GROUND XERO
Behind the borscht: Esoteric B.H. rituals

By Xanadu Xero | RAW STORY COLUMNIST

A man, his heart, a hospital bed.

The hospital was Catholic, and very bon ton, mere moments from exclusive beach estates. Its walls were clad with fair, milk-skinned clones of He for whom so many wars are fought. I was, as always, humbled by the miracle that God’s son, whelped by a married-yet-chaste Middle Eastern chick, was Caucasian. (Scientifically speaking, would this suggest that God was albino, and Step-dad gay?)

As the family gathered ‘round my Father’s bed in a tribal semi-circle, conversation became forced, scattered. I broke a sweat. My Mother had ventured out for provisions, ostensibly for moments, but had not returned; the Traffic Gods stomping their cruel tarantella.

We tried, God knows, to best Destiny, but could not. The door swung open.

There stood a shriveled crone in fearsome sherbet colors, holding a tray. The dull lockstep of hospital life flickered behind her. Her mild tones were at odds with her barbarous behavior.

She put the tray beside my father and said, “Here you go, dear. Dinner.”

CUT TO: TRAY

A moist, warped rectangle of scuffed plastic, the hue of chewed gum.

Upon it: a child’s handful of wilted iceberg lettuce sporting a tiny, tumor-hard tomato… five cubes of green Jello, trembling like frog cellulite, ‘soup’ with each and every property of infant spit-up… ‘coffee’ in a… in a (I can barely utter it:) teabag?

CUT TO: MY FAMILY

Lit from below with hell’s fire, as in an old horror flick, our eyes shooting silent screams. The huge single-bed suite sucked down instantly into a black dwarf, chomping space and time. My aunt, all six feet of her, straightened up - goddess-atop-mount - and glared at the crone. Darkly: “You call this FOOD?”

There is only one word plied by my tribe that can fully communicate their ire at this parody of sustenance: ‘goyische.’ While technically ‘goyische’ means ‘non-Jewish’, what it really means is ‘toothless’, ‘without wisdom’ and/or ‘offensively plain’, like a car stripped of parts, or roadkill picked clean by crows.

The victuals of L.A.’s On High Hebe-age are flavor dense – some might say sledgehammer excessive - and optimally bear designer chef names. For instance, you don’t just buy ‘frozen pizza.’ You buy Wolfgang Puck ‘flash’ frozen pizza (smaller/three bucks more) with ‘chantrelles’, ‘smoked gouda’ and ‘Prosciutto di Parma’ instead of mushrooms, cheese’n’ham.

I grew up in Beverly Hills, among the kind of Jews that many non-fans would say “control the media.” If you tell these Media Ringwraiths that they are largely responsible for the downfall of Western Civilization, they will shrug. If you tell them that they don’t know how to eat, they will have their ‘people’ call their lawyer to hire someone to kill you. See, in B.H., no one sullies their own hands.

For example: There’s a scene from an ‘eighties movie, ‘Body Heat’, where Kathleen Turner (then hot) locks herself in her house to avoid William Hurt (then hot.) Hurt, consumed with lust and longing, will not take ‘no’ for an answer. He SMASHES a window, and steps through to get his woman – just possibly the most erotic act, ever.

A B.H. Jewish man would never do that.

Hear the inside of his head - let’s call him ‘Alan’ - when considering that action: “What if she calls the police? Would it go on my record? Could my condo drop out of escrow? What if she sues me? What if I cut myself? Didn’t I read that little slivers of glass can worm into your bloodstream and give you a stroke? Shit. Maybe David told me that. Man, I have to stop swearing. Should I take a shower when I get in? I’m sorta tired. I might miss Leno. What if she changed into that robe I hate? What if she wants a lot of kissy crap? I don’t feel like kissy crap. Didn’t she have garlic for lunch?” Ad infinitum.

Alan would, ultimately, return to his immaculate Land Rover (which has never roved land) flip on his seat heater and send a text message.

“Beverly Hills Jews are like Rappers,” says my sage friend, Purusha. “They wear everything to signify their social status. Because they feel inferior. They have to prove they’ve ‘arrived’.”

Perhaps this similarity - Battle Of The Chip-Shouldered ‘Arrivistes’ – is at the core of that classic Jewish/Black mutual scorn. (Would that be a great reality show or what?)

Now: Yours Truly was dealt the Whoopee Cushion Combo of B.H. Jewish genes. I hate to shop. I cannot bargain. I do not feel like I rule the world if I screw someone out of a parking space. I hate charity galas. I hate the smugness of (most) B.H. Jews’ conversation, though I’d be quite willing to brown nose if any one of them sends me a first-class ticket to Rome. The point is… they never would.

Which brings me to my next point.

I’m about to reveal a BIG TABOO to you now, and utter the utterly unspeakable, so hold on to your hats: Beverly Hills Jews Equate Money With The Grace Of God.

B.H. Jew + Money = Grace of God. The secret formula. The real Kabbalah. The esoteric knowledge. The natural law.

Wealth is the concrete evidence that God Loves You. Evidence you can see and touch, and, better yet, that others can see but not touch without your permission. The impervious fortress of a fat portfolio translates in heaven to the newest, best, cutting-edge clouds. Once rich, you are a Prince(ss) of the Realm. Ergo, He has smiled.

If one believes in a ‘just’ God, how could one support any words to the contrary?

Catholics can get weekly Eternal Soul enemas (Confession) and enjoy fifty-two new dawns a year. My tribe can’t. And, since B.H. Jews are so busy with their deep, full, meaningful lives, its really a bitch to find time to exfoliate, much less soul-scrub.

The obvious solution is to find a nice, thorough system, consolidate and multi-task. Time is money, and money brands God’s A-list, after all.

Xanadu Xero invites you to join the Raw Story Forums and visit her fiefdom, The Raw Bar, to discuss these topics, any other damn thing, or just bitch and talk trash. You can also view an archive of her columns by clicking here.