THE VCR THAT ATE EINSTEIN
October 4, 2010 § 3 Comments
As a Jew living in modern day Western society, I have many advantages, both natural and societal. A heightened olfactory sense, for example, due to the generous proportions of my schnoz (a little yiddish for educational purposes). The ability to consume large quantities of gelfite fish, thereby rendering me insensible to one form of CIA enhanced interrogation techniques. Concerning the societal advantages inherent in my being Jewish, one only has to read the teachings of Osama Bin Laden, former CNN anchor Rick Sanchez, or my grandmother; they’ll all tell you what must be bleedingly obvious by now: Jews run the world. Heck, even Barack Obama was raised as a Jew. Forget the Kenyan angle- the name on his original, real birth certificate was Jerry Shekel. But Barack couldn’t resist going for the trendy African name. He just had to be like all the other US presidents. Sheep.
The President’s betrayal notwithstanding, us Jews really do start out ahead in this world.
However, as with many things in life, it’s not necessarily how you start. It’s how you finish.
There is no more frightening phrase in the English language (or translated into any other language, for that matter) for a Jew to hear, than “how do you put this thing together?”.
Why are we so incompetent when it comes to machines, to handy-man tasks? Why is it that within me is an innate ability to survive in the deserts of Egypt for forty years, yet I cannot for the life of me attach a bike rack to a friggin’ car?
Don’t get me started on the bike rack. I bounded out of bed yesterday morning, determined to have that accursed thing on the back of our car, with Victoria’s bike and mine attached and ready to go by the time she woke up. I was physically limber, mentally prepared. It took just an hour for me to devolve into an hysterical, paroxysmic mess, questioning my very purpose here on this galactic backwater we call Earth. I raged at the heavens, at my absolute Jewishness, at the fact that I would forever be burdened with a brain that, while effective in matters of arithmetic and observational humour, was not able to penetrate the mysteries of the battery flap on a remote control.
Victoria did indeed emerge, and in her soporific state she took one look at the dreaded rack, now looking like some kind of twisted, sclerotic spider stuck to the back of her car, and casually mentioned that it was upside down.
I suspect it goes without saying that Victoria is not Jewish. People often wonder why it is that Jewish men always seem to go for the Shiksa. It’s not the blond hair and blue eyes, folks. It’s the simple fact of wanting someone to always be present when we need a bulb installed. That’s why you never hear the light bulb joke told using Jews for the punchline. Nobody would buy it. A horse can walk into a bar, but a Jew installing a light bulb? Give me a break.
Ever notice the handy man, gardener or plumber in movies and on television? It’s always an Italian, a black guy, a New York-Irish. Jews can’t do those jobs. I had a cousin once who attempted to pursue a career as a plumber. The confined spaces made him nervous, his dirty hands made him sad and he was fired when at the end of his first day as an apprentice he told his boss that he had a problem “screwing stuff in”. He went back to school and has taken his rightful position in the world doing far less important work, as a psychiatrist.
Can you imagine how much harder it would have been for Albert Einstein to achieve the global success that he did had he been forced to deal with the home appliances of today? His psyche would never have held together, due to conversations like the following, something every modern-day Jew has to endure with their loved ones:
“Al, where’s the episode of American Idol you said you recorded last night?”
“I asked you to record the finale of Idol. All I see here is some documentary about cheese.”
“Uh… I thought I recorded it… I was watching Charlie Rose. Maybe I left it on PBS….”
Sounds of beakers being smashed against equation-covered walls.
“You know what- I don’t care how many Nobel Prizes you got. You’re not a smart guy’s asshole.”
For those of you who’ve never heard that last phrase, trust me. It smarts. And if you think I’m exaggerating, you’ve never seen my mathematician father in action. He struggled to get rotary phones to work.
With Victoria’s help, I did eventually figure out the bike rack. We went on a lovely ride, taking in the beatific sunset as it played out beyond the mountains. For a few hours, my spirit floated, and I saw myself in a new, golden light.
Later, we returned home, and as I flicked the light switch, there was a flash and then darkness, as a bulb went out.
Thank god I’m not single.
Picture : Albert Einstein… nincompoop.