollen bellies and flies in their eyes are toppling over in Africa. Preists are fingering little boys in the confessional, and rabbis are doing it in the mikvah. And you really expect me to believe there's a God up there who gives a hot motherfuck if this poor bastard with a wife and five kids uses the goddamn Shabbat elevator on Shabbat or not?

Come on.

In case you couldn't tell, I think this entire issue is laden with stupidity, but I do think that Rabbi Elyashiv is maybe onto something that has possible legitimacy, and I think that's the issue of hypocrisy. Hypocrisy has, I feel, been like a sword of Damocles, hanging over the heads of Jewish people for a long, long time, and maybe Elyashiv is striking a blow for consistency of behavior.

See, the Orthodox community likes to have their cake and eat it, too, and maybe save some for later. Surprised?

"Well, you can't go out and get bagels on Shabbat-- but if they were made by a goy, and the water wasn't boiled on the Sabbath, and somebody else (who's a goy, too, of course) pays for them, well... then it's okay."

"Rabbi-- is having tea on Shabbat permitted? Because isn't dunking the tea bag in the water work, and aren't we to avoid all work on Shabbat?-- Well, if you just put the tea bag in and don't dunk, then it's okay."

"Gee, can I have sex on Shabbat? I mean, sex is exhausting, and shouldn't we avoid exhaustion? Well, as long as she's Jewish and she's fertile, and you've got a good shot at making another Jewish baby-- eh, it's okay. No, not just okay-- it's a mitzvah!"

Oy. You could get a headache from all the horseshit.

And maybe Rabbi Elyashiv just has a horseshit headache. Maybe he realized that stepping inside an elevator that operates on electricity constitutes the use of electricity, even if you're not pushing the fucking buttons with your own fingers, and maybe he felt it was time to strike a blow, with his gnarled, wrinkly, shaky little fist, against Orthodox Jewish hypocrisy. Maybe now the days when Orthodox Jews can benefit from modern conveniences while sliding under the radar are just a little bit gone.

Maybe Elyashiv is just saying no. No more bullshit. You're either using the elevator, or you're not. And, you know what? You're not.

I think it's also a little funny, reading about poor Yosef Ball, who made the choice to get married at 12 or whenever it was, and to have five children by 29 (and I guess that will continue until his wife's uterus falls out while overcooking chicken one night) and then wants to complain that he has to climb seven flights of stairs after synagogue. Well, you know what, pal? In the old, old days, motherfuckers walked through sandstorms in the goddamn desert to congregate to worship God. Even my father, in Israel, in the 1950s, walked eight miles with his father to go to synagogue.

I think Yosef Ball's complaints probably wouldn't hold up too well when compared to those of Job.

Frankly, I don't really care whether or not Orthodox Jews are allowed to take Shabbat elevators or not. I'm not Orthodox, and I'm thrilled about that. You know why? Because I don't have to worry about whether or not nose-picking is permitted on the Sabbath.

(By the way-- it is, as long as no nosehairs are accidentally or purposefully removed in the process, because that violates the Jewish law against cutting hair on the Sabbath.)

Seriously.